by Tom Stoppard
‘I arrived here on a huffing and puffing local with as many people riding on the roof as inside, and the entire committee of the Jummapur Theosophical Society was on the platform, bunch of flowers at the ready, not quite a red carpet and brass band but almost, and I thought there must be someone important on the train and it turned out to be me –’
COOMARASWAMI: Miss Crewe! Welcome to Jummapur!
FLORA: Thank you! How nice!
‘– which was very agreeable.’
Are you Mr Coomaraswami?
COOMARASWAMI: That is me! Is this suitcase your only luggage?
FLORA: ‘And in no time at all they put me in a buggy and the President of the Theosophical sat beside me holding a yellow parasol while the committee bicycled alongside, sometimes two to a bike, and here I came in triumph like Britannia in a carnival float representing Empire, or, depending on how you look at it, the Oppression of the Indian People, which is how you will look at it and no doubt you’re right but I never saw anyone less oppressed than Mr Coomaraswami, whose entire twenty stone shakes with laughter all the time. 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 am sitting in a puddle. Everything which requires movement must be accomplished between sunrise and breakfast, by which time inside is too hot to move and outside is too hot to think. My bedroom, apart from the ceiling fan, also has a punkah, which is like a line of washing worked by a punkah-wallah who sits outside and flaps the thing by a system of ropes and pulleys – or would if he were ever here, which he isn’t. At sundown, gentle movement may be contemplated, and on Monday I was brought forth to deliver my lecture to a packed house, Mr C’s house, in fact, and a much more sensible house than mine – built round a square courtyard, with a flat roof all around so I had an audience in the gods like gods in the audience, and though I say it myself I did a good one, encouraged by the sight of several copies of Venus and Nymph, in the front rows, and it all went terribly well except for a nasty moment when questions were invited and the very first one went –’
QUESTIONER: Miss Crewe, it is said you are an intimate friend of Mr H. G. Wells –
FLORA: ‘– and I thought, God, how unfair! – to have come all this way to be gossiped about as if one were still in the Queen’s Elm –’
PIKE: A public house in the Fulham area of Chelsea.
FLORA: ‘– but it turned out nothing was meant by it except –’
QUESTIONER: Does Mr Wells write his famous books with a typewriter or with pen and ink?
FLORA: (Firmly) With pen and ink, a Waterman fountain pen, a present from his wife.
‘Not that I had the least idea – Herbert did damn little writing when I was around, and made sure I did even less.’
PIKE: FC’s liaison with Wells began no earlier than November 1929 and was therefore short, possibly the weekend of December 7th and 8th.
FLORA: ‘After which there was a reception with lemonade and whisky and delicious snacks and conversation – darling, it’s so moving, they read the New Statesman and Time and Tide and the TLS as if they were the Bible in parts (well, I don’t mean the Bible but you know what I mean) and they know who wrote what about whom; it’s like children with their faces jammed to the railings of an unattainable park. They say to me –’
QUESTIONER: What is your opinion of Gertrude Stein, Miss Crewe?
FLORA: ‘– and I can’t bring myself to say she’s a poisonous old baggage who’s travelling on a platform ticket –’
PIKE: FC’s animosity towards Gertrude Stein should not lend credence to Hemingway’s fanciful assertion (in a letter to Marlene Dietrich) that Stein threatened to scratch FC’s or (the possessive pronoun is ambiguous) Alice Toklas’s eyes out. If FC over-praised the chocolate cake, it would have been only out of politeness. (See ‘Bunfight at 27 Rue de Fleurus’ by E.C. Pike, Maryland Monographs, UMP, 1983).
FLORA: ‘– but anyway that’s when I met my artist.’
DAS: Miss Crewe, may I congratulate you on your lecture. I found it most interesting!
FLORA: Thank you …!
DAS: I was surprised you did not mention Virginia Woolf.
FLORA: I seldom do.
DAS: Have you met George Bernard Shaw?
FLORA: Yes. I was nearly in one of his plays once.
DAS: But are you not an actress …?
FLORA: No, that was the trouble.
DAS: What do you think of Jummapur?
FLORA: Well, I only arrived on Saturday but –
DAS: Of course. How absurd of me!
FLORA: Not at all. I was going to say that my first impressions –
DAS: Jummapur is not in any case to be compared with London. Do you live in Bloomsbury?
FLORA: No, I live in Chelsea.
DAS: Chelsea – of course! My favourite part of London!
FLORA: Oh! you …?
DAS: I hope to visit London one of these days. The Chelsea of Turner and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood! Rossetti lived in Cheen Walk! Holman Hunt lived in Old Church Street! ‘The Hireling Shepherd’ was painted in Old Church Street! What an inspiration it would be to me to visit Chelsea!
FLORA: You are a painter!
DAS: Yes! Nirad Das.
FLORA: How do you do?
DAS: I am top hole. Thank you. May I give you a present?
FLORA: Oh …
DAS: Please do not judge it too harshly, Miss Crewe …
FLORA: But it’s wonderful. Thank you.
‘– and he gave me a pencil sketch of myself holding forth on the literary life, and the next thing I knew I’d agreed to sit for him. He is charming and eager and looks like a rosewood Charlie Chaplin, not the jumpy one in the films, the real one who was at Iris’s tennis party.’
PIKE: Iris Tree was the daughter of Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, who, soon after the Crewe family arrived in London, 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 Iris and her friend Nancy Cunard, and thence to the Sitwells, and arguably to the writing of poetry. FC’s first poems, written in 1914–15, now lost, were submitted to the Sitwell magazine Wheels, and although they were not accepted (how they could have been worse than Miss Tree’s contributions to Wheels is difficult to imagine), FC remained to become a loyal footsoldier in the Sitwells’ war against ‘the Enemy’.
FLORA: ‘He is rather virile in a compact sort of way, with curly hair and hot brown eyes; he smiles a lot, he’s got the teeth for it, white as his pyjamas.’
(DAS, painting, is heard grunting in exasperation.)
‘Not that he’s smiling at the moment. When I glance up I can see him frowning at me and then at the canvas as if one of us had misbehaved. By the way, I don’t mean I’ve seen him in his pyjamas, darling, it’s what he goes about in. At the Theosophical there was everything from loincloths like Gandhi to collars and ties. Which reminds me, I had a visit from a clean young Englishman who has asked me to dinner tonight at the Brits’ Club. It was a bit of an afterthought really. I think I made a gaffe by not announcing myself to the Resident, the Senior Brit, 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.’
(DAS is heard sighing.)
‘I’ve a feeling I’m going to have to stop in a minute. My poem, the one I’m not writing, is about sitting still and being hot. It got defeated by its subject matter. Ask Dr Guppy –’
PIKE: Dr Alfred Guppy had been the Crewe family doctor since the move from Ashbourne to London in 1913. His notes on FC’s illness, with references to pulmonary congestion, are first dated 1926.
FLORA: ‘– if this is what he meant by a warm climate.’
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. That’s what it is.
DAS: A letter?
FLORA: I am not the same sitter. How thoughtless of me. How could I expect to be the same writing to my sister as for writing my poem.
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. You were writing to your sister? She is in England, of course.
FLORA: Yes. Her name is Eleanor. She is much younger than me; only twenty-three.
DAS: Then she cannot be so much younger.
FLORA: Routine gallantry is disappointing in a man.
DAS: I’m sorry.
FLORA: I am thirty-five and I look well enough on it.
DAS: I guessed your age to be thirty-two, if it is all right to say so.
FLORA: Yes, it is all right to say so.
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, near her work. She is the secretary 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 our only capitalist! Do you agree with Mr Chamberlain’s theory of Empire? I was not persuaded. Of course I am not an economist.
FLORA: That wouldn’t deter 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. For reasons I have implied.
DAS: Yes. Being his secretary, you mean.
FLORA: Being 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 chuckles and he becomes angry.)
Yes, perhaps we are not so enlightened as you.
FLORA: I’m sorry. I was only laughing because the difference is not the one you think. My father cast Eleanor out but the shame for him was Mr Chamberlain’s politics. Poor father. A poet and a Communist … he must have felt like King Lear. Well, you have had your cigarette. Are we going to continue?
DAS: No, not today.
FLORA: I’ll go back to my poem.
DAS: I have an appointment I had forgotten.
FLORA: Oh.
DAS: Actually you mustn’t feel obliged … (DAS is heard 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. (Pause.) Oh, I understand. (Pause.) 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? Or fails to blow? Are you an artist at all?
DAS: Perhaps not! A mere sketcher – a hack painter who should be working in the bazaar!
FLORA: Stop it.
DAS: Or in chalks on the ghat.
FLORA: Stop! I’m ashamed of you. And don’t cry.
DAS: I will if I wish. Excuse me. I cannot manage the easel on my bicycle. I will send for it.
(It becomes a physical tussle, a struggle. She begins to gasp as she speaks.)
FLORA: You will not! And you will not take your box either. Give it to me – put it back –
DAS: I do not want to continue, Miss Crewe. Please let go!
FLORA: I won’t let you give in –
DAS: Let go, damn you, someone will see us!
(FLORA falls over, gasping for breath.)
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 is helping her to a chair, FLORA speaks with difficulty.)
FLORA: (Her voice coming back) Really, I’m all right. (Pause.) There.
DAS: What happened?
FLORA: I’m not allowed to wrestle with people. It’s a considerable loss. 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 mosquito net. I love my mosquito net. My big towel is on the kitchen verandah – would you ask Nazrul to put it in the bedroom?
(DAS is shouting far NAZRUL in the inner part of the house. The action stays with FLORA as she goes into the interior, undressing, and through a door. She turns a squeaky tap. There is no sound of water, only a thumping in the pipes.)
&n
bsp; Oh, damn, come on, damn you.
DAS: (Off) Miss Crewe! I’m sorry, there’s –
FLORA: Yes, no water.
DAS: (Off) It’s the electricity for the pump.
FLORA: Yes. (She turns the tap again. The thumping in the pipes ceases.) I have to lie down. (She moves.) There’s water in the pitcher, on the washstand.
DAS: Nazrul is not – oh! Oh, I’m so sorry! –
FLORA: I’m sorry, Mr Das, but really I feel too peculiar to mind at the moment.
DAS: Please take the towel.
FLORA: Thank you. No, please, get the water jug and my face cloth from the wash-stand.
(He moves; he lifts the jug.)
Is there any water?
DAS: Yes, it’s full … Here –
FLORA: Thank you. Hold the towel. (She pours a little water over herself.) Oh, heaven. Would you pour it – over my back, not too much at a time. Oh, thank you. I’m terribly sorry about this. And my head. Oh, that’s good. I feel as weak as a kitten. (The water splashes down over her and on to the floor.)
DAS: I’m afraid that’s all.
FLORA: Thank you.
DAS: Here … should I dry you?
FLORA: My back please. Rub hard. Thank you. (Her voice comes out shivery.) Thank you. Stop a minute.
(She takes the towel. She uses it and gives it back to DAS.)
There. Thank you. And my legs. Thank you.
DAS: There was no one in the kitchen. And no water for tea.
FLORA: Never mind. I’ll get into bed now. (She does so. She has to draw the net aside.)
DAS: Do you have soda water?
FLORA: I think so.
DAS: I will fetch it.
FLORA: Yes please. In the fridge.
DAS: Yes. Oh, but is it locked?
FLORA: Oh … perhaps. Now I’m hot again, and no electricity for the fan. The sheet’s too hot. It’s too late for modesty. Anyway, I’m your model.
DAS: I will fetch soda water.
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.
