/ when / after much discomfort / and some danger / possibly / you have served your term / and are restored to your mother / or your father / or / having neither mother nor father / to the cold and empty room sufficiently familiar to you to be recognized as home / when this day / this longed-for / ached-for / day arrives / remember / if you can / it will be your utter insignificance that has guaranteed this contract imposed upon you by the government has been honoured / and when / wedged in the troop train / through tears of joy you see this loathed landscape slipping by / spare a thought for me / who is not / and never could be / insignificant / and as a consequence / will never see his home again / but who will be starved / beaten / and driven into suicide / because I am a rebuke to the poverty of men / in thought / and dream / and therefore hateful to them / play now / play anything / but play /
(Obedient to WARDROBE’s instruction, the SOLDIER lifts the remnants of the violin to his chin, and with the bow, creates wretched sound. BIBLE smothers his head in the photographs. Boots begin to fly. WARDROBE, seemingly entranced, paces up and down beating time. The SOLDIER persists, but in pain. At last he abandons his efforts, letting the bow droop in his hand.)
PLAY / PLAY /
(WARDROBE’s vehemence compels the SOLDIER to resume, and he thrashes the instrument with a reckless vigour. WARDROBE is exultant. The shower of boots intensifies, some striking the unflinching and still crouching OLD WOMAN. At last, in an apotheosis of despair, the SOLDIER flings the instrument to the floor. The boots cease. The SOLDIER stares at the floor.)
Excellent /
(WARDROBE regards the SOLDIER, provocative, mischievous.)
Deeply / deeply / excellent /
(The SOLDIER does not lift his eyes.)
We lend too much / vastly too much / authority to the instrument / its form / its tuning / etcetera / it is a servitude / our spontaneity is constricted by our unquestioning obedience to this inflexible regime / the tangled strings and splintered wood now lying at your feet / if it no longer constitutes one instrument / constitutes another / is it not the will to music that we should revere / and not the discipline of its machinery? /
(The wind blows. The SOLDIER senses he is mocked. His mouth works in his frustration.)
SOLDIER: I’m ignorant /
(He squirms.)
I’m ignorant / as you said / and /
WARDROBE: Did I say? / did I say ignorant? /
SOLDIER: Insignificant /
WARDROBE: That I did say / insignificant / yes /
SOLDIER: Insignificant / I’m insignificant / and you / you are /
(He seems to suffer embarrassment.)
WARDROBE: (Helpfully.) The opposite? /
SOLDIER: The opposite / yes / you are the opposite / so very / very / opposite / the emperor / so I heard say / refused to let you leave the country / in case you stayed / in Paris / or America / and never came back again /
(He plays with the broken instrument with his foot, a shyness which he overcomes by lifting his eyes directly to WARDROBE.)
Explain / can you / what pleasure a man of great significance discovers in humiliating a man of no significance at all? /
(WARDROBE, immune to criticism, appears to reflect on the paradox. He walks up and down, chewing a finger in his concentration.)
WARDROBE: I think it’s this / I think / I think it’s this /
(His gaze falls on the now-crumpled photographs that festoon BIBLE’s bed. He is bemused, but only briefly distracted.)
That’s Sisi’s arse /
(BIBLE has no opportunity to respond as WARDROBE resumes his meditation.)
I think it’s my /
(He stops again, his gaze drawn back to BIBLE’s bed.)
And Sisi’s arse /
(He stares at BIBLE, bemused.)
Sisi’s cunt / and Sisi’s arse /
(He returns his attention to the SOLDIER.)
It is my love of God / I think / since you ask / a love so great I am compelled to imitate Him / not on so vast a scale / but /
(WARDROBE seems suddenly to lose interest in his own thesis. His hand lifts, hangs, falls, the SOLDIER grimaces, and turns to go.)
I’d love to tell you / one day / I’d love to tell you /
(Again his hand gropes the air.)
Where my rage comes from / and where my pity goes /
(The SOLDIER goes out, encountering on his way an overweight and aged OFFICER, his tunic decrepid but festooned with medals. The SOLDIER snaps to attention. The OFFICER observes the condition of the SOLDIER, without meeting his eyes.)
ENGINE: You’re filthy /
(Suddenly WARDROBE bursts into tears.)
WARDROBE: Si – si / Si – si /
(He sobs.)
Oh / Si – si /
ENGINE: (Cuffing the SOLDIER...) Filthy /
(ENGINE dismisses the SOLDIER with a sneer. WARDROBE suffocates his misery in a handkerchief. He blows his nose.)
Don’t teach him /
WARDROBE: I think I am obliged to /
ENGINE: Not if he’s filthy /
WARDROBE: All right / I won’t /
ENGINE: You cannot play a violin with dirty fingers / the dirt alters the note /
WARDROBE: Yes / yes / it does alter the note /
ENGINE: Don’t teach him / then /
WARDROBE: I won’t /
ENGINE: You are who you are /
WARDROBE: Yes /
ENGINE: Aren’t you? / You are who you are? /
WARDROBE: I think so / yes /
ENGINE: What do you mean / you think so? /
WARDROBE: I mean yes / I am who I am /
ENGINE: And he / who’s he? /
WARDROBE: (With a shrug.) Who he is? /
ENGINE: Exactly / he is who he is / so don’t teach him /
WARDROBE: It isn’t easy / in this atmosphere / what with the dust / what with the wind / to /
ENGINE:
