CHAPTER
XVI
THE blackamoors had left the platform at the
end of the hall. The curtains looped up
at either side had slid down, cutting it off from the rest of the room –
‘making two worlds,’ Gumbril elegantly and allusively put it, ‘where only one
grew before – and one of them a better world,’ he added too philosophically,
‘because unreal.’ There was the
theatrical silence, the suspense. The
curtains parted again.
On a narrow bed – on a bier perhaps – the corpse of a woman. The husband kneels beside it. At the foot stands the doctor, putting away
his instruments. In a beribboned pink
cradle reposes a monstrous baby.
THE HUSBAND: Margaret! Margaret!
THE DOCTOR: She is dead.
THE HUSBAND: Margaret!
THE DOCTOR: Of septicæmia, I tell you.
THE HUSBAND: I wish that I too were dead!
THE DOCTOR: But you won’t tomorrow.
THE HUSBAND: Margaret! Margaret! Wait for
me there; I shall not fail to meet you in that hollow vale.
THE DOCTOR: You will not be slow to
survive her.
THE HUSBAND: Christ have
mercy upon us!
THE DOCTOR: You would do better to think
of the child.
THE HUSBAND (rising and standing menacingly over the cradle): Is that the
monster?
THE DOCTOR: No worse than others.
THE HUSBAND: Begotten in a night of
immaculate pleasure, monster, may you live loveless,
in dirty and impurity!
THE DOCTOR: Conceived in lust and darkness,
may your own impurity always seem heavenly, monster, in your own eyes!
THE HUSBAND: Murderer, slowly die all your
life long!
THE DOCTOR: The child must be fed.
THE HUSBAND: Fed? With what?
THE DOCTOR: With milk.
THE HUSBAND: Her milk is cold in her breasts.
THE DOCTOR: There are still cows.
THE HUSBAND: Tubercular shorthorns. (Calling.) Let
Short-i’-the-horn be brought!
VOICES (off): Short-i’-the-horn! Short-i’-the-horn! (Fadingly.) Short-i’-the …
THE DOCTOR: In nineteen hundred and
twenty-one, twenty-seven thousand nine hundred and thirteen women died in
childbirth.
THE HUSBAND: But none of them belonged to
my harem.
THE DOCTOR: Each of them was somebody’s
wife.
THE HUSBAND: Doubtless. But the people we don’t know are only
characters in the human comedy. We are
the tragedians.
THE DOCTOR: Not in the spectator’s eyes.
THE HUSBAND: Do I think of the spectators?
Ah, Margaret! Margaret!...
THE DOCTOR: The twenty-seven thousand nine
hundred and fourteenth.
THE HUSBAND: The only one!
THE DOCTOR: But here comes the cow.
(Short-i’-the-horn is led by a Yokel.)
THE HUSBAND: Ah, good Short-i’-the-horn! (He pats the animal.) She was tested last
week, was she not?
THE YOKEL: Ay, sir.
THE HUSBAND: And found tubercular. No?
THE YOKEL: Even in the udders, may it
please you.
THE HUSBAND: Excellent! Milk me the cow,
sir, into this dirty wash-pot.
THE YOKEL: I will, sir. (He milks the cow.)
THE HUSBAND: Her milk – her milk is cold
already. All the
woman in her chilled and curdled within her breasts. Ah, Jesus! what
miraculous galactagogue will make it flow again?
THE YOKEL: The wash-pot is full, sir.
THE HUSBAND: Then take the cow away.
THE YOKEL: Come, Short-i’-the-horn; come
up, good Short-i’-the-horn. (He goes out
with the cow.)
THE HUSBAND (pouring the milk into a long-tubed feeding-bottle): Here’s for you,
monster, to drink your own health in. (He
gives the bottle to the child.)
CURTAIN
‘A
little ponderous, perhaps,’ said Gumbril, as the curtain came down.
‘But
I liked the cow.’ Mrs Viveash opened her
cigarette-case and found it empty.
Gumbril offered her one of his.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want
it in the least,’ she said.
‘Yes,
the cow was in the best pantomime tradition,’ Gumbril agreed. Ah! but it was a
long time since he had been to a Christmas pantomime. Not since Dan Leno’s days. All the little cousins, the uncles and aunts
on both sides of the family, dozens and dozens of them – every year they filled
the best part of a row in the dress circle at Drury Lane. And buns were stickily passed from hand to
hand, chocolates circulated; the grown-ups drank tea. And the pantomime went on and on, glory after
glory, under the shining arch of the stage.
Hours and hours; and the grown-ups always wanted to go away before the
harlequinade. And the children felt sick
from eating too much chocolate, or wanted with such extreme urgency to go to
the w.c. that they had to be led out, trampling and
stumbling over everybody else’s feet – and every stumble making the need more
agonizingly great – in the middle of the transformation scene. And there was Dan Leno, inimitable Dan Leno,
dead now as poor Yorick, no more than a mere skull like anybody else’s skull. And his mother, he remembered, used to laugh
at him sometimes till the tears ran down her cheeks. She used to enjoy things thoroughly, with a
whole heart.
‘I
wish they’d hurry up with the second scene,’ said Mrs Viveash. ‘If there’s anything that bores me, it’s entr’actes.’
‘Most
of one’s life is an entr’acte,’ said
Gumbril, whose present mood of hilarious depression seemed favourable to the
enunciation of apophthegms.
‘None
of your cracker mottoes, please,’ protested Mrs
Viveash. All the same, she reflected,
what was she doing now but waiting for the curtain to go up again, waiting,
with what unspeakable weariness of spirit, for the curtain that had rung down,
ten centuries ago, on those blue eyes, that bright strawy hair and the
weathered face?
‘Thank
God,’ she said with an expiring earnestness, ‘here’s the second scene!’
The
curtain went up. In a bald room stood
the Monster, grown now from an infant into a frail and bent young man with
bandy legs. At the back of the stage a large window giving on to a street along which people pass.
THE MONSTER [solus]: The young girls of
[The
YOUNG LADY enters. She stands outside the window, in the street,
paying no attention to the MONSTER;
she seems to be waiting for somebody.]
She is like a pear tree in flower. When she smiles, it is as though there were
stars. Her hair is like the harvest in
an ecologue, her cheeks are all the fruits of
summer. Her arms and thighs are as
beautiful as the soul of St Catherine of
THE YOUNG LADY: If I wait till the summer
sale, the crêpe de Chine will be
reduced by at least two shillings a yard, and on six camisoles that will mean a
lot of money. But the question is: can I
go from May till the end of July with the underclothing I have now?
THE MONSTER: If I knew her, I should know
the universe!
THE YOUNG LADY: My present ones are so
dreadfully middle-class. And if Roger
should … by any chance …
THE MONSTER: Or, rather, I should be able
to ignore it, having a private universe of my own.
THE YOUNG LADY: If – if he did – well, it
might be rather humiliating with these I have … like a servant’s almost….
THE MONSTER: Love makes you accept the
world; it puts an end to criticism.
THE YOUNG LADY: His hand already …
THE MONSTER: Dare I, dare I tell her how
beautiful she is?
THE YOUNG LADY: On the whole, I think I’d
better get it now, though it will cost more.
THE MONSTER [desperately advancing to the window as though to assault a battery]:
Beautiful! Beautiful!
THE YOUNG LADY [looking at him]: Ha, ha, ha!
THE MONSTER: But I love you, flowering
pear tree; I love you, golden harvest; I love you, fruitage of summer; I love you,
body and limbs, with the shape of a saint’s thought.
THE YOUNG LADY [redoubles her laughter]: Ha, ha, ha!
THE MONSTER [taking her hand]: You cannot be cruel! [He is seized with a violent paroxysm of coughing which doubles him up,
which shakes and torments him. The handkerchief he holds to his mouth is
spotted with blood.]
THE YOUNG LADY: You disgust me! [She draws away her skirts so that they shall
not come in contact with him.]
THE MONSTER: But I swear to you, I love
you – I – [He is once more interrupted by
his cough.]
THE YOUNG LADY: Please go away. [In a different voice.]
Ah, Roger!
[She
advances to meet a snub-nosed lubber with curly hair and a face like a groom’s,
who passes along the street at this moment.]
ROGER: I’ve got the motorbike waiting at
the corner.
THE YOUNG LADY: Let’s go, then.
ROGER [pointing
to the MONSTER]: What’s that?
THE YOUNG LADY: Oh, it’s nothing in
particular.
[Both
roar with laughter. ROGER escorts her
out, patting her familiarly on the back as they walk along.]
THE MONSTER [looking after her]: There is a wound under my left pap. She has deflowered all women. I cannot …
‘Lord!’
whispered Mrs Viveash, ‘how this young man bores me!’
‘I
confess,’ replied Gumbril, ‘I have rather a taste for moralities. There is a pleasant uplifting vagueness about
these symbolical generalized figures which pleases me.’
‘You
were always charmingly simple-minded,’ said Mrs Viveash. ‘But who is this?’ As long as the young man isn’t left alone on
the stage, I don’t mind.’
Another
female figure has appeared in the street beyond the window. It is the Prostitute. Her face, painted in two tones of red, white,
green, blue and black, is the most tasteful of nature-mortes.
THE PROSTITUTE: Hullo, duckie?
THE MONSTER: Hullo!
THE PROSTITUTE: Are you lonely?
THE MONSTER: Yes.
THE PROSTITUTE: Would you like me to come
in to see you?
THE MONSTER: Very well.
THE PROSTITUTE: Shall we say thirty bob?
THE MONSTER: Very well.
THE PROSTITUTE: Come along then.
[She
climbs through the window and they go off together through the door on the left
of the stage. The curtains descend for a
moment, then rise again. The MONSTER and the PROSTITUTE are seen
issuing from the door at which they went out.]
THE MONSTER [taking out a cheque-book and a fountain-pen]: Thirty shillings …
THE PROSTITUTE: Thank you. Not a cheque.
I don’t want any cheques. How do
I know it isn’t a dud one that they’ll refuse payment for at the bank? Ready money for me, thanks.
THE MONSTER: But I haven’t got any cash on
me at the moment.
THE PROSTITUTE: Well, I won’t take a
cheque. Once bitten, twice shy, I can
tell you.
THE MONSTER: But I tell you I haven’t got
any cash.
THE PROSTITUTE: Well, all I can say is,
here I stay till I get it. And, what’s
more, if I don’t get it quick, I’ll make a row.
THE MONSTER: But this is absurd. I offer you a perfectly good cheque …
THE PROSTITUTE: And I won’t take it. So there!
THE MONSTER: Well then, take my
watch. It’s worth more than thirty bob.
[He pulls out his gold half-hunter.]
THE PROSTITUTE: Thank you, and get myself
arrested as soon as I take it to the pop-shop!
No, I want cash, I tell you.’
THE MONSTER: But where the devil do you
expect me to get it at this time of night?
THE PROSTITUTE: I don’t know. But you’ve got to get it pretty quick.
THE MONSTER: You’re unreasonable.
THE PROSTITUTE: Aren’t there any servants
in this house?
THE MONSTER: Yes.
THE PROSTITUTE: Well, go and borrow it
from one of them.
THE MONSTER: But really, that would be too
low, too humiliating.
THE PROSTITUTE: All right, I’ll begin
kicking up a noise. I’ll go to the
window and yell till all the neighbours are woken up and the police come to see
what’s up. You can borrow it from the
copper then.
THE MONSTER: You really won’t take my
cheque! I swear to you it’s perfectly all right.
There’s plenty of money to meet it.
THE PROSTITUTE: Oh, shut up! No more dilly-dallying. Get me my money at
once, or I’ll start the row. One, two,
three … [She opens her mouth wide as if
to yell.]
THE MONSTER: All right. [He goes out.]
THE PROSTITUTE: Nice state of things we’re
coming to, when young rips try and swindle us poor girls out of our money! Mean, stinking skunks! I’d like to slit the throats of some
of them.
THE MONSTER [coming back again]: Here you are. [He hands her money.]
THE PROSTITUTE [examining it]: Thank you, dearie. Any other time you’re lonely …
THE MONSTER: No, no!
THE PROSTITUTE: Where did you get it
finally?
THE MONSTER: I woke the cook.
THE PROSTITUTE [goes into a peal of laughter]: Well, so long, duckie. [She goes out.]
THE MONSTER [solus]: Somewhere there must be love like music. Love harmonious
and ordered: two spirits, two bodies moving contrapuntally together. Somewhere,
the stupid brutish act must be made to make sense, must be enriched, must be made significant. Lust, like
Diabelli’s waltz, a stupid air, turned by genius into three-and-thirty fabulous
variations. Somewhere …
‘Oh
dear!’ sighed Mrs Viveash.
‘Charming!’ Gumbril protested.
… love like
sheets of silky flame; like landscapes brilliant in the sunlight against a
background of purple thunder; like the solution of a cosmic problem; like faith
…
‘Crikey!’
said Mrs Viveash.
… Somewhere, somewhere.
But in my veins creep the maggots of the pox …
‘Really, really!’ Mrs
Viveash shook her head. ‘Too medical!’
… crawling
towards the brain, crawling into the mouth, burrowing into the bones. Insatiably.
The
Monster threw himself to the ground, and the curtain came down.
‘And
about time too!’ declared Mrs Viveash.
‘Charming!’ Gumbril
stuck to his guns. ‘Charming!
charming!’
There
was a disturbance near the door. Mrs
Viveash looked round to see what was happening.
‘And now on top of it all,’ she said, ‘here comes
Coleman, raving, with an unknown drunk.’
‘Have
we missed it?’ Coleman was shouting.
‘Have we missed all the lovely bloody farce?’
‘Lovely
bloody!’ his companion repeated with drunken raptures, and he went into fits of
uncontrollable laughter. He was a very
young boy with straight dark hair and a face of Hellenic beauty, now distorted
with tipsiness.
Coleman
greeted his acquaintances in the hall, shouting a jovial obscenity to
each. ‘And Bumbril-Gumbril,’ he
exclaimed, catching sight of him at last in the front row. ‘And Hetaira-Myra!’ He pushed his way through the crowd, followed
unsteadily by his young disciple. ‘So
you’re here,’ he said, standing over them and looking down with an enigmatic
malice in his bright blue eyes. ‘Where’s
the physiologue?’
‘Am
I the physiologue’s keeper?’ asked Gumbril.
‘He’s with his glands and his hormones, I suppose. Not to mention his wife.’ He smiled to himself.
‘Where
the hormones, there moan I,’ said Coleman, skidding off sideways along the
slippery word. ‘I hear, by the way, that
there’s a lovely prostitute in this play.’
‘You’ve
missed her,’ said Mrs Viveash.
‘What
a misfortune,’ said Coleman. ‘We’ve
missed the delicious trull,’ he said, turning to the young man.
The
young man only laughed.
‘Let
me introduce, by the way,’ said Coleman.
‘This is Dante,’ he pointed to the dark-haired boy; ‘and I am
Virgil. We’re making a round tour – or,
rather, a descending spiral tour of hell.
But we’re only at the first circle so far. These, Alighieri, are two damned souls,
though not, as you might suppose, Paolo and Francesca.’
The
boy continued to laugh, happily and uncomprehendingly.
Another
of these interminable entr’actes,’
complained Mrs Viveash. ‘I was just
saying to Theodore here that if there’s one thing I dislike more than another,
it’s a long entr’acte. Would hers ever come to an end?
‘And
if there’s one thing I dislike more
than another,’ said the boy, breaking silence for the first time, with an air
of the greatest earnestness, ‘it’s … it’s one thing
more than another.’
‘And
you’re perfectly right in doing so,’ said Coleman. ‘Perfectly right.’
‘I
know,’ the boy replied modestly.
When the curtain rose again it was on an
aged Monster, with a black patch over the left side of his nose, no hair, no
teeth, and sitting harmlessly behind the bars of an asylum.
THE
MONSTER: Asses, apes and dogs!
THE
WARDER: I heard a crash.
THE
DOCTOR [who has by this time become
immensely old and has a beard like Father Thames]: It looks as though you
were right. [He examines the MONSTER.]
THE
WARDER: He was forever climbing on to his chair.
THE
DOCTOR: Well, he won’t anymore. His neck’s broken.
THE
WARDER: You don’t say so?
THE
DOCTOR: I do.
THE
WARDER: Well, I never!
THE
DOCTOR: Have it carried down to the dissecting-room.
THE
WARDER: I’ll send for the porters at once.
[Exuent
severally, and CURTAIN.]
‘Well,’
said Mrs Viveash, ‘I’m glad that’s over.’
The
music struck up again, saxophone and ‘cello, with the thin draught of the
violin to cool their ecstasies and the thumping piano to remind them of
business. Gumbril and Mrs Viveash slid
out into the dancing crowd, revolving as though by force of habit.
‘These
substitutes for the genuine copulative article,’ said Coleman to his disciple,
‘are beneath the dignity of hell-hounds like you and me.’
Charmed,
the young man laughed; he was attentive as though at the feet of Socrates. Coleman had found him in a nightclub, where
he had gone in search of Zoe, found him very drunk in the company of two
formidable women fifteen or twenty years his senior, who were looking after
him, half maternally out of pure kindness of heart, half professionally; for he
seemed to be carrying a good deal of money.
He was incapable of looking after himself. Coleman had pounced on him at once, claimed an
old friendship which the youth was too tipsy to be able to deny, and carried
him off. There was something, he always
thought, peculiarly interesting about the spectacle of children tobogganing
down into the cesspools.
‘I
like this place,’ said the young man.
‘Tastes
differ!’ Coleman shrugged his
shoulders. ‘The German professors have
catalogued thousands of people whose whole pleasure consists of eating dung.’
The
young man smiled and nodded, rather vaguely.
‘Is there anything to drink here?’ he asked.
‘Too
respectable,’ Coleman answered, shaking his head.
‘I
think this is a bloody place,’ said the young man.
‘Ah!
but some people like blood. And some like boots. And some like long gloves and corsets. And some like birch-rods. And some like sliding down slopes and can’t
look at Michelangelo’s “Night” on the Medici Tombs without dying the little
death, because the statue seems to be sliding.
And some …’
‘But
I want something to drink,’ insisted the young man.
Coleman
stamped his feet, waved his arms. ‘À boire! à boire!’ he shouted, like the newborn Gargantua. Nobody paid any attention.
The
music came to an end. Gumbril and Mrs
Viveash reappeared.
‘Dante,’
said Coleman, ‘calls for drink. We must leave the building.’
‘Yes.
Anything to get out of this,’ said Mrs Viveash.
‘What’s the time?’
Gumbril
looked at his watch. ‘Half-past
one.’
Mrs
Viveash sighed. ‘Can’t
possibly go to bed,’ she said, ‘for another hour at least.’
They
walked out into the street. The stars
were large and brilliant overhead. There
was a little wind that almost seemed to come from the country. Gumbril thought so, at any rate; he thought
of the country.
‘There
question is, where?’ said Coleman. ‘You
can come to my bordello, if you like; but it’s a long way off and Zoe hates us
all so much, she’ll probably set on us with the meat-chopper. If she’s back again, that is. Though she may be out all
night. Zoe mou, sas agapo. Shall we
risk it?’
‘To
me it’s quite indifferent,’ said Mrs Viveash faintly, as though wholly
preoccupied with expiring.
‘Or
there’s my place,’ Gumbril said abruptly, as though shaking himself awake out
of some dream.
‘But
you live still farther, don’t you?’ said Coleman. ‘With venerable parents,
and so forth. One foot
in the grave and all that. Shall
we mingle hornpipes with funerals?’ He
began to hum Chopin’s ‘Funeral March’ at three times its proper speed, and
seizing the young stranger in his arms, two-stepped two or three times on the
pavement, then released his hold and let him go reeling against the area
railings.
‘No,
I don’t mean the family mansion,’ said Gumbril.
‘I mean my own rooms. They’re
quite near. In
‘I
never knew you had any rooms, Theodore,’ said Mrs Viveash.
‘Nobody
did.’ Why should they know now? Because the wind seemed
almost a country wind? ‘There’s
drink there,’ he said.
‘Splendid!’
cried the young man. They were all
splendid people.
‘There’s
some gin,’ said Gumbril.
‘Capital
aphrodisiac!’ Coleman commented.
‘Some
light white wine.’
‘Diuretic.’
‘And some whisky.’
‘The
great emetic,’ said Coleman. ‘Come
on.’ And he struck up the March of the
Fascisti. ‘Giovinezza, giovinezza, primavera di bellezza….’ The noise went fading down the dark, empty
streets.
The
gin, the white wine, and even, for the sake of the young stranger, who wanted
to sample everything, the emetic whisky, were
produced.
‘I
like your rooms,’ said Mrs Viveash, looking round her. ‘And I resent your secrecy about them,
Theodore.’
‘Drink,
puppy!’ Coleman refilled the boy’s
glass.
‘Here’s
to secrecy,’ Gumbril proposed. Shut it tight,
keep it dark, cover it up. Be silent, prevaricate, lie
outright. He laughed and drank. ‘Do you remember,’ he went on, ‘those
instructive advertisements of Eno’s Fruit Salts they used to have when we were
young? There was one little anecdote
about a doctor who advised the hypochrondriacal patient who had come to consult
him, to go and see Grimaldi, the clown; and the patient answered, “I am
Grimaldi.” Do you remember?’
‘No,’
said Mrs Viveash. ‘And why do you?’
‘Oh,
I don’t know. Or rather, I do know,’
Gumbril corrected himself, and laughed again.
The
young man suddenly began to boast. ‘I
lost two hundred pounds yesterday playing chemin
de fer,’ he said, and looked round for applause.
Coleman
patted his curly head. ‘Delicious
child!’ he said. ‘You’re positively
Hogarthian.’
Angrily,
the boy pushed him away. ‘What are you
doing?’ he shouted; then turned and addressed himself
once more to the others. ‘I couldn’t
afford it, you know – not a bloody penny of it.
Not my money, either.’ He seemed
to find it exquisitely humorous. ‘And
that two hundred wasn’t all,’ he added, almost expiring with mirth.
‘Tell
Coleman how you borrowed his beard, Theodore.’
Gumbril
was looking intently into his glass, as though he hoped to see in its pale
mixture of gin and Sauterne visions, as in a crystal, of the future. Mrs Viveash touched him on the arm and
repeated her injunction.
‘Oh,
that!’ said Gumbril rather irritably.
‘No. It isn’t an interesting story.’
‘Oh
yes, it is! I insist,’ said Mrs Viveash, commanding peremptorily from her
deathbed.
Gumbril
drank his gin and Sauterne. ‘Very well
then,’ he said reluctantly, and began.
‘I
don’t know what my governor will say,’ the young man put in once or twice. But nobody paid any attention to him. He relapsed into a sulky and, it seemed to
him, very dignified silence. Under the
warm, jolly tipsiness he felt a chill of foreboding. He poured out some more whisky.
Gumbril
warmed to his anecdote. Expiringly Mrs
Viveash laughed from time to time, or smiled her agonizing smile. Coleman whooped like a redskin.
‘And
after the concert to these rooms,’ said Gumbril.
Well,
let everything go. Into
the mud. Leave it there, and let
the dogs lift their hind legs over it as they pass.
‘Ah!
the genuine platonic fumblers,’ commented Coleman.
‘I
am Grimaldi,’ Gumbril laughed. Further
than this it was difficult to see where the joke could go. There, on the divan, where Mrs Viveash and
Coleman were now sitting, she had lain sleeping in his arms.
‘Towsing,
in Elizabethan,’ said Coleman.
Unreal eternal in the secret darkness. A night that was an eternal
parenthesis among the other nights and days.
‘I
feel I’m going to be sick,’ said the young man suddenly. He had wanted to go on silently and haughtily
sulking; but his stomach declined to take part in the dignified game.
‘Good
Lord!’ said Gumbril, and jumped up. But
before he could do anything effective, the young man had fulfilled his own
prophecy.
‘The
real charm about debauchery,’ said Coleman philosophically, ‘is its total
pointlessness, futility, and above all its incredible tediousness. If it really were all roses and exhilaration
as these poor children seem to imagine, it would be no better than going to
church or studying the higher mathematics.
I should never touch a drop of wine or another harlot again. It would be against my principles. I told you it was emetic,’ he called to the
young man.
‘And
what are your principles?’ asked Mrs Viveash.
‘Oh,
strictly ethical,’ said Coleman.
‘You’re
responsible for this creature,’ said Gumbril, pointing to the young man, who
was sitting on the floor near the fireplace, cooling his forehead against the
marble of the mantelpiece. ‘You must
take him away. Really,
what a bore!’ His nose and mouth
were all wrinkled up with disgust.
‘I’m
sorry,’ the young man whispered. He kept
his eyes shut and his face was exceedingly pale.
‘But
with pleasure,’ said Coleman. ‘What’s
your name?’ he asked the young man, ‘and where do you live?’
‘My
name is Porteous,’ murmured the young man.
‘Good
lord!’ cried Gumbril, letting himself fall on to the divan beside Mrs
Viveash. ‘That’s the last straw!’
