Plays 5

by Tom Stoppard

  Das Yes. Yes.

  Flora Are you angry?

  Das I don’t know. Can we stop now? I would like a cigarette. Would you care for a cigarette? They are Goldflake.

  Flora No. But I’d like you to smoke.

  Das Thank you.

  Mrs Swan, attended by Anish, opens a cupboard.

  Mrs Swan Pride of place!

  Anish In here?

  Mrs Swan Yes, that must seem rather unkind but Flora didn’t care to be on show.

  Anish That’s all right.

  The canvas is inside a cardboard tube.

  Mrs Swan This is how it came back from the publishers. I tuck things away. You hold her and I’ll pull the tube.

  Anish Thank you.

  Mrs Swan Well, there she is.

  Anish Oh …!

  Mrs Swan Yes, a bit much, isn’t it?

  Anish Oh … it’s so vibrant.

  Mrs Swan Vibrant. Yes … oh, you’re not going to blub too, are you?

  Anish (weeping) I’m sorry.

  Mrs Swan Don’t worry. Borrow my hanky …

  He takes her handkerchief.

  Anish Please excuse me …

  Mrs Swan It just goes to show, you need an eye. And your father, after all, was, like you, an Indian painter.

  Anish I’m sorry I … you know.

  Mrs Swan No, I should not have been disparaging. I’m sorry. Let me see. (She takes the painting from Anish and looks at it.) Yes, book jackets and biscuit tins are all very well, but obviously there’s something that stays being in the painting after all.

  Anish Yes. Even unfinished.

  Mrs Swan Unfinished?

  Anish It wasn’t clear from the book, the way they cropped the painting. You see where my father has only indicated the tree, and the monkey … He would have gone back to complete the background only when he considered the figure finished. Believe me. I wondered why he hadn’t signed it. Now I know. My father abandoned this portrait.

  Mrs Swan Why?

  Anish He began another one.

  Mrs Swan How do you know, Mr Das?

  Anish Because I have it. (He opens his briefcase and withdraws the painting which is hardly larger than the page of a book, protected by stiff boards. He shows her the painting which is described in the text.)

  Mrs Swan Oh heavens! Oh … yes … of course. How like Flora.

  Anish More than a good likeness, Mrs Swan.

  Mrs Swan No … I mean, how like Flora! (She continues to look at the painting.)

  Das You were writing to your sister? She is in England, of course.

  Flora Yes, in London. Her name is Eleanor. She is much younger than me.

  Das And also beautiful like you?

  Flora Routine gallantry is disappointing from you.

  Das (surprised) Oh, it was not.

  Flora Then, thank you.

  Das Where does your sister live?

  Flora That’s almost the first thing you asked me. Would it mean anything to you?

  Das is loosening up again, regaining his normal good nature.

  Das Oh, I have the whole of London spread out in my imagination. Challenge me, you will see!

  Flora All right, she lives in Holborn.

  Das (pause) Oh. Which part of London is that?

  Flora Well, it’s – oh dear – between the Gray’s Inn Road and –

  Das Holl-born!

  Flora Yes. Holborn.

  Das But of course I know Holl-born! Charles Dickens lived in Doughty Street.

  Flora Yes. Eleanor lives in Doughty Street.

  Das But, Miss Crewe, Oliver Twist was written in that very street!

  Flora Well, that’s where Eleanor lives, over her work. She is the assistant to the editor of a weekly, The Flag.

  Das The Flag!?

  Flora You surely have never read that too?

  Das No, but I have met the editor of The Flag –

  Flora (realizing) Yes – of course you have! That is how I came to be here. Mr Chamberlain gave me letters of introduction.

  Das His lecture in Jummapur caused the Theosophical Society to be suspended for one year.

  Flora I’m sorry. But it’s not for me to apologize for the Raj.

  Das Oh, it was not the Raj but the Rajah! His Highness is not a socialist! Do you agree with Mr Chamberlain’s theory of Empire? I was not persuaded. Of course I am not an economist.

  Flora That has never deterred Mr Chamberlain.

  Das It is not my impression that England’s imperial adventure is simply to buy time against revolution at home.

  Flora I try to keep an open mind. Political theories are often, and perhaps entirely, a function of temperament. Eleanor and Mr Chamberlain are well suited.

  Das Your sister shares Mr Chamberlain’s opinions?

  Flora Naturally.

  Das Being his assistant, you mean.

  Flora His mistress.

  Das Oh.

  Flora You should have been a barrister, Mr Das.

  Das I am justly rebuked!

  Flora It was not a rebuke. An unintended slight, perhaps.

  Das I am very sorry about your sister. It must be a great sadness for you.

  Flora I am very happy for her.

  Das But she will never be married now! Unless Mr Chamberlain marries her.

  Flora He is already married, otherwise he might.

  Das Oh my goodness. How different things are. Here, you see, your sister would have been cast out – for bringing shame on her father’s house.

  Flora snorts.

  Yes – perhaps we are not so enlightened as you.

  Flora Yes, perhaps. Well, you have had your cigarette. Are we going to continue?

  Das No, not today.

  Flora I’ll go back to my poem.

  Das There is no need.

  Flora Well, I’ll copy out my poem for my sister. I do that for safe keeping, you see. I’m sending her the drawing you did of me at the lecture.

  Das (pause) I have an appointment I had forgotten.

  Flora Oh.

  Das Actually you mustn’t feel obliged … (He begins gathering together his paraphernalia, apparently in a hurry now.)

  Flora What have I done?

  Das Done? What should you have done?

  Flora Stop it. Please. Stop being Indian.

  Das And you stop being English! (Pause.) You have looked at the portrait, Miss Crewe?

  Flora Oh, I see. Yes, yes … I did look.

  Das Yes.

  Flora I had a peep. Why not? You wanted me to.

  Das Yes, why not? You looked at the painting and you decided to spend the time writing letters. Why not?

  Flora I’m sorry.

  Das You still have said nothing about the painting.

  Flora I know.

  Das I cannot continue today.

  Flora I understand. Will we try again tomorrow?

  Das Tomorrow is Sunday.

  Flora The next day.

  Das Perhaps I cannot continue at all.

  Flora Oh. And all because I said nothing. Are you at the mercy of every breeze that blows? Are you an artist at all?

  Das Perhaps not! A mere sketcher – a hack painter who should be working in the bazaar! (He snatches up the ‘pencil sketch’ from under Flora’s hand.)

  Flora (realizing his intention) Stop it!

  Das tears the paper in half.

  Das Or in chalks on the ghat!

  Flora Stop!

  But Das tears the paper again, and again and again, until it is in small pieces.

  I’m ashamed of you!

  Das Excuse me, please! I wish to leave. I will take the canvas –

  Flora You will not!

  It becomes a physical tussle. A struggle. She begins to gasp.

  Das You need not see it again!

  Flora You will not take anything! We will continue!

  Das I do not want to continue, Miss Crewe. Please let go!

  Flora I won’t let you give up!

  Das Let go, damn you, so
meone will see us!

  Flora – and stop crying! You’re not a baby!

  Das (fighting her) I will cry if I wish!

  Flora Cry, then, but you will finish what you started! How else will you ever … Oh! (And suddenly she is helpless, gasping for breath.)

  Das Oh … oh, Miss Crewe – oh my God – let me help you. I’m sorry. Please. Here, sit down –

  She has had an attack of breathlessness. He helps her to a chair. Flora speaks with difficulty.

  Flora Really, I’m all right. (Pause. She takes careful breaths.) There.

  Das What happened?

  Flora I’m not allowed to wrestle with people. It’s a considerable nuisance. My lungs are bad, you see.

  Das Let me move the cushion.

  Flora It’s all right. I’m back now. Panic over. I’m here for my health, you see. Well, not here … I’ll stay longer in the Hills.

  Das Yes, that will be better. You must go high.

  Flora Yes. In a day or two.

  Das What is the matter with you?

  Flora Oh, sloshing about inside. Can’t breathe under water. I’m sorry if I frightened you.

  Das You did frighten me. Would you allow me to remain a little while?

  Flora Yes. I would like you to. I’m soaking.

  Das You must change your clothes.

  Flora Yes. I’ll go in now. I’ve got a shiver. Pull me up. Thank you. Ugh. I need to be rubbed down like a horse.

  Das Perhaps some tea … I’ll go to the kitchen and tell –

  Flora Yes. Would you? I’ll have a shower and get into my Wendy house.

  Das Your …?

  Flora My big towel is on the kitchen verandah – would you ask Nazrul to put it in the bedroom?

  Das runs towards the kitchen verandah, shouting for Nazrul.

  Flora goes into the interior, into the bedroom, undressing as she goes, dropping the blue dress on the floor, and enters the bathroom in her underwear.

  Das returns, hurrying, with a white towel. He enters the interior cautiously, calling ‘Miss Crewe …’ He enters the bedroom and finds it empty. From the bathroom there is the sound of the water pipes thumping, but no sound of water.

  Flora (offstage) Oh, damn, come on!

  Das Miss Crewe …

  The thumping in the pipes continues. Das approaches the bathroom door.

  (Louder) Miss Crewe! I’m sorry, there’s no –

  Flora (offstage, shouts) There’s no water!

  The thumping noise continues.

  Das Miss Crewe! I’m sorry, the electricity –

  The thumping noise suddenly stops.

  (In mid-shout) The electric pump –

  Flora (entering naked) I have to lie down.

  Das Oh! (Thrusting the towel at her.) Oh, I’m so sorry! (Relieved of the towel, Das is frozen with horror.)

  Flora I’m sorry, Mr Das, but really I feel too peculiar to mind at the moment.

  Das (turning to leave hurriedly) Please forgive me!

  Flora No, please, there’s water in the jug on the washstand. (She stands shivering, hugging the towel.) Do be quick.

  Das (getting the water) It’s the electricity for the pump.

  Flora Is there any water?

  Das Yes, it’s full … Here – (He gives her the jug, and turns away.

  Flora Thank you. No, you do it. Over my head, and my back, please.

  Das pours the water over her, carefully.

  Oh, heaven … Oh, thank you … I’m terribly sorry about this. Oh, that’s good. Tip the last bit on the towel.

  Das There …

  She wipes her face with the wet corner of the towel …

  Flora I feel as weak as a kitten.

  Das I’m afraid that’s all.

  Flora Thank you. (She wraps the towel around herself.) Could you do the net for me?

  Das lifts one side of the mosquito net and Flora climbs onto the bed.

  I’ll be all right now.

  Das (misunderstanding; leaving) Yes, of course.

  Flora Mr Das, I think there’s soda water in the refrigerator. Would you …?

  Das Oh yes. But is it locked? I cannot find Nazrul.

  Flora Oh … I’m already hot again. And no electricity for the fan. It’s too late for modesty (She discards the towel and gets under the sheet.) Anyway, I’m your model.

  Das I will fetch soda water from the shop.

  Flora That was the thing I was going to ask you.

  Das When?

  Flora The delicate question … whether you would prefer to paint me nude.

  Das Oh.

  Flora I preferred it. I had more what-do-you-call it.

  Das Rasa.

  Flora (laughs quietly) Yes, rasa.

  Das leaves the bedroom and goes along the verandah towards the servants’ quarters and disappears round the corner. Nazrul returns to the dak bungalow, with shopping, the worse for wear, disappearing towards the kitchen area where Das starts shouting at him and Nazrul is heard protesting. Das returns to view with a bottle of soda water. He speaks first from outside the bedroom.

  Das Nazrul has returned, most fortunately. I was able to unlock the refrigerator. I have soda water.

  Flora Thank you, Mr Das!

  Das enters the bedroom.

  Das (approaching the bed) Should I pour the water for you?

  On the little table by the bed, outside the mosquito net, there is a glass with a beaded lace cover. Das pours the water.

  Nazrul was delayed at the shops by a riot, he says. The police charged the mob with lathis, he could have easily been killed, but by heroism and inspired by his loyalty to the memsahib he managed to return only an hour late with all the food you gave him money for except two chickens which were torn from his grasp.

  Flora Oh dear … you thanked him, I hope.

  Das I struck him, of course. You should fine him for the chickens.

  Flora lifts the net sufficiently to take the glass from Das, who then steps back rather further than necessary.

  Flora (drinking) Oh, that’s nice. It’s still cold. Perhaps there really was a riot.

  Das Oh yes. Very probably. I have sent Nazrul to fetch the dhobi – you must have fresh linen for the bed. Nazrul will bring water but you must not drink it.

  Flora Thank you.

  The punkah begins to flap quite slowly, a regular beat.

  Das I’m sure the electricity will return soon and the fan will be working.

  Flora What’s that? Oh, the punkah!

  Das I have found a boy to be punkah-wallah.

  Flora Yes, it makes a draught. Thank you. A little boy?

  Das Don’t worry about him. I’ve told him the memsahib is sick.

  Flora The memsahib. Oh dear.

  Das Yes, you are memsahib. Are you all right now, Miss Crewe?

  Flora Oh yes. I’m only shamming now.

  Das May I return later to make certain?

  Flora Are you leaving now? Yes, I’ve made you late.

  Das No, not at all. There is no one waiting for me. But the servant will return and … we Indians are frightful gossips, you see.

  Flora Oh.

  Das It is for yourself, not me.

  Flora I don’t believe you, Mr Das, not entirely.

  Das To tell you the truth, this is the first time I have been alone in a room with an Englishwoman.

  Flora Oh. Well, you certainly started at the deep end.

  Das We need not refer to it again. It was a calamity.

  Flora (amused) A calamity! That’s not spoken like an artist.

  Das Then perhaps I am not an artist, as you said.

  Flora I did not. All I did was hold my tongue and you had a tantrum. What would you have done in the rough and tumble of literary life in London? I expect you would have hanged yourself by now. When Nymph in Her Orisons came out one of the reviewers called it Nymph In Her Mania, as if my poems which I had found so hard to write were a kind of dalliance, no more than that. I met my critic somewhere a few months later and
poured his drink over his head and went home and wrote a poem. So that was all right. But he’d taken weeks away from me and I mind that now.

  Das Oh! – you’re not dying are you?!

  Flora I expect so, but I intend to take years and years about it. You’ll be dead too, one day, so let me be a lesson to you. Learn to take no notice. I said nothing about your painting, if you want to know, because I thought you’d be an Indian artist.

  Das An Indian artist?

  Flora Yes. You are an Indian artist, aren’t you? Stick up for yourself. Why do you like everything English?

  Das I do not like everything English.

  Flora Yes, you do. You’re enthralled. Chelsea, Bloomsbury, Oliver Twist, Goldflake cigarettes, Winsor and Newton … even painting in oils, that’s not Indian. You’re trying to paint me from my point of view instead of yours – what you think is my point of view. You deserve the bloody Empire!

  Das (sharply) May I sit down please?

  Flora Yes, do. Flora is herself again.

  Das I will move the chair near the door.

  Flora You can move the chair onto the verandah if you like, so the servants won’t –

  Das I would like to smoke, that is what I meant.

  Flora Oh. I’m sorry. Thank you. In that case, can you see me through the net from over there?

  Das Barely.

  Flora Is that no or yes? (She raises the sheet off her body and flaps it like a sail and lets it settle again.) Oof! – that’s better! That’s what I love about my little house – you can see out better than you can see in.

  Das (passionately) But you are looking at such a house! The bloody Empire finished off Indian painting! (Pause.) Excuse me.

  Flora No, that’s better.

  Das Perhaps your sister is right. And Mr Chamberlain. Perhaps we have been robbed. Yes; when the books are balanced. The women here wear saris made in Lancashire. The cotton is Indian but we cannot compete in the weaving. Mr Chamberlain explained it all to us in simple Marxist language. Actually, he caused some offence. He didn’t realise we had Marxists of our own, many of them in the Jummapur Theosophical Society.

  Flora Mr Coomaraswami …?

  Das No, not Mr Coomaraswami. His criticism is that you haven’t exploited India enough. ‘Where are the cotton mills? The steel mills? No investment, no planning. The Empire has failed us!’ That is Mr Coomaraswami. Well, the Empire will one day be gone like the Mughal Empire before it, and only their monuments remains – the visions of Shah Jahan! – of Sir Edwin Lutyens!

  Flora ‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’