by Tom Stoppard
FLORA: Oh …
DAS: As for the Rajah and the Resident, I am sure they knew before anybody. A letter from England to Mr Coomaraswami would certainly be opened.
FLORA: Oh … (She is merely making sounds, close to tears.)
DAS: You must not blame yourself. Please.
FLORA: Oh, Mr Das … I’m so glad … and so sorry. Oh dear, have you got a hanky?
DAS: Yes … certainly …
FLORA: Thank you. How stupid I am.
(DAS opens the door to the interior.)
DAS: I will fetch the canvas.
(We go with him. He moves the easel, folds it, etc.)
FLORA: (Off) Don’t take it.
(Approaching.) If it is still a gift, I would like to keep it, just as it is.
DAS: Unfinished?
FLORA: Yes. All portraits should be unfinished. Otherwise it’s like looking at a stopped clock. Your handkerchief smells faintly of … something nice. Is it cinnamon?
DAS: Possibly not. The portrait is yours, if you would like it. Of course. I must take it off the frame for you, or it will not travel easily in your luggage. Perhaps I can find a knife in the kitchen, to take out the little nails.
FLORA: There are scissors on the table.
DAS: Ah – yes. Thank you. No – I think I would damage them. May I call Nazrul?
FLORA: I thought –
DAS: Yes – Mr Coomaraswami sent him away, he is suspicious of everyone. I’m sorry.
FLORA: It doesn’t matter.
DAS: No. There is no hurry.
FLORA: No. But I am leaving tomorrow.
DAS: Tomorrow?
FLORA: I think I must. Every day seems hotter than the day before. Even at dawn.
DAS: Yes, you are right of course.
FLORA: But I will see you again, because I’ll come back this way to Bombay, by July 10th at the latest. My boat sails on the 12th.
DAS: You may take a later boat.
FLORA: No, I cannot. My sister … oh, you’ll be horrified, but never mind; my sister is having a baby in October.
DAS: That is joyful news.
FLORA: Oh, good.
DAS: I can keep the painting for you until you come back if you like.
FLORA: No, I’d like to have it with me.
DAS: Miss Crewe … actually I have brought something to show you. I decided I must not show it to you after all, but if we are friends again … I would like you to see it.
FLORA: What is it?
DAS: I left it in my briefcase outside.
FLORA: I would like to see it.
DAS: (Hesitates) Well … I will bring it.
FLORA: All right.
(DAS walks the few steps back to the verandah, and returns, speaking.)
DAS: I have wrapped it, although it is itself only a sheet of paper.
FLORA: Oh … shall I open it?
DAS: You must look at it in the light. Let me –
FLORA: No – not the electric light. I seldom cry, but never in the electric light. Do you mind? There is enough light in the other window; Mr Coomaraswami was quite right about the moon. (She moves. She unwraps the paper.) It’s going to be a drawing, isn’t it? Oh!
DAS: (Nervous, bright) Yes! A good joke, is it not? A Rajput miniature, by Nirad Das!
FLORA: (Not heeding him) Oh … it’s the most beautiful thing …
DAS: (Brightly) I’m so pleased you like it! A quite witty pastiche –
FLORA: (Heeding him now) Are you going to be Indian? Please don’t.
DAS: (Heeding her) I … I am Indian.
FLORA: An Indian artist.
DAS: Yes.
FLORA: Yes. This one is for yourself.
DAS: You are not offended?
FLORA: No, I’m pleased. It has rasa.
DAS: I think so. Yes. I hope so.
FLORA: I forget its name.
DAS: (Pause) Shringara.
FLORA: Yes. Shringara. The rasa of erotic love. Whose god is Vishnu.
DAS: Yes.
FLORA: Whose colour is blue-black.
DAS: Shyama. Yes.
FLORA: It seemed a strange colour for love.
DAS: Krishna was often painted shyama.
FLORA: Yes. I can see that now. It’s the colour he looked in the moonlight.
SCENE FIFTEEN: ENGLAND
MRS SWAN: ‘Which only goes to show, when in Rome, etc., and I wish I’d remembered that when I was in Rome.
Interrupted! Next day. Oh dear, guess what? You won’t approve. Quite right. So I think it’s time to go. Love ’em and leave ’em …’
ANISH: May I see?
MRS SWAN: It’s no different from what you can read in the book. Though it’s a relief not to have Clark Gable butting in all the time. I decided not to tell Mr Pike about Rome, even though it was several Popes ago and Norman Douglas wouldn’t have given a hoot. Let sleeping dogs lie, that’s what I say.
ANISH: ‘You won’t approve … Oh dear, guess what? You won’t approve …’
MRS SWAN: I wish I’d kept the envelopes, they’d be worth something now to a collector, a philatelist, I mean.
ANISH: Mr Pike’s footnote talks about the political agent, Captain Durance.
MRS SWAN: Gratuitously.
ANISH: Yes! Why wouldn’t you approve of Captain Durance? Surely it’s more likely she meant …
MRS SWAN: Meant what, Mr Das?
ANISH: I don’t mean any offence.
MRS SWAN: Then you must take care not to give it.
ANISH: Would you have disapproved of a British Army officer – Mrs Swan? – more than an Indian painter?
MRS SWAN: Certainly. Mr Pike is spot-on there. In 1930 I was working for a Communist newspaper. Which goes to show that people are surprising. But you know that from your father, don’t you?
ANISH: Why?
MRS SWAN: He must have surprised you too. The thorn in the lion’s paw.
ANISH: Yes. Yes, I was surprised.
MRS SWAN: In any case, if you read Flora’s words simply for what they say, you would see that when she said I wouldn’t approve, she did not mean this man or that man. Flora was ill. As it turned out she was dying. Cigarettes, whisky and men, and for that matter the hundred-yard dash, were not on the menu. She didn’t need Dr Guppy to tell her that. No, I would not have approved. But Flora’s weakness was always romance. To call it that.
ANISH: She had a romance with my father, then.
MRS SWAN: Quite possibly. Or with Captain Durance. Or his Highness the Rajah of Jummapur. Or someone else entirely. It hardly matters, looking back. Men were not really important to Flora. If they had been, they would have been fewer. She used them like batteries. When things went flat, she’d put in a new one.
SCENE SIXTEEN: INDIA
FLORA: ‘Sweat collects and holds as a pearl at my throat,
lets go and slides like a tongue-tip
down a Modigliani,
spills into the delta, now in the salt-lick,
lost in the mangroves and the airless moisture,
a seed-pearl returning to the oyster –
et nos cedamus amori–
(She is on the verandah, at dawn. The Daimler car is approaching.)
(Hearing the car) Oh …
(The Daimler arrives. The engine is cut, the car door opens.)
David …?
DURANCE: You’re up!
FLORA: Up with the dawn. What on earth are you doing?
DURANCE: (Approaching) I’m afraid I came to wake you. Don’t you sleep?
FLORA: Yes, I slept early and woke early.
DURANCE: The grapevine says you’re leaving today.
FLORA: Yes.
DURANCE: I promised you a turn with the Daimler – remember?
FLORA: Yes.
DURANCE: I wanted to show you the sunrise. There’s a pretty place for it only ten minutes down the road. Will you come?
FLORA: Can I go in my dressing-gown?
DURANCE: Well … better not.
FLORA: Rig
hto. I’ll get dressed.
DURANCE: Good.
FLORA: Come up.
(DURANCE comes up the verandah steps.)
DURANCE: Writing a poem?
FLORA: Writing out a poem, to send to my sister.
(Going.) I’ll be quick.
DURANCE: The damnedest thing happened to me just now.
FLORA: (Inside) Can’t hear you! Come in, it’s quite safe.
(DURANCE also enters the interior. He is now in the living-room, FLORA is further within the bungalow.)
DURANCE: That fellow Das was on the road. I’m sure it was him.
FLORA: (Off) Well … why not?
DURANCE: He cut me.
FLORA: (Off) What?
DURANCE: I gave him a wave and he turned his back. I thought – ‘Well, that’s a first!’
FLORA: (Further off) Oh! There’s hope for him yet.
DURANCE: They’ll be throwing stones next. What did you say?
FLORA: (Off) Wait – I’m going into the shower!
DURANCE: Oh. Do you want any help?
FLORA: (Further off) No, thank you, not today. (After a few moments the shower is turned off.)
(In the bathroom) Oh – yes, I do – my towel is in there – will you bung it on the bed?
(DURANCE does this. He enters the bedroom, FLORA’s voice is still beyond a closed door.)
DURANCE: It’s very damp.
FLORA: Yes. Second shower today. Out you go.
DURANCE: Oh …!
FLORA: What?
DURANCE: You’re reading Emily Eden. I read it years ago.
FLORA: We’ll miss the sunrise.
DURANCE: (With the book) There’s a bit somewhere … she reminds me of you. ‘Off with their heads!’
FLORA: (Off) Whose heads? Are you out?
(DURANCE leaves the bedroom and enters the living-room.)
DURANCE: Yes, I’m out. I’ll see if I can find it.
(Now FLORA is in the bedroom.)
FLORA: (Off) I’ll be two shakes.
DURANCE: Here it is – listen! – ‘Simla, Saturday, May 25th, 1839. The Queen’s Ball “came off” yesterday with great success …’ Oh!
FLORA: (Off) What!
DURANCE: Nothing. I found your bookmark.
FLORA: (Off) Oh … (Now she enters the living-room.) I’m sort of decent – wet hair will have to do. It’s not my bookmark – I put it in the book for safekeeping.
DURANCE: Where did you get such a thing?
FLORA: His Highness gave it to me.
DURANCE: Why?
FLORA: (Reacting to his tone) Because he is a Rajah. Because he was feeling generous. Because he hoped I’d go to bed with him. I don’t know.
DURANCE: But how could he … feel himself in such intimacy with you? Had you met him before?
FLORA: No, David – it was a muddle –
DURANCE: But my dear girl, in accepting a gift like this don’t you see – (Pause.) Well, it’s your look-out, of course …
FLORA: Shall we go?
DURANCE: … but I’m in a frightfully difficult position now.
FLORA: Why?
DURANCE: Did he visit you?
FLORA: I visited him.
DURANCE: I know. Did he visit you?
FLORA: Mind your own business.
DURANCE: But it is my business.
FLORA: Because you think you love me?
DURANCE: No, I … Keeping tabs on what his Highness is up to is one of my … I mean I write reports to Delhi.
FLORA: (Amused) Oh, heavens!
DURANCE: You’re a politically sensitive person, actually, by association with Chamberlain … I mean this sort of thing –
FLORA: Oh, darling policeman.
DURANCE: How can I ignore it?
FLORA: Don’t ignore it. Report what you like. I don’t mind, you see. You mind. But I don’t. I have never minded. (She steps on to the verandah.)
(In despair) Oh – look at the sky! We’re going to be too late!
DURANCE: (To hell with it) Come on! Our road is due west – if you know how to drive a car we’ll make it.
(They dash to the car, which roars into life and takes off at what sounds like a dangerous speed.)
FLORA: ‘My suitor came to say goodbye, and now I’m packed, portrait and all, and waiting for Mr Coomaraswami to take me to the station in his chariot. I’ll post this in Jaipur as soon as I get there – I’m not going to post it here because I’m not. I feel fit as two lops this morning, and happy too, because something good happened here which made me feel half-way better about Modi and Gus and getting back to Paris too late – a sin which I’ll carry to my grave.’
PIKE: This appears to be about the portrait. FC had arranged to return to France to sit for Modigliani in the autumn of 1919, but she delayed, arriving only on the morning of January 23rd, unaware that Modigliani had been taken to hospital. He died on the following evening without regaining consciousness, of tuberculosis, aged thirty-five. Thus, the frontispiece of this book shows the only known portrait of Flora Crewe, by an unknown Indian artist.
SCENE SEVENTEEN: ENGLAND
MRS SWAN opens her front door from inside.
MRS SWAN: Goodbye, Mr Das.
ANISH: Goodbye, Mrs Swan – thank you.
MRS SWAN: If you change your mind, I’m sure Flora wouldn’t mind …
ANISH: No. Thank you, but it’s my father I’m thinking of. He really wouldn’t want it, not even in a footnote. So we’ll say nothing to Mr Pike.
MRS SWAN: Well, don’t put it away in a trunk either.
ANISH: Oh no! It will be on the wall at home, and I’ll tell my children too. Thank you for tea – the Victoria sponge was best!
MRS SWAN: I’m baking again tomorrow. I still have raspberries left to pick and the plums to come, look. I always loved the fruit trees at home. (Walking from front door to the gate. A quiet street.)
ANISH: At home?
MRS SWAN: Orchards of apricot – almond – plum – I never cared for the southern fruits, mango, paw-paw and such like. But up in the North-West … I was quite unprepared for it when I first arrived. It was early summer. There was a wind blowing.
(Cross-fading, wind.)
And I have never seen such blossom, it blew everywhere, there were drifts of snow-white flowers piled up against the walls of the graveyard. I had to kneel on the ground and sweep the petals off her stone to read her name.
SCENE EIGHTEEN: INDIA
NELL: ‘Florence Edith Crewe … Born March 21st 1895 … Died June 10th 1930. Requiescat In Pacem.’
FRANCIS: I’m afraid it’s very simple. I hope that’s all right.
NELL: Yes. It was good of you.
FRANCIS: Oh no, we look after our own. Of course.
NELL: I think she would have liked ‘Poet’ under her name. If I left some money here to pay for it …?
FRANCIS: There are funds within my discretion. You may count on it, Miss Crewe. Poet. I should have thought of that. It is how we remember your sister.
NELL: Really?
FRANCIS: She read one evening. The Club has a habit of asking guests to sing for their supper and Miss Crewe read to us … from her work.
NELL: Oh dear.
FRANCIS: (Laughs gently) Yes. Well, we’re a bit behind the times, I expect. But we all liked her very much. We didn’t know what to expect because we understood she was a protégée of Mr Chamberlain, who had lectured in the town some years before. Perhaps you know him.
NELL: Yes. I’m not really in touch with him nowadays.
FRANCIS: Ah. It was just about this time of year when she was here, wasn’t it? It was clear she wasn’t well – these steps we just climbed, for instance, she could hardly manage them. Even so. Death in India is often more unexpected, despite being more common, if you understand me. I’m talking far too much. I’m so sorry. I’ll wait at the gate. Please stay as long as you wish, I have no one waiting for me.
NELL: I won’t be a moment. Flora didn’t like mopers.
(FRANCIS leaves her.)
(Quietly) Bye bye, darling … oh – damn! (… because she has burst into sobs. She weeps unrestrainedly.)
FRANCIS: (Returning) Oh … oh, I say …
NELL: Oh, I’m sorry.
FRANCIS: No – please … can I …?
(NELL stops crying after a few moments.)
NELL: I’ve messed up your coat. I’ve got a hanky somewhere.
FRANCIS: Would you like to …? Here …
NELL: Yes. Thank you. (She uses his handkerchief.) I came too soon after all. I hated waiting a whole year but … well, anyway. Thank you, it’s a bit wet. Should I keep it? Oh, look, I’ve found mine, we can swap.
FRANCIS: Don’t you worry about anything. What a shame you had to come on your own. You have another sister, I believe. Or a brother?
NELL: No. Why?
FRANCIS: Oh. Flora was anxious to return to England to be an aunt, she said.
NELL: Yes. I had a baby in October. He only lived a little while, unfortunately. There was something wrong.
FRANCIS: Oh. I’m so sorry.
NELL: It’s why I couldn’t come before.
FRANCIS: Yes, I see. What rotten luck. What was his name?
NELL: Alexander. Sacha. Alexander Percival Crewe. How nice of you to ask. Nobody ever does. I say, how about that blossom!
(They start to walk.)
FRANCIS: Yes, it’s quite a spot, isn’t it? I hope you stay a while. First time in India?
NELL: Yes.
FRANCIS: Mind the loose stone here. May I …?
NELL: Thank you. I’m sorry I blubbed, Mr Swan.
FRANCIS: I won’t tell anyone. Do call me Francis, by the way. Nobody calls me Mr Swan.
NELL: Francis, then.
FRANCIS: Do you like cricket?
NELL: (Laughs) Well, I don’t play a lot.
FRANCIS: There’s a match tomorrow.
NELL: Here?
FRANCIS: Oh, yes. We’re going to field a Test team next year, you know.
NELL: We?
FRANCIS: India.
NELL: Oh.
SCENE NINETEEN
EMILY EDEN: ‘Simla, Saturday, May 25th, 1839. The Queen’s Ball “came off” yesterday with great success … Between the two tents there was a boarded platform for dancing, roped and arched in with flowers and then in different parts of the valley, wherever the trees would allow of it, there was “Victoria”, “God Save The Queen” and “Candahar” in immense letters twelve feet high. There was a very old Hindu temple also prettily lit up. Vishnu, to whom I believe it really belonged, must have been affronted. We dined at six, then had fireworks, and coffee, and then they all danced till twelve. It was the most beautiful evening; such a moon, and the mountains looked so soft and grave, after all the fireworks and glare. Twenty years ago no European had ever been here, and there we were with a band playing, and observing that St Cloup’s Potage à la Julienne was perhaps better than his other soups, and that some of the ladies’ sleeves were too tight according to the overland fashions for March, and so on, and all this in the face of those high hills, and we one hundred and five Europeans being surrounded by at least three thousand mountaineers, who, wrapped up in their hill blankets, looked on at what we call our polite amusements, and bowed to the ground if a European came near them. I sometimes wonder they do not cut all our heads off and say nothing more about it.’
