The Collector

 M. It's despair at the lack of (_I'm cheating, I didn't say all these things -- but I'm going to write what I want to say as well as what I did_) feeling, of love, of reason in the world. It's despair that anyone can even contemplate the idea of dropping a bomb or ordering that it should be dropped. It's despair that so few of us care. It's despair that there's so much brutality and callousness in the world. It's despair that perfectly normal young men can be made vicious and evil because they've won a lot of money. And then do what you've done to me.

 C. I thought you'd get on to that.

 M. Well, you're part of it. Everything free and decent in life is being locked away in filthy little cellars by beastly people who don't care.

 C. I know your lot. You think the whole blooming world's all arranged so as everything ought to be your way.

 M. Don't be so wet.

 C. I was a private in the army. You can't tell me. My lot just do what they're told (_he was really quite worked up -- for him_) and better look out if they don't.

 M. You haven't caught up with yourself. You're rich now. You've got _nothing_ to be hurt about.

 C. Money doesn't make all that difference.

 M. Nobody can order you about any more.

 C. You don't understand me at all.

 M. Oh, yes I do. I know you're not a teddy. But deep down you feel like one. You hate being an underdog, you hate not being able to express yourself properly. They go and smash things, you sit and sulk. You say, I won't help the world. I won't do the smallest good thing for humanity. I'll just think of myself and humanity can go and stew for all I care. (_It's like continually slapping someone across the face -- almost a wince_.) What use do you think money is unless it's used? Do you understand what I'm talking about?

 C. Yes.

 M. Well?

 C. Oh . . . you're right. As always.

 M. Are you being sarcastic again?

 C. You're like my Aunt Annie. She's always going on about the way people behave nowadays. Not caring and all that.

 M. You seem to think it's right to be wrong.

 C. Do you want your tea?

 M. (_superhuman effort_) Look, for the sake of argument, we'll say that however much good you tried to do in society, in fact you'd never do any good. That's ridiculous, but never mind. There's still yourself. I don't think the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament has much chance of actually affecting the government. It's one of the first things you have to face up to. But we do it to keep our self-respect to show to ourselves, each one to himself or herself, that we care. And to let other people, all the lazy, sulky, hopeless ones like you, know that someone cares. We're trying to shame you into thinking about it, about acting. (_Silence -- then I shouted_.) Say something!

 C. I know it's evil.

 M. Do something, then! (_He gawped at me as if I'd told him to swim the Atlantic_.) Look. A friend of mine went on a march to an American air-station in Essex. You know? They were stopped outside the gate, of course, and after a time the sergeant on guard came out and spoke to them and they began an argument and it got very heated because this sergeant thought that the Americans were like knights of old rescuing a damsel in distress. That the H-bombers were absolutely necessary -- and so on. Gradually as they were arguing they began to realize that they rather liked the American. Because he felt very strongly, and honestly, about his views. It wasn't only my friend. They all agreed about it afterwards. The only thing that really matters is feeling and living what you believe -- so long as it's something more than belief in your own comfort. My friend said he was nearer to that American sergeant than to all the grinning idiots who watched them march past on the way. It's like football. Two sides may each want to beat the other, they may even hate each other as sides, but if someone came and told them football is stupid and not worth playing or caring about, then they'd feel together. It's _feeling_ that matters. Can't you see?

 C. I thought we were talking about the H-bomb.

 M. Go away. You exhaust me. You're like a sea of cotton wool.

 C. (_he stood up at once_) I do like to hear you talk. I do think about what you say.

 M. No, you don't. You put what I say in your mind and wrap it up and it disappears for ever.

 C. If I wanted to send a cheque to the . . . this lot . . . what's the address?

 M. To buy my approval?

 C. What's wrong with that?

 M. We need money. But we need feeling even more. And I don't think you've got any feeling to give away. You can't win that by filling in a football coupon.

 C. (_there was an awkward silence_) See you later, then.

 (_Exit Caliban. I hit my pillow so hard that it has looked reproachful ever since_.)