A few hours later. Evening. Philip is now writing a letter, apparently with some difficulty. After a time, he puts his pen down and thinks for a moment, gazing vacantly into space.
Philip But I … (He breaks off, gets up, goes over to the bookshelf, takes down a book and looks something up.)
Yes.
But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one’s whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
Yes. (He smiles, then, after a short pause, moves over to the telephone and dials a two-figure number.) Hello, Don? … Yes … I wonder if you could just come round for a minute, I’d like to talk to you … Well, yes, it is, rather … it is, it’s been a day of major catastrophes, and I … Well, in fact, I want to ask your advice about something … it won’t take a minute, honestly … all right, thanks, right.
Philip crosses the room and pours himself a drink. A knock at the door and Don enters. He smiles at Philip and slumps into an armchair.
Don Hello.
Philip Scotch?
Don Thanks.
Philip Sorry to drag you over here. Are you busy?
He pours a drink for Don, takes it over to him.
Don Well, no, not exactly, I … well, I’ll tell you about it in a minute. First of all, what’s your problem? You don’t look very well.
Philip I don’t feel very well. I mean, I feel a bit remote.
Don What do you mean?
Philip Distant.
Don Why? What’s the matter?
Philip Well, Celia came round this afternoon and told me she didn’t want to marry me any more.
Don Oh.
Philip Last night, Araminta stayed here under circumstances too appalling to relate.
Don Really?
Philip And this morning Celia came round here before Araminta had left.
Don Oh, I see.
Philip No. Because Celia admitted that she’d decided to leave me anyway.
Don Did she?
Philip She having spent the night with Braham.
Philip Although she said that had nothing to do with it either.
Don With what?
Philip Her decision.
Silence.
Don How extraordinary.
Philip She said what you said when we were talking about it yesterday. She said she didn’t think we were compatible.
Don Meaningless nonsense.
Philip But you said that as well.
Don Yes. But I was speaking theoretically.
Philip (uncomprehending) Oh.
Don You see, I always divide people into two groups. Those who live by what they know to be a lie, and those who live by what they believe, falsely, to be the truth. And having decided that Celia belonged to the first group and you to the second, I concluded that you weren’t compatible, and that furthermore that was what attracted you to one another. But, I mean, trying to make elegant patterns out of people’s hopelessness doesn’t really work. It’s only a frivolous game.
Philip Seems to have worked on this occasion.
Don What is wrong with the statement: ‘all generalizations are false’?
Philip It’s a generalization.
Don See, you’re not as remote as all that.
Philip But why … why do you say I live by what I believe, falsely, to be the truth?
Don Because you do. Your whole behaviour is based on the assumption that everyone is like you.
Philip Isn’t everybody’s?
Don No. Of course not. Most people’s behaviour is based on the desperate hope that everyone isn’t like them.
Philip And why do you think Celia lives by a lie?
Don Because her vanity demands it.
Philip I’m not sure about that.
Don I am.
Philip Well, no doubt if you go on about it long enough, you’ll persuade me to believe it. I haven’t even got the courage of my lack of convictions.
Don Oh, I wish I’d said that.
Philip Why?
Don I don’t know, it sounds good.
Philip That’s not really why I said it, believe it or not.
Don Sorry. I’m sorry.
Silence.
Philip And which category do you belong to?
Don What?
Philip Of the two.
Don Oh, I live by a lie. In my case, the lie is that I am a teacher of English, when in fact I am paid a handsome sum by the college to perfect a technique of idleness which I hope will eventually become unparalleled in academic history.
Philip Oh, rubbish, you’re not idle. You’re famous for your conscientiousness.
Don Ah, well, that’s part of the art. I perform, in fact I sometimes actually volunteer for, all those little administrative tasks, which require no effort or application whatsoever and which can be done quite automatically. In that way, you see, I acquire a reputation for conscientiousness, and also provide myself with an excuse in the unlikely event that I should be caught out not knowing something I ought to know.
Philip You’re exaggerating.
Don Oh, no, I’m not. In my youth I might have been concerned about my idleness, I used to make feeble attacks on it by doing things like setting my striking clock an hour fast, but I think I knew all along what I was heading for. When I struggled through my finals in that cunning and devious way, I think I knew this was my destination. I worked hard my first year teaching, my God, yes. I took a couple of dozen index cards and noted down ten points about each of the subjects that might reasonably be expected to come my way. And now, twenty-four weeks a year, I simply select the relevant card and give my pupils the points they’ve omitted in their essays, or if they’ve got them all I say, wonderful, see you next week, and I recover from this strenuous activity with twenty-eight weeks a year of total inactivity, usually in some pleasantly warm climate. I’ve given up all ideas of writing books, research, all that nonsense, I’m just settling, settling into my character. I am more than half in love with easeful sloth. I’m … what’s that word that means bloodless?
Philip Etiolated?
Don Etiolated. That’s it, etiolated. Only fit for lying about on a sofa with the curtains pulled, listening to baroque music and occasionally dabbing at the temples with a damp flannel. Do you know that I’m capable now of emptying my head completely for two or three hours at a stretch? Not a single thought of any kind. Nothing. That’s not easily done, you know.
Philip I’m sure.
Don I think that if one manages in one’s lifetime not only to come to terms with one’s own uselessness but to begin actually enjoying it as well, that’s something, don’t you think, something, some kind of … an achievement.
Philip Perhaps.
Silence.
Don I’m sorry, Philip.
Philip Why?
Don It’s typical of you, you know.
Philip What?
Don You’ve had the most terrible day, everything has gone wrong, you ask me round to give you some support or advice or something and all that happens is that I talk about myself.
Philip That’s all right.
Don I’ll shut up now. You tell me what you want. What can I do for you?
Philip Well, when I was talking to Celia this afternoon, she asked me why I wanted to get married, I mean apart from wanting to marry her. It made me realize that she was right, that I did want to get married, that I was lonely, now that youthful hopes have faded in the usual way. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get maudlin.
Don No, go on. What is friendship, if not a chance to indulge in mutual self-pity?
Philip And I was thinking what you said to me yesterday about Liz.
Don (shiftily) Oh?
Philip Yes, you remember you were saying you thought she liked me, and that she would be more suitable for me than Celia.
Don Well …
Philip Anyway, I’ve just sat down to write to her, I thought I’d ask her out or something, ask her to lunch, and I just wanted to ask you what … (He breaks off, surprised by Don’s obvious embarrassment.) What’s the matter?
Don Well, Liz is, she’s in my room now.
Philip Is she?
Don She’s been there since yesterday evening.
Philip Oh. Oh, that’s … erm …
Don So I …
Philip Yes. Yes.
Don I’ve rather, you know, rather fallen for her.
Philip Oh, well, that’s, er, isn’t it?
Don Yes.
Philip I’m surprised, I didn’t think you …
Don I’m surprised, too, in fact, I’m amazed. She’s such a quiet girl, I mean, you don’t expect her to be, I mean, it just sort of happened, and then for her to be, well, so passionate, I was very surprised.
Philip Yes.
Don I’m sorry, Philip, it’s just the way things happen …
Philip That’s all right.
Don The last thing …
Philip That’s all right. Perhaps you should be going back to her now.
Don No, it’s all right.
Philip I’d rather you did.
Don No, look, you’re just a bit upset …
Philip Will you please get out!
Don Oh, all right, if you …
Philip Please go away!
Don exits uncertainly. Philip sits for a moment. Then he drains his drink, gets up, moves to his desk, crumples up the letter and throws it into the waste-paper basket. Next he moves back to the table, takes a cigarette from the cigarette-box and puts it in his mouth. Pause. Then he returns to the desk, opens a drawer and takes out a small pistol. He considers it for a moment, then puts it down on the desk. He lifts the telephone and dials two figures.
Hello, Don? … I’m sorry about all that … yes, I just, you know, well, I am sorry anyway … What? … Now? All right, if you’re sure that’s all right … are you sure? Yes, I am quite hungry … well, that’s very kind … yes, I’m all right, now … no, don’t let’s get sentimental about it … well, anyway, I’m about to do something terrible … you’ll see in a minute … I forgot to tell you, I thought of a new anagram today … ‘imagine the theatre as real’ … ‘imagine the theatre as real’ … it’s an anagram for ‘I hate thee, sterile anagram’ … Yes, I thought so too … all right, then … yes … yes … see you both in a minute.
He hangs up, pauses a moment, then picks up the pistol. He turns it toward him and pulls the trigger. A small flame springs from the hammer. Philip lights his cigarette from it, inhales deeply, pockets the pistol and exits, leaving the door open.
Aria: ‘Ich freue mich auf meinen Tod’ from Bach’s Cantata No. 82, ‘Ich habe genug’.
Curtain.