by Tom Stoppard
ANISH: Yes, I noticed your …
MRS SWAN: Of course you did. In India we had pictures of coaching inns and fox hunting, and chintz covers from Liberty’s and all sorts of knick-knackery from home … and now I’ve landed up in Shepperton I’ve got elephants and prayer-wheels cluttering up the window ledges, and the tea table 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. But modern, I suppose?
ANISH: (Becoming slightly impatient) It’s not my paintings I have come about.
MRS SWAN: No, of course. You recognized your father’s work in the window of a bookshop. Still, he might have been more pleased to be in one art gallery than in a hundred bookshops.
ANISH: Perhaps not. I’m sure my father never had a single one of his paintings reproduced, and that is an extraordinary pleasure for an artist. I know! The painting under one’s hand is everything, of course … unique. But replication! That is popularity! If we are allowed a little worldly pride, put us on thousands and thousands of book jackets – on calendars – biscuit tins!
MRS SWAN: Well, it’s only three thousand of the Selected Letters, but America is still to come. Mr Pike thinks Flora’s letters will do very well in America, and he should know, being an American himself.
ANISH: Mr Pike?
MRS SWAN: The editor. He put the book together. A serious man, Mr Pike, with a surprising Gone with the Wind sort of accent.
ANISH: Editor? Oh, yes. So he is. ‘Edited with an introduction by Eldon Cooper Pike.’ What does it mean – edited – exactly? Are there more letters that are not in the book?
MRS SWAN: Naturally. Selected Letters of Flora Crewe, that is what it means. And then there’s the footnotes. Mr Pike did those too.
ANISH: Oh yes … the footnotes.
MRS SWAN: Far too much of a good thing, the footnotes, in my opinion; to be constantly interrupted in a Southern drawl by someone telling you things you already know or don’t need to know at that moment. I hear Mr Pike’s voice every time I go to the bits at the bottom of the page. He teaches Flora Crewe at a university in Maryland. 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.
ANISH: Always young women?
MRS SWAN: Almost always, yes. She has become quite a heroine. Which she always was to me. I was only five when Mother died, so it was Flora who … oh dear, I’m going to need a hanky.
ANISH: Oh, I say! I’m sorry if I –
MRS SWAN: (Snuffling) 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. Never mind, how is your tea?
ANISH: Erm … sorry. Very nice, very nice tea.
MRS SWAN: I’ll have to go and repair myself. Yes, I like it well enough but 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. (With the help of a stick she has walked to the door and closed it behind her.)
SCENE SEVEN: INDIA
FLORA: (Interior voice)
‘Yes, I am in heat like a corpse in a ditch,
my skin stained and porous as a photograph
under a magnifying lens that shows each hair
a lily stem straggling out of a poisoned swamp.
Heat has had its way with me,
yes, I know this ditch, I have been left for dead before,
my lips gone slack and the wild iris
flickers in the drooling cavity, insects
crawl like tears from behind my eyes –’
Oh, fiddlesticks! May we stop for a moment. (She gets up.)
I’m sticking to myself.
DAS: Of course! Forgive me!
FLORA: You musn’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! Am I saying his name right? There’s a jar of duck pâté in the refrigerator …
(NAZRUL is a male servant. He speaks Urdu.)
Oh, Nazrul … char and …
NAZRUL: (In Urdu) Yes, madam, I will bring tea immediately …
FLORA: … bread … and in the fridge, no, don’t go, listen to me –
DAS: Would you allow me, please?
(DAS and NAZRUL speak in Urdu, DAS orders bread and butter and the duck pâté from the fridge. But NAZRUL has dramatic and tragic disclosures to make. Thieves have stolen the pâté. DAS berates him.)
FLORA: (Over the conversation) … a jar with a picture of a duck…
(NAZRUL is promising to fetch bread and butter and cake, and he leaves.)
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 fridge 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, Nazrul will have been lucky to get 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. Take the cane chair. I’ll keep mine for posture.
DAS: (Sitting) Thank you.
FLORA: I’ve been looking at temples with Mr Coomaraswami.
DAS: Yes. Do you find them interesting?
FLORA: I like some of the sculptures. The women have such serene faces. I mean, the goddesses.
DAS: Yes, they are beautiful.
FLORA: Breasts like melons, and baby-bearing hips. You must think me ill-favoured. das: No. My wife was slightly built.
FLORA: Oh …
(NAZRUL arrives with a noisy tray.)
Thank you, Nazrul. Two kinds of cake!
(NAZRUL leaves, saying in Urdu that he will return with bread and butter.)
DAS: He will return with bread and butter.
FLORA: (Arranging teacups) How is your painting today?
DAS: Altered. Your face … 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 talking 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! Without rasa it is not a poem, only words. 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 rasas which are in conflict.
FLORA: Oh …
DAS: There are nine rasas, each one a different colour. I should say mood. But each mood has its colour – white for laughter and fun, red for anger, grey for sorrow … 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 rasas 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 rasas and their complementary emotions, with the exception of 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 yet? 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!
SCENE EIGHT: ENGLAND
MRS SWAN re-enters the room.
MRS SWAN: There … that’s better …
ANISH: I was looking at your photographs. I hope you don’t mind.
MRS SWAN: I took that one myself, in Venice, the summer before Flora went to India. I had a Kodak which let down in front in pleats. It took very good snaps; I wonder what happened to it? That was the day Diaghilev died. But we didn’t know that till afterwards. We crossed to the Lido to have dinner with him at the hotel and he was dead.
ANISH: Is this one your husband?
MRS SWAN: Yes. That’s Francis in Rawalpindi before we were married. Have you been up there?
ANISH: No. We have always lived in Rajasthan.
MRS SWAN: But you do not live there now?
ANISH: No. I live here now.
MRS SWAN: You wrote from St John’s Wood.
ANISH: Yes. London is my home now. I have spent half my life here. I married here.
MRS SWAN: An English girl?
ANISH: Yes. Australian.
MRS SWAN: What an odd reply.
ANISH: Yes. I suppose so. Mrs Swan, it says in the book that your sister’s portrait is reproduced by your permission. Does that mean you have it?
MRS SWAN: Yes.
ANISH: Here? In the house?
MRS SWAN: Oh, yes. Would you like to see it?
ANISH: Very much! I half expected to see it the moment I entered.
MRS SWAN: Pride of place, you thought. That’s because you’re a painter. Flora would not have cared to be on show. The portrait has always fended for itself rather …
ANISH: I understand. Where do you keep it?
MRS SWAN: Nowhere particularly. We always took it around with us from house to house and sometimes it ended up on top of a wardrobe. Oh dear, that must seem rather rude.
ANISH: It’s all right.
MRS SWAN: Come along. It’s in the bedroom, wrapped up. You’re lucky. It only just came back from being photographed for the book. You can unwrap it for me. Where’s my stick? Has it fallen down?
ANISH: Here … let me …
MRS SWAN: Thank you.
ANISH: Do you need me to help you?
MRS SWAN: I hope not. Otherwise what would I do when you’d gone? But you may open the door. You can see why I got a bungalow.
(They are moving now, she with her stick. They enter another room.)
I wonder what we called bungalows before India, and verandahs and so on. It must have made certain conversations quite awkward. ‘I’m looking for a house with no upstairs and an outside-inside bit stuck on the front …’
Well, there you are! Rather well wrapped up. Will you need the kitchen scissors, do you think?
ANISH: We’ll see. What is in the boxes?
MRS SWAN: Flora’s letters. Mr Pike had them photographed too. Try to save the brown paper – it looks a good size to be useful.
ANISH: Yes, I will …
MRS SWAN: Oh, it’s quite easy … that’s it …
(The painting is unwrapped.)
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 … I say, you’re not going to blub too, are you?
ANISH: (Weeping) I’m sorry.
MRS SWAN: Don’t worry. Borrow my hanky … It just goes to show, you need an eye. And your father, after all, was, like you, an Indian painter.
SCENE NINE: INDIA
FLORA: ‘Jummapur. April 5th. Darling Nell, I’m having my portrait painted by an artist I met here, and I’m not using the historical present, I mean he’s at it as I write, so if you see a painting of me in my cornflower dress sitting writing on a verandah 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’s voice, which does sound rather like Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind, comes in immediately, intimate and slightly hushed, rather in the manner of the continuity voice which introduces live concerts on the radio.)
PIKE: ‘The Enemy’ was J.C. Squire (1884–1958), poet, critic, literary editor of the New Statesman, and editor of the London Mercury. FC is evidently referring to an anonymous editorial in the London Mercury (April 1920) complaining 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 (1901–88) and Lavinia Clapham (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.
FLORA: ‘I am installed in a little house with a verandah and three good-sized rooms under a tin roof. The verandah is at the front and you go into the main room which has an electric ceiling-fan and electric light, and an oil lamp which I prefer even when the electricity hasn’t failed. There’s a nice big window at the back, looking out at a rather hopeless garden, and then there is a nice plain bedroom with a big bed and a desk and one wooden chair and a wash-stand, and through another door a little bathroom with a Victorian bath and also a shower which is, alas, contemporary makeshift. Over on the other side is a kitchen bit with a fridge, but my cook and bottle-washer disregards the electric stove and makes his own arrangements on a little verandah of his own. And all this is under a big green tree with monkeys and parrots in the branches and it’s called a duck bungalow –’
PIKE: Dak bungalow, literally post-house.
FLORA: ‘– although there is not a duck to be seen, only some scrawny chickens and a peahen. This is my first proper stop since I got off the boat and posted my Bombay letter. Yours overtook me and was waiting for me – why didn’t I think of posting myself overland? – and thank you for it, but, darling, you musn’t expect me to be Intelligence from Abroad, as the Times used to say – you obviously know much more than I do about the Salt March –’
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 – and you’d better explain to Josh that the earthshaking sensations of Lord Beaverbrook’s new Empire Party, etc. –’
PIKE: See Appendix G.
FLORA: ‘– cause little stir in Jummapur. Sorry to disappoint.’
(The appropriate sound effects creep in to illustrate Flora’s letter, so here we begin to hear a slow steam train, followed in due course by the hubbub of the station, the clip-clop of the horse pulling the buggy as mentioned and the bicycle bells etc. which accompany the ride into town. Further down the letter, it is intended that Flora’s questioner at her lecture will be heard in the appropriate physical ambience. In general, Flora’s letter becomes an immediate presence– we can hear her pen scratching now and then, and insects, distant life, etc.– but when her letter takes us into an event, the sound-plot turns into the appropriate accompaniment.)