THE MONSTER: Asses, apes and dogs! Milton called them that; he should have known. Somewhere there must be men, however. The variations on Diabelli prove it. Brunelleschi’s dome is more than the magnification of Cléo de Mérode’s breast. Somewhere there are men with power, living reasonably. Like our mythical Greeks and Romans. Living cleanly. The images of the gods are their portraits. They walk under their own protection. (_The_ MONSTER _climbs on to a chair and stands in the posture of a statue_.) Jupiter, father of gods, a man, I bless myself, I throw bolts at my own disobedience, I answer my own prayers, I pronounce oracles to satisfy the questions I myself propound. I abolish all tetters, poxes, blood-spitting, rotting of bones. With love I recreate the world from within. Europa puts an end to squalor, Leda does away with tyranny, Danae tempers stupidity. After establishing these reforms in the social sewer, I climb, I climb, up through the manhole, out of the manhole, beyond humanity. For the manhole, even the manhole, is dark; though not so dingy as the doghole it was before I altered it. Up through the manhole, towards the air. Up, up! (_And the_ MONSTER, _suiting the action to his words, climbs up the runged back of his chair and stands, by a miraculous feat of acrobacy, on the topmost bar_.) I begin to see the stars through other eyes than my own. More than dog already, I become more than man. I begin to have inklings of the shape and sense of things. Upwards, upwards I strain, I peer, I reach aloft. (_The balanced_ MONSTER _reaches, strains and peers_.) And I seize, I seize! (_As he shouts these words, the_ MONSTER _falls heavily, head foremost, to the floor. He lies there quite still. After a little time the door opens and the_ DOCTOR _of the first scene enters with a_ WARDER.) 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 for ever climbing on to his chair. THE DOCTOR: Well, he won’t any more. 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. (_Exeunt 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.”