by Tom Stoppard
Anish Yes, the tea-tray …
Mrs Swan You spotted it. In India we had pictures of coaching inns and foxhunting, and now I’ve landed up in Shepperton I’ve got elephants and prayer wheels cluttering up the window ledges, and the tea-tray is Nepalese brass. One could make a comment about human nature but have a slice of Battenberg instead.
Anish Thank you.
Mrs Swan I got it specially, an artistic sort of cake, I always think. What kind of paintings are they, these paintings that are not like your father’s? Describe your latest. Like the cake?
Anish (eating) Delicious. Thank you.
Mrs Swan No, are they like the cake?
Anish Oh. No. They are all… like each other really. I can’t describe them.
Mrs Swan Indescribable, then.
Anish completes the drawing, and passes it to her.
Anish There.
Mrs Swan (pleasantly surprised) Ah. That’s a proper drawing. You could do portraits if you wanted. (She gives the drawing back to Anish.)
Anish Thank you.
Mrs Swan Now, what are we going to tell Eldon about your father?
Anish Eldon?
Mrs Swan E. Cooper Pike. He calls me Eleanor so I have to call him Eldon, so as not to seem toffee-nosed. If he starts calling me Nell I suppose I’ll have to call him El. He’s waiting for me to die so he can get on with Flora’s biography which he thinks I don’t know he’s writing.
Anish (referring to his copy of the book) Oh yes. ‘Edited by E. Cooper Pike.’
Mrs Swan That means he does the footnotes.
Anish Oh yes, I see.
Mrs Swan Far too much of a good thing, in my opinion, the footnotes; to be constantly interrupted by someone telling you things you already know or don’t need to know at that moment. There are pages where Flora can hardly get a word in sideways. Mr Pike teaches Flora Crewe. It makes her sound like a subject, doesn’t it, like biology. Or in her case, botany. Flora is widely taught in America. I have been written to, even visited, and on one occasion telephoned, by young women doing Flora Crewe. Almost always young women. And from all over, lots from America. Flora has become quite a heroine. Which she always was to me. I was only three when Mother died, so it was Flora who … Oh dear, I’m going to need a hanky.
Anish Oh – I say! I’m sorry –
Mrs Swan Found it. (She blows her nose.) It makes me so cross that she missed it all, the Collected Poems, and now the Letters, with her name all over the place and students and professors so interested and so sweet about her poetry. Nobody gave tuppence about her while she was alive except to get her knickers off. How is your tea?
Das arrives at the guesthouse and props his bicycle against the verandah. Flora, working, barely acknowledges him.
Anish It’s very nice. Mrs Swan … it says, ‘The portrait of Flora Crewe is reproduced by permission of Mrs Eleanor Swan.’ Does that mean you have it?
Mrs Swan Yes.
Anish Here? In your house?
Mrs Swan Would you like to see it?
Anish Very much! I half expected to see it hanging the moment I arrived.
Mrs Swan That’s because you’re a painter. Come on, I’ll show you. Yes, I can’t get the tea here to taste as it should. I expect it’s the water. A reservoir near Staines won’t have the makings of a good cup of tea compared to the water we got in the Hills. It came straight off the Himalayas.
They leave. Flora and Das are at work.
Flora (recorded)
‘– or think if you prefer, of a corpse in a ditch
I have been left for dead before –
heat crawls in my hair like insects –’
Oh, fiddlesticks! May we stop for a moment. (She gets up.) I’m sticking to myself.
Das Of course! Forgive me!
Flora You mustn’t take responsibility for the climate too, Mr Das.
Das No, I …
Flora No, I’m sorry. I’m bad tempered. Should we have some tea? I wouldn’t mind something to eat too. (calls out) Nazrul! (to Das) There’s a jar of duck pâté in the refrigerator …
Nazrul appears from round the corner of the verandah.
Oh, Nazrul … char and …
Nazrul (in Hindi) Yes, madam, I will bring tea immediately …
Flora … bread … and in the icebox, no, don’t go, listen to me –
Das Would you allow me, please?
Das and Nazrul speak in Hindi. Das orders bread and butter and the duck pâté from the fridge.
Flora (over the conversation) A jar with a picture of a duck …
But Nazrul has dramatic and tragic disclosures to make. Thieves have stolen the pâté. Das berates him. Nazrul leaves the way he came.
What was all that?
Das He will bring tea, and bread and butter and cake. The pâté has been taken by robbers.
Flora What?!
Das (gravely) Just so, I’m afraid.
Flora But the refrigerator is padlocked – Mr Coomaraswami pointed it out to me particularly.
Das Where do you keep the key?
Flora Nazrul keeps it, of course.
Das Ah well … the whole thing is a great mystery.
Flora splutters into laughter and Das joins in.
Flora But surely, isn’t it against his religion?
Das Oh, certainly. I should say so. Not that I’m saying Nazrul stole the pâté, but stealing would be against his religion, undoubtedly.
Flora I don’t mean stealing, I mean the pork.
Das But I thought you said it was duck.
Flora One must read the small print, Mr Das. ‘Duck pâté’ in large letters, ‘with pork’ in small letters. It’s normal commercial practice.
Das Yes, I see.
Flora We must hope he only got the duck part …
Das That is your true nature speaking, Miss Crewe!
Flora … though of course, if they use one pig for every duck, he’ll be lucky to have got any duck at all.
Das The truth will never be known, only to God who is merciful.
Flora Yes. Which God do you mean?
Das Yours if you wish, by all means.
Flora Now, Mr Das, there is such a thing as being too polite. Yours was here first.
Das Oh, but we Hindus can afford to be generous; we have gods to spare, one for every occasion. And Krishna said, ‘Whichever god a man worships, it is I who answer the prayer.’
Flora I wasn’t sure whether Krishna was a god or a person.
Das Oh, he was most certainly a god, one of the ten incarnations of Vishnu, and a favourite subject of the old Rajasthani painters. He had a great love affair, you see, with a married lady, Radha, who was the most beautiful of the herdswomen. Radha fell passionately in love with Krishna and she would often escape from her husband to meet him in secret.
Flora I think that’s what confused me. Come and sit down, Mr Das.
Das I will … but I will start on my tree while we wait.
Flora Put a monkey in it.
Das Yes. Like Hanuman, he is my favourite in the Ramayana. The monkey god.
Flora Mr Coomaraswami showed me the temples.
Das Did you find them interesting?
Flora I liked some of the sculptures, the way the women are often smiling to themselves. Yes, that was quite revealing, I thought.
Das About Indian women?
Flora No, about Indian sculptors. And breasts like melons, and baby-bearing hips. You must think me ill-favoured.
Das No. My wife was slightly built.
Flora Oh …
Nazrul enters with the tea-tray.
Thank you, Nazrul … And two kinds of cake!
Nazrul replies smilingly and leaves.
Das But your face today … I think your work was troublesome.
Flora Yes.
Das Is it the rhyming that is difficult?
Flora No.
Das The metre?
Flora No. The … emotion won’t harmonize. I’m afraid I’m not much good at ta
lking about it.
Das I’m sorry.
Flora That’s why I don’t keep nipping round to your side of the easel. If I don’t look there’s nothing to say. I think that that’s better.
Das Yes. It is better to wait. My painting has no rasa today.
Flora What is rasa?
Das Rasa is juice. Its taste. Its essence. A painting must have its rasa which is not in the painting exactly. Rasa is what you must feel when you see a painting, or hear music; it is the emotion which the artist must arouse in you.
Flora And poetry? Does a poem have rasa?
Das Oh yes! Poetry is a sentence whose soul is rasa. That is a famous dictum of Vishvanata, a great teacher of poetry, six hundred years ago.
Flora Rasa … yes. My poem has no rasa.
Das Or perhaps it has two rasa which are in conflict.
Flora Oh …
Das There are nine rasa, each one a different colour. I should say mood. But each mood has its colour – white for laughter and fun, red for anger, pale yellow for tranquillity …
Flora (interrupting) Oh … is there one for grey?
Das Grey is for sorrow.
Flora Sorrow? I see.
Das Each one has its own name and its own god, too.
Flora And some don’t get on, is that it?
Das Yes. That is it. Some do and some don’t. If you arouse emotions which are in opposition to each other the rasa will not … harmonize, you said.
Flora Yes.
Das Your poem is about heat.
Flora Yes.
Das But its rasa is perhaps anger?
Flora Sex.
Das (unhesitatingly) The rasa of erotic love is called Shringara. Its god is Vishnu, and its colour is shyama, which is blue-black. Vishvanata in his book on poetics tells us: Shringara requires, naturally, a lover and his loved one, who may be a courtesan if she is sincerely enamoured, and it is aroused by, for example, the moon, the scent of sandalwood, or being in an empty house. Shringara goes harmoniously with all other rasa and their complementary emotions, with the exception of fear, cruelty, disgust and sloth.
Flora I see. Thank you. Empty house is very good. Mr Das, you sounded just like somebody else. Yourself, I expect. I knew you could. The other one reminded me of Dr Aziz in Forster’s novel. Have you read it? I kept wanting to kick him.
Das (offended) Oh …
Flora For not knowing his worth.
Das Then perhaps you didn’t finish it.
Flora Yes, perhaps. Does he improve?
Das He alters.
Flora What is your opinion of A Passage to India?
Das Was that the delicate question you considered to ask me?
Flora (laughs happily) Oh, Mr Das!
Pike enters, dressed for India. He is staying at the best hotel in Jummapur, and looks it. He carries a smart shoulder-bag. He stares around him in a vaguely disappointed way.
Modern street sounds, distinctly Indian, accompany Pike’s entrance.
Flora is at her table, writing. Das is at the easel, painting.
Flora (writing) ‘Jummapur, Saturday April 5th. Darling Nell. I’m having my portrait painted, I mean the painter is at it as I write, so if you see a picture of me in my cornflower dress, you’ll know I was writing this – some of the time anyway. He thinks I’m writing a poem. Posing as a poet, you see, just as the Enemy once said of me in his rotten rag.’
Pike ‘The Enemy’ was J. C. Squire (1884–1958), poet, critic, literary editor of the New Statesman and editor of the London Mercury. An anonymous editorial in the London Mercury (April 1920) complained about, ‘an outbreak of versifying flappers who should stop posing as poets and confine themselves to posing as railway stations’. The magazine was sued by the poets Elizabeth Paddington (1901–1980) and Meredith Euston (1899–1929), both cases being settled out of court. FC poured a pint of beer over Squire’s head in the Fitzroy Tavern in January 1921.
Dilip enters with a bottle of cola.
Dilip Dr Pike …
Pike Eldon, please.
Dilip … will you have a cola, Eldon?
Pike Oh, thanks. What kind of … (His suspicion has been aroused.) Thumbs Up Cola? You know, I think maybe I won’t.
Dilip (misunderstanding) I got two – really – I drank mine while I was talking to the shopkeeper. It is as I thought. The dak bungalow was exactly here, in the courtyard. Of course, the flats did not exist. I’m afraid nothing you can see goes back to before the war.
Pike No … That’s a shame.
Dilip Except the tree, perhaps.
Pike (brightening) Oh, yes. The tree. That’s right. She mentions a tree.
Dilip The old man remembers the bungalow very well. It was destroyed. A casualty of Partition.
Pike Taken apart?
Dilip Burned, in the riots. There were many people killed here in ’47.
Pike Partition. Oh, yes … terrible … Would this be the same tree?
Dilip It looks old.
Pike Would you take my picture? … on the spot.
Dilip Yes, certainly.
Pike takes a camera from his bag and gives it to Dilip.
Pike It’s self-focusing … just press the … (He positions himself.) I could take out an ad … in the newspaper. Someone may remember an artist … Go back a bit … show more of the …
Dilip No, the 35 is fine. Do you mind if I take it off auto? … stop it down for the background … F8 …
Pike Oh … sure.
Dilip Yes, why not? – put an advert in the paper. Ready? (He takes the photo.)
Pike Thank you. I’ll take one of you.
Dilip All right. (adjusting the camera) On 50. More of Dilip.
They change places, Pike taking the camera.
After all … fifty-six years … he could be still alive … he’d only have to be …
Pike Ninety.
Dilip Yes, probably not. Is this all right?
Pike The other thing is … What do I do?
Dilip Just point it.
Pike The other thing is, Dilip … Here we go. (He takes the picture.)
Dilip Thank you.
Pike The other thing is, there was the watercolour. A lost picture. That’s the way it reads to me. Don’t you think so?
Dilip (laughs) Oh yes, I think that’s the way it reads to you, Eldon, but she was a poet … and you’re a biographer! A lost picture would be just the ticket.
Pike How about offering a reward?
Dilip A reward?
Pike For information leading to. If the local paper did a story about it … I bet that would get results.
Dilip Undoubtedly. The Jummapur Palace Hotel will be stormed by a mob waving authentic watercolour portraits of English ladies in every stage of undress. But the newspaper is a good idea, if the files go back to 1930 … A portrait painter must advertise.
Pike This is so good of you, Dilip! – I should get a shot from above, with the tree … Could one get on the roof, do you think?
Dilip I’m sure. Let me go and see. (He leaves.)
Flora ‘Yours arrived overland, and thank you for it, darling, but you mustn’t expect me to be Intelligence from Abroad. You obviously know much more about the Salt March than I do.’
Pike Gandhi’s ‘March to the Sea’ to protest the Salt Tax began at Ahmedabad on March 12th. He reached the sea on the day this letter was written.
Flora ‘Nobody has mentioned it to me. If I remember I’ll ask at the Club tonight – I’ve had a visit from a clean young Englishman who asked me to dinner. It was a bit of an afterthought really. I think I made a gaffe by not announcing myself to the Resident, and the young man, he was on a horse, was sent to look me over. I think he ticked me off but he was so nice it was hard to tell. I’ve a feeling I’m going to have to stop in a minute. My artist is frowning at me and then at the canvas as if one of us is misbehaving. He is charming and eager and reminds me of Charlie Chaplin, not the idiotic one in the films, the real one who was at Sir Herbert’s lunch par
ty.’
Pike It was Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree who, soon after the Crewe family arrived in London from Derbyshire, gave FC her first employment, fleetingly as a cockney bystander in the original production of Pygmalion, and, after objections from Mrs Patrick Campbell, more permanently ‘in the office’. It was this connection which brought FC into the orbit of Tree’s daughter Iris and her friend Nancy Cunard, and thence to the Sitwells, and arguably to the writing of poetry.
Flora ‘My poem, the one I’m not writing, is about sitting still and being hot. It got defeated by its subject matter, and I should be gone to the hills, I’m only waiting for my artist to finish. The Hot Weather, they tell me, is about to start, but I can’t imagine anything hotter than this, and it will be followed by the Wet Season, though I already feel as though I’m sitting in a puddle. I don’t think this is what Dr Guppy meant by a warm climate.’
Pike Dr Alfred Guppy had been the Crewe family doctor since the move from Derbyshire to London in 1913. His notes on FC’s illness, with reference to pulmonary congestion, are first dated 1926.
Flora Oh, shut up!
It is as though she has turned on Pike. Simultaneously, Das, losing his temper, is shouting in Hindi, ‘Get off! Get off!’ But they are both shouting at a couple of unseen pi-dogs who have been heard yapping and barking and are now fighting under the verandah. In the middle of this, Dilip calls out for Eldon. The fuss resolves itself. Pike follows Dilip off. The dogs go whining into oblivion.
Das Oh – fiddlesticks!
Flora I’m sorry – is it my fault?
Das No – how can it be?
Flora Is that so silly?
Das No … forgive me! Oh dear, Miss Crewe! Yesterday I felt … a communion and today –
Flora Oh! … It is my fault! Yesterday I was writing a poem, and today I have been writing a letter to my sister. That’s what it is.
Das A letter?
Flora I am not the same sitter. How thoughtless of me.