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shot off next time. He declares that he will hang up his arms to marry a charming lady of Gorica what he has just met. They will settle in Gorica – or Patriciagrad, as the unfortunate city will shortly be ceremoniously rechristened, once the corpses are cleared from off the streets.
    Amid general enthusiasm, Prince Mendicula leaves his wife Patricia in Gerald’s care and goes for a tour of his new territory – you see it in the background – to meet alike nobility and peasants, but chiefly nobility, of course. At a certain country inn by a lake, Mendicula decides to rest for the night. We see him entering – observe tankards arranged by the window – and here he meets the enchanting mystery woman, Lady Jemima, what claims to be the daughter from the landlord, though the prince cannot believe this. In fact, he believes that anyone so pleasing cannot spring from such low society. As you may notice, the little Lady Jemima is as dark of hair and complexion as the Princess Patricia is fair. Well, we get the ladies’ hair colour correct, we hope.
    She spurns his advances, gracefully but inflammably with what looks like a slap of the face. The prince orders local wine and becomes hopelessly inebriated in the course of the evening. Fortunately he is anonymous, so that nobody notices nothing remarkable in his insobriety.
    This is early dawn, as you can see, shining bright. Prince Mendicula, whose head feels so thick as that of any low serf, wakes to repent of his folly and have a conscience attack as he recalls his neglected wife Patricia back in Gorica. We witness his agony – the clenched fists, the look to heaven – as he becomes afraid that Patricia might have been unfaithful to him, yielding during the night to the advances of the General Gerald. He rides furiously back to Gorica, a prey to remorse and jealousy.
    Arriving early at the Gorica Palace, his spurs clattering over the marble corridors – well, matting, as you can see – the prince finds both Patricia, his beloved, and his general are slumbering vituously in their different compartments in different parts of the building. How sweet she looks asleep, those lovely pink cheeks – she is always well fed, our princess! Mendicula awakens her with a kiss and pours out his love.
    At this point in Bengtsohn’s story, I thought to myself, Well, it is all very splendid for Bonihatch that he plays the prince! He enjoys most of the excitement and both of the women! This is what I get for acting with a pack of Progressives. Now I understand why the State suppresses them. Sooner or later, Bonihatch is going to linger a whole petrified five minutes – which in the circumstances rates considerably longer than eternity – with his lips upon Armida’s lips, as the slumbering Patricia. He’ll be more than mercurized, the low churl! I should have played the prince!
    And what impression will I make on my audience as the stupid General Gerald, lying guilelessly abed, eyes closed and moustaches rolled in a white handkerchief. This fustian does me no favour.
    Even as Prince Mendicula embraces Patricia and pours out his affectionate declarations (continued Bengtsohn, moving us about for the next tableau as if we were dummies) she can smell that he has been drinking away the night. Instinctively, the sensitive girl a trifle draws away from him.
    Examine, if you will, the psychology in his countenance! For how does he respond to this slight withdrawal of hers? Why, a tiny seedling from doubt blooms in his mind. Perhaps the withdrawal implies that she after all did lie with the general. Much pleasure of the intimate sort may be had in two hours without spending all night about it, particularly if you are of the passionate disposition what he knows Patricia to be, because she lives off the best meats and fruits, unlike the poor.
    Ah, this next picture! ‘Trust vanquishing Doubt!’ No more soon does dark mistrust spring in