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Title: The man who ate the popomack
A tragi-comedy of love in four acts
Author: Walter James Redfern Turner
Release date: December 27, 2025 [eBook #77557]
Language: English
Original publication: Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1922
Credits: Richard Tonsing, Tim Lindell, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO ATE THE POPOMACK ***
The Man who ate
the Popomack
_This Play has been selected for publication by the Reading Committee of
the_ British Drama League.
THE MAN WHO ATE THE POPOMACK
A Tragi-Comedy of Love in Four Acts
By W. J. Turner
Oxford Basil Blackwell
_Publisher to the_ Shakespeare Head Press
_of_ Stratford-upon-Avon
1922
_All performing rights are reserved by the Author. Applications
regarding the amateur acting rights of this Play should be made to the
Secretary of the_ Incorporated Society of Authors, _1 Central Buildings,
Westminster, London, SW1_.
TO
D·M·T
Note
I want to say a few words about the technique of this play. I have not
hesitated to allow two scenes existing only in the minds of some of the
characters to take their place on the stage. It is my belief that the
dramatic principles inculcated by all writers on the theatre have only a
narrow, logical foundation and that like the rules of harmony and
musical form with which unmusical professors have always tried to
throttle creative musicians, they are aesthetically worthless. I also
wish to add that actors must not think that the art of acting—unlike
every other art—has already reached perfection. I prophesy that ranges
of expression will be developed of which the present-day European or
American actor has no conception—although, as with many new things, the
first beginnings of this new art may be traced back in the past, as far
as the fifteenth century in Japan and, probably, further elsewhere. The
actor who is not prepared to cope with the difficulty of suggesting the
various states of consciousness depicted in this play—the dream, the
sub-conscious memory, the imagination—is unworthy of his art. This
applies equally to the producer.
For the rest I hope no one will be so foolish as to say this play is
badly constructed. It may be a bad play, but it is certainly not
constructed according to the rules laid down by dramatic critics.
W. J. T.
Scenes and Characters
ACT I. _Blair’s Picture Gallery off Regent Street_ page 1
ACT II. _Drawing room at Sir Solomon Raub’s Town House in
Charles Street, Mayfair_ 14
ACT III. _Three months later. Lord Belvoir’s flat in Half Moon
Street_ 35
ACT IV. _The same. Some months later_ 63
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. OLD MAN. A WOMAN. A MAN
FIRST YOUNG MAN. SECOND YOUNG MAN
MURIEL RAUB. LORD BELVOIR. PARLOURMAID
LADY OLIVIA, daughter of the Marquis of Beaufort
SIR SOLOMON RAUB, millionaire Jewish financier, head of Raub Bros,
China & East India merchants
LADY PHAORON, a woman of fifty, wife of Sir Philo
SIR PHILO PHAORON, famous Egyptologist, small, and about 60–65
HARRINGHAM, butler to Sir Solomon Raub
NOSEGAY, valet to Lord Belvoir, a simple stolid fellow of 28
HON. RUPERT CLAVELLY
CAPTAIN ANTHONY, a creation of Belvoir’s imagination, made up exactly
to resemble the Old Man of Act I, but with a white beard
The Man who Ate the Popomack
SCENE:—_A room on a Saturday morning at a London Picture Gallery. There
is an ottoman facing a picture on a side wall, its end facing the
audience. A man about middle-age, well-groomed, enters. He looks at a
huge landscape and then at his catalogue._
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. Humph! Never saw anything like that in my life!
[_Another old man enters, his clothes of beautifully soft material,
but hanging loosely about him. He stares at the same picture._
OLD MAN. Mountains of the Imagination!
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. A diseased imagination, sir.
OLD MAN. Quite so; the imagination is a disease.
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. I hate this modern fantastic stuff; it’s morbid.
OLD MAN. It’s the work of young men who cannot control their feelings.
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. Exactly; they might as well print their family secrets
on the outside of their houses to amuse the milkman and the
butcher-boy.
OLD MAN. Are you the milkman?
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN [_taken aback_]. What do you mean?
OLD MAN. Then I am the butcher-boy. [_Reflectively_] I thank you. I
did not know it, but I _am_ the butcher-boy.
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. I don’t understand you.
OLD MAN. I am a critic. I came here to slaughter these so-called
artists, and as a butcher I tell you they make poor mincemeat.
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN [_interested_]. Really! You are a critic, and what is
your honest opinion of modern art?
OLD MAN. Modern art has always been bad.
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN [_chuckling_]. Ha, ha! Excellent! Splendid!
OLD MAN. But it is always more interesting than ancient art. You, sir,
go to every exhibition?
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. Almost all.
OLD MAN. How often do you go to the National Gallery?
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. Whenever I hear of some interesting addition.
OLD MAN. Yes, the National Gallery is visited only by tourists.
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. You don’t say so!
OLD MAN. It is so calm there; they are glad to get out of the traffic.
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. Of course there is something stimulating about this
modern stuff, I must say.
OLD MAN. As a milkman, would you call at an empty house to read what
was chalked upon the door?
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN [_chuckling_]. I see what you mean. I suppose not.
OLD MAN. Most modern paintings are mere chalk-marks on the door, _but
the house is inhabited_, that makes all the difference. There is a
human being inside. Have you ever travelled in the desert?
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. No.
OLD MAN. Well, when you travel in the desert, and you have been
hundreds of miles without meeting a soul and you come to some great
stone tomb beautifully carved, and alongside it a miserable mud and
willow hut, you find that you take no notice of the tomb but go
eagerly up to the hut, for it may be inhabited. Well, that is why
people look at modern pictures; we are really looking for the man
who painted them, and if we heard that he was dead we should pass on
to the next.
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. That’s very interesting. I never thought of that, but
I believe...
[_They pass out of sight. The room is empty. Presently a
fashionably-dressed couple enter. They stop before the same
landscape._
THE WOMAN. That’s rather striking!
THE MAN. I suppose it is—queer, though, isn’t it? I wonder where that
is, or if it’s any real place at all?
THE WOMAN. Look in the catalogue.
THE MAN. It says simply ‘A Landscape.’
THE WOMAN. Whom is it by?
THE MAN. Oliver Bath—ever heard of him?
THE WOMAN [_interested_]. Oliver Bath.
THE MAN. I see he’s dead; he died last year.
THE WOMAN [_her interest evaporating_]. Oh!
[_She turns away and they pass on out of sight. The room is again
empty. Presently two young men enter._
FIRST YOUNG MAN [_with a gesture round the room_]. Why are all these
things painted? What does it mean?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Poor devils. They are unhappy in love.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. Say unhappy in life, and you’ve hit it, but perhaps
it’s the same thing.
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Of course it is.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. I don’t know, but does one never work from joy?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Well, one wouldn’t work long, would one?
FIRST YOUNG MAN. One might work better.
SECOND YOUNG MAN. I should think equally badly. Men who are either
happy or unhappy are not artists.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. Well; you must be one or the other, if you are a
human being.
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Artists are not human beings. Look at this fellow
now [_pointing to a picture and affecting an American accent_].
Isn’t he just too human?
FIRST YOUNG MAN. I grant you that nearly all bad art has the human
touch. Still the artist and the man must meet somewhere, or a
masterpiece, like a good hand at bridge, would be a sheer accident.
SECOND YOUNG MAN. And so it is—the accident that brought the artist’s
father and mother together. Life is full of accidents, and some of
them are masterpieces.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. What of?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Design.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. Whose design?
SECOND YOUNG MAN [_shrugging his shoulders_]. The Lord knows!
FIRST YOUNG MAN [_pointing to the pictures_]. What are these then?
SECOND YOUNG MAN [_with deliberation_]. Carefully planned mistakes.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. Well, we come back again to the question: Why do they
do it?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. If you are happy or unhappy you must do something.
Have you never noticed that? That’s why men marry, go into business,
become bus conductors, or taxi-drivers, or politicians, paint
pictures, start wars, or try to reform something—anything to forget
their feelings! It is unnatural to have feelings as well as being
uncomfortable. No cow is unhappy, no tree is miserable, and a stone
doesn’t even feel the cold.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. So art is just an occupation like any other?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. But immensely more occupying!
FIRST YOUNG MAN. But why is it so satisfying?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Because it makes us forget our pain. It’s like
holding up a bright banana to a hungry elephant: it arrests his
attention even if it doesn’t fill him.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. There’s more in it than that.
SECOND YOUNG MAN [_ironically_]. Heaps more!
FIRST YOUNG MAN. That landscape, for instance.
[_They sit and stare at the picture._
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Wilde was right: paint is much more interesting than
real scenery. That’s good, because it hasn’t any cows in it.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. That man could have painted a cow without reminding
us of milk.
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Yes, there are no clichés. Just look at it!
Extraordinary! Don’t you feel as if you were there—and yet it’s like
nothing on earth!
FIRST YOUNG MAN [_slowly_]. One feels it’s not going to rain, and the
sun’s not going to come out either.
SECOND YOUNG MAN [_passionately_]. No, nothing is ever going to
happen, and yet one wouldn’t go away for anything. [_After a long
pause_]. By God! I’ve never seen anything so good! Whose is it?
FIRST YOUNG MAN [_looking at the catalogue_]. Oliver Bath—I see he’s
dead.
SECOND YOUNG MAN [_rising_]. He’s not dead, he’s there! Let’s go.
[_They get up and pass out. The room is empty. Presently a tall
young woman with dark hair and eyes enters, accompanied by a young
man. It is_ MURIEL RAUB, _the daughter of_ SIR SOLOMON RAUB. _The
man is_ LORD BELVOIR.
BELVOIR. Let’s sit down.
[_They sit down opposite the same picture._
MURIEL. What do you think of that?
BELVOIR. It’s queer—all those mountains! I feel nothing lives there.
It’s rather fine.
MURIEL. It’s depressing!
BELVOIR. It’s very strange; don’t you feel that you’ve been there?
MURIEL. No.
BELVOIR [_looking straight in front of him_]. When I look at you I
feel that I am far away, travelling in a country into which I have
never been. It is a country like that, uninhabited but full of
passion; where the mountains hang over the streams as if they were
the invisible silence which surrounds the world charmed into huge
blocks of stone by those toneless voices falling into the abyss of
time. Like those mountains whose melancholy is carved upon the air,
I sit listening to your voice which seems to come, clear but very
small and faint, as if it had barely struggled up from the very
foundations of life to call me out of oblivion, and then to vanish
away.
MURIEL [_moved, after a slight pause_]. How romantic you are! One
would think we were sitting out a dance.
BELVOIR [_vexed_]. I never feel like this at dances. If I like my
partner I simply kiss her.
MURIEL. Really! And does she let you?
BELVOIR. Why not? What else is there to do?
MURIEL [_ironically_]. How nice to have someone so practical! What a
charming partner you must be.
BELVOIR. Have you never been kissed at a dance?
MURIEL. If it is a custom, I suppose I must have been. I’ve never
really noticed.
BELVOIR [_biting his lip_]. Really you are a maddening little devil!
MURIEL. Only a moment ago I was a voice from—I forget where, but
somewhere deep and wonderful.
BELVOIR. So you are, you’re everything, you’ve taken complete
possession of my senses. When I shave I cut myself thinking of you,
when I eat I don’t notice what I’m eating; I gulp down blindly
everything that’s put before me. Half the time I simply don’t know
what I’m doing, for I’m thinking of you, of when I last saw you, of
when I shall see you again. Muriel, I adore you, I cannot live
without you, I....
MURIEL [_putting her hand softly upon his mouth_]. Ssh!
[_The_ MAN-ABOUT-TOWN _and the_ OLD MAN _re-enter_.
OLD MAN [_taking no notice of the couple_]. Of all the follies of
which mankind is capable, love is the most absurd!
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN [_impressed_]. Really! Is that your serious opinion?
OLD MAN. No, sir, it is not my serious opinion. I have no serious
opinions. I gave them up long ago.
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. Still, you think love is absurd.
OLD MAN. It is absurd, because it is never reciprocated. The poets
tell us of couples who have loved equally—couples long ago in the
prehistoric past, but no one has ever met such couples. Love is like
hunger: whoever heard of a reciprocated hunger? You might as well
expect a mutton chop to desire to be eaten!
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. That’s a novel idea. I must say it never occurred to
me before.
OLD MAN. It wouldn’t, sir. Ideas don’t occur to people in this
country. The question in every love-affair is which is the mutton
chop? [_He suddenly sees the couple on the settee and stares
abstractedly at them for the moment. Then he turns and repeats
aloud._] Which is the mutton chop?
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN [_embarrassed_]. Well, what is your opinion, sir, of
this show as a whole?
OLD MAN. My opinion, sir, is that they are all mutton chops; never a
spark of life among them—except that fellow! [_He points to the
landscape_.
MAN-ABOUT-TOWN. What do you think is the reason of the low level of
modern art?
OLD MAN. The reason, sir, is that Nature produces too many fools.
[_They move away and slowly go out._ BELVOIR _and_ MURIEL _wait
until their footsteps are out of hearing_.
MURIEL. Now go on!
BELVOIR. What was I saying?
MURIEL. You were proposing to me.
BELVOIR. Was I? I didn’t know it.
MURIEL [_teasingly_]. Do you mean to say you weren’t going to propose
to me after all that preparation?
BELVOIR. What preparation? Do be serious, Muriel. I love you, I adore
you; it is impossible for me to say what you mean to me.
[_He takes one of her hands._
MURIEL [_mischievously_]. Are you proposing now?
BELVOIR [_throwing aside her hand_]. Damn it, Muriel, you really are
heartless! You don’t care a rap!
MURIEL [_smiling at him_]. How do you know? You’ve never asked me!
BELVOIR [_moodily_]. Does one need to be asked? Did you ever ask me? I
love you! I can’t help loving you! I want to shout it aloud from the
housetops! I want to take every man by the shoulder and say to him,
‘I love Muriel! Poor fellow, _you_ don’t know her!’ I go about all
day with your name on my lips. I am always frightened it will come
out before I can stop it when anyone speaks to me. When I am in the
country, absolutely alone, I can then say your name aloud. It is
wonderful to hear it in that stillness among the hedges and the
clouds.
MURIEL [_softly_]. But don’t you want to know whether I love you?
BELVOIR [_passionately_]. Muriel! My darling! Do you?
MURIEL [_teasing him_]. Well, I might do worse than marry you.
BELVOIR [_rising_]. Really, Muriel, you are the limit! I can’t stand
much more of this sort of thing!
MURIEL [_taking him by the arm and making him sit down_]. I never said
I didn’t love you.
BELVOIR. Well, do you?
MURIEL. It’s possible.
BELVOIR. Possible be damned! Muriel, do you or do you not love me?
MURIEL. I don’t dislike you.
BELVOIR. My God! you really are impossible!
MURIEL [_provokingly_]. Well, why have anything to do with me? I
didn’t ask you to make love to me.
BELVOIR. How can I help it when I look at you? You shouldn’t let me
see you. You are a cold-blooded devil: I am going to leave you!
MURIEL. Very well.
BELVOIR [_despairingly_]. Muriel, you don’t mean it!
MURIEL. Mean what?
BELVOIR [_slowly_]. I am going to ask you once more. Muriel, do you
love me or not? If you don’t answer me, I shall go, and you’ll never
see me again.
MURIEL. How absurd! I shan’t answer it.
BELVOIR [_rising_]. Very well, I’m going.
MURIEL [_taking his arm and drawing him to her, softly_]. Kiss me!
BELVOIR. Muriel! [_They embrace passionately._
[_The_ TWO YOUNG MEN _re-enter_.
SECOND YOUNG MAN. I want to look at that landscape again before we go.
[_He observes_ BELVOIR _who is busy buttoning_ MURIEL’S _unfastened
glove and turns away. They stand regarding the picture in silence
for a few minutes._
I am not so sure that nothing is going to happen. That picture gives
me a most curious sensation. It’s like the feeling that you are
standing in the midst of a scene but that at any moment the whole of
it may crack and give way, and you will fall right through.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. Where to?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Oh, God knows! Come on, let’s go!
[_They go out. As soon as they are out_, MURIEL _and_ BELVOIR _turn
and kiss passionately_.
MURIEL [_rising_]. Let’s go and have lunch.
BELVOIR [_rising and kissing her hand_]. Muriel darling, do you love
me much?
MURIEL [_gaily_]. Oh, infinitely! Come on, let’s go.
BELVOIR. Wait a minute. I want to buy that picture. I feel it has
something to do with this. [_They look at it._] Don’t you like it?
MURIEL [_with a slight shadow on her gaiety_]. It’s depressing.
BELVOIR. It’s very fine. It has exactly the feeling I should have if I
lost you. What’s its number in the catalogue?
MURIEL. Eighty-seven.
BELVOIR. Let’s find the fellow in charge.
MURIEL [_as they are going_]. Reggie!
[_He takes her in his arms and kisses her. They go out. The room is
empty. Presently an attendant comes in, goes up to the picture and
affixes in its corner on the glass the little red seal signifying
that the picture is sold._
CURTAIN
Act II
SCENE:—_The drawing room of_ SIR SOLOMON RAUB’S _town house in Charles
Street, Mayfair, Folding doors L. to music room and door R_. PARLOURMAID
_enters through folding doors carrying a large spray of roses, passes
through the room and goes to glass over the mantlepiece, where she pins
the roses in her dress, and goes out R. Shortly afterwards_ LADY OLIVIA
_enters followed by_ MURIEL. LADY OLIVIA _goes to settee near fire and
sits down_.
MURIEL [_as she enters_]. Roses! how beautiful they smell!
LADY OLIVIA. What roses, Muriel? There are none here.
MURIEL. There must have been. I can smell them.
LADY OLIVIA. You are always smelling things that no one else can
[_peevishly_]. It is a shocking habit, and very bad manners.
[_Holding her bottle of smelling salts to her nose._] I can smell
nothing.
MURIEL. You never can smell anything, mother.
LADY OLIVIA. Muriel! You are positively disgusting! Why should one
smell? In any decent house the sense of smell is unnecessary.
MURIEL. I get great pleasure from my sense of smell.
LADY OLIVIA [_with a slight shudder_]. Really, Muriel! Is smell a
sense?
MURIEL. Of course it is—one of the five senses.
LADY OLIVIA. Well, four is too many for any woman of breeding; why
should you try to cultivate a fifth? It can only lead you into more
mischief.
MURIEL [_coldly_]. Mischief! Whatever do you mean?
LADY OLIVIA. Should I ever have married your father if I had not been
carried away by my four senses? Heaven knows whom I’d have married
if I’d had a fifth!
MURIEL. Someone still better.
LADY OLIVIA. Don’t slight your father. It’s probably from him you get
this wonderful sense of smell. When I first knew him, he was always
complaining that the English never wash. That’s why he loathed going
where there would be crowds. I had the greatest difficulty in
getting him to take me to the Court balls, but I used to say ‘it’s a
penalty you pay for being a foreigner. It’s not that they don’t
wash: it’s that they’re English. If you were an Englishman, you
wouldn’t notice it, for you would be the same yourself.’
MURIEL. I think he is quite right. I have noticed it myself.
LADY OLIVIA. Yes, because you are only half-English; and what I say
is, what is the good of your sense of smell? It’s only an annoyance.
The best thing you can do with it is to lose it. There! I’ve said
something that I am sure is in the Bible!
[_Enter_ SIR SOLOMON RAUB _with_ LADY PHAORON _who never rises with
the ladies, but always stays and smokes a very strong cigar and
drinks several glasses of port with the men; after them follows_
LORD BELVOIR _and_ SIR PHILO PHAORON.
LADY PHAORON. I hope you don’t mind if I smoke a pipe, Lady Olivia?
[MURIEL _makes a wry grimace_.
LADY OLIVIA. Oh dear no, not in the least, dear Lady Phaoron. I never
smell anything.
LADY PHAORON [_throwing a half-smoked cigar into the fire and taking
out a pipe_]. The cigars one gets now since they put the extra duty
on are so unsatisfying.
SIR SOLOMON [_who is smoking one_]. Like most European products they
are for tired business men, not for connoisseurs, dear lady.
SIR PHILO. In ancient Egypt, women did not smoke. [_Dreamily, as if
slowly tasting the comfort of it._] In fact, they did not eat with
the men, but had their meals in their own apartments.
LORD BELVOIR. Was there any special reason for that?
SIR PHILO. No special reason, Lord Belvoir, but it was an ancient
custom; and I venture to think originally an æsthetic one.
MURIEL. Do you mean that they idealized women and could not bear to
see them feeding like animals?
LADY PHAORON. The question is could the women bear to see the men
eating?
LADY OLIVIA. So long as they all ate together, my dear, I don’t see
that it would matter. I always keep something loud to chew when my
neighbour is unfortunate in his teeth-equipment. I’ve often thought
that the soup course is only tolerable because we all do it
simultaneously. As my mother always used to say to us girls in the
nursery, ‘Keep together! Don’t get scattered!’
SIR SOLOMON. Well, I wonder if the ancient Egyptians ever ate the
fruit we are going to have to-night.
SIR PHILO. Oh, is it something special?
SIR SOLOMON. Yes; in fact it is, I believe, the rarest and most
delicious fruit in the world and totally unknown in Europe.
LORD BELVOIR. What is it called?
SIR SOLOMON. It is called the popomack.
SIR PHILO. What does it taste like?
SIR SOLOMON. Well, I don’t know. There are, I understand, very few
people in the world that do know.
SIR PHILO. But how do you know it’s edible at all?
SIR SOLOMON. It has been celebrated as a great delicacy throughout the
East from ancient times. I believe Marco Polo refers to it
somewhere.
LORD BELVOIR. Where, may I ask, did you get it?
SIR SOLOMON. Well, perhaps I had better tell you all about it. Years
ago when I was in Canton on a business visit to our house there, I
was invited to a banquet by Fu-chi-li, the governor of the province,
who was a Mandarin of very high rank. He had been a friend of Li
Hung Chang’s and was immensely rich. In his day he had taken an
active part in politics, and had experienced many vicissitudes of
fortune. During some temporary reverse, it was my father’s privilege
and good luck to render him a considerable service which he repaid a
hundredfold, while still, as is the custom in the East, considering
himself not only my father’s debtor, but after his death his son’s
also. Well, days before the banquet, I realized that something very
special was going to happen; in fact one might have said without
exaggeration that the whole town buzzed of it. When the eventful
evening came I found that I had been extraordinarily honoured. There
were only two other guests, both Chinese of exalted rank. We had a
repast such as it is impossible to describe.
MURIEL. How did you talk to them?
SIR SOLOMON. Oh, they spoke perfect English but [_knitting his brows_]
I can’t remember what we talked about. Anyhow towards the end of a
delightful meal, Fu-chi-li rose and struck a small silver gong. And
here I will follow his example and call Harringham. [_He goes to the
gong and strikes it. The lights immediately go out and they go up
again upon the interior of a Mandarin’s House in China. Seated round
a table are three Chinese and an Englishman. The host, a Mandarin of
high rank, has a gong beside him. The remnants of a repast not yet
quite completed are on the table. There are no servants in the
room._
MANDARIN. I do not understand the Western ideas of love. I have been
reading an English novel called _Maurice Guest_, in which the young
man Maurice loves a woman who does not love him. How is that
possible?
ENGLISHMAN. It is not only possible; it is the custom. Oscar Wilde
would have said it was the only form of real love known to man.
MANDARIN. Ah, Oscar Wilde. I have read him. He is another symptom of
your disease.
ENGLISHMAN. You think that the West is diseased?
MANDARIN. In everything you are looking for something else. That is
your disease. Here, when a man wants a woman, he takes a woman—any
man and any woman, it is all the same. What difference can there be?
You take a woman and you look at her. You look at her hair, her
eyes, her mouth, her limbs—all sound; and yet you are doubtful; you
look again. What are you looking for? You do not know. Well, perhaps
you go away; perhaps you sleep with her or, as you say, marry. Well,
you embrace her, you enjoy her; but as you lie beside her during the
night gazing at the ceiling which you cannot see, you ask yourself:
‘Is that all?’ No one answers you. You get more and more bitter, and
you say to yourself, lying there: ‘My God, this is impossible!’ But
it is you who are impossible. You have had your pleasure, and yet
you are not satisfied.
FIRST CHINAMAN. They call it ‘divine discontent.’
ENGLISHMAN. I am a Jew, and I understand you. To my father,
unfaithfulness would have been impossible. The idea would have been
monstrous to him. He had his own woman; any other would have been
superfluous and meaningless. But [_reflectively_] I am not like
that.
MANDARIN. You were born among these people, and you have become
contaminated.
ENGLISHMAN. I found an Englishwoman who attracted me more than any
woman of my own race. Why was that?
MANDARIN. I do not believe there was any difference. She was probably
less accessible socially, and your desire for her was the desire to
overcome resistance. Evidently you have not got her. When you do,
you will find she is just the same as the others.
ENGLISHMAN. I mean to marry her. To me she is more desirable.
MANDARIN. Yes, you too have got the disease. When you have her, you
will wonder what you saw in her, and you will think simply that you
have made a mistake, and will spend your life looking in other women
everywhere for what has never existed.
ENGLISHMAN. But these Western races are more subtle in love than we
are. You can see it in their poetry and music. No pure Jew has ever
been a first-rate creative artist.
FIRST CHINAMAN. All Europeans have confused minds. They look at an
eyebrow, and they get an exquisite sensation. Then they embrace the
woman with the eyebrow, and they get another sensation, also
exquisite; but with this sensation they have lost the other. The
eyebrow is now merely an eyebrow, and they are vexed. But why cannot
they embrace one woman, and look at the eyebrow of another?
ENGLISHMAN. Well, I understand it. When you look at anything very
beautiful, you cannot bear the thought that presently it will be
gone, and gone perhaps for ever. So you desire to possess it, to
fasten it to you, so that it will always be there for you to look
at.
MANDARIN. Fu-Chi-Wang bought a beautiful lacquer screen; for a few
days he saw it; for a few months his friends saw it; and now it is
seen only by strangers. Fu-Chi-Wang does not know it is there.
ENGLISHMAN. He would miss it if it were taken away.
MANDARIN. Yes, his eye would come to life again.
ENGLISHMAN. Well, that is what I say about women. How can one stick to
one woman as my father did without one’s senses becoming dulled and
blunted?
MANDARIN. It is not the same thing. When you are thirsty, water will
always quench your thirst. You want thirst to be provoked, you want
to be always thirsty. Water will not make you thirsty, nor does a
wife awaken desire. Mistresses like alcohol tickle the palate
without satisfying the appetite, and in the end destroy both.
ENGLISHMAN. But if you were always surrounded with water, you would
never get thirsty.
MANDARIN. You soon get thirsty if you are not always drinking.
ENGLISHMAN. But in Europe when one mixes much with other women, one is
always being attracted. To me every woman is unique: I should like
to know them all. It is a pity there is not time enough.
MANDARIN. Fatal illusion! Each seems unique because there are many,
since each is in a different relation to you. But it is the
relationship which is unique. A rose in a garden affects me
differently from a rose in a bowl; a yellow rose is like a woman in
a yellow dress, and a red rose is like a woman in a red dress, but
it is only a difference in dress or in shape or in size or in voice
or in colour.
FIRST CHINAMAN. You cannot embrace a colour or a voice, and does it
matter whether what you embrace is big or little? Perhaps your wife
has wit, but you cannot sleep with her wit.
ENGLISHMAN. But these qualities awaken desire.
MANDARIN. Only in fools. The wise man loves to hear a beautiful voice,
to see a beautiful colour. A voice is to be heard, not to be bought
and put in a bed, and colour is to be seen, not hidden in the dark.
But few men, and least of all Europeans, can enjoy with their eyes
and their ears; yet there is no other way of enjoying colour and
sound, and the body cannot rape the mind. [_Silence: then turning to
the_ SECOND CHINAMAN _who has not spoken_]. But you who are wiser
than all of us have said nothing. Let us hear your opinion.
SECOND CHINAMAN. I think we are wiser, but I do not think we are
right.
MANDARIN. What! You agree with the Europeans?
SECOND CHINAMAN. The finest types in the West are fastidious in love
to a degree we should think ridiculous, but I discovered that they
do not thereby lose virility. They are more, not less, passionate
than coarser men, and both bolder and more subtle. They live more
intensely and more deeply because their bodies are more conscious.
ENGLISHMAN. Do you, then, believe there is such a thing as love?
SECOND CHINAMAN. I do not know that perfect love may not be enjoyed by
man. In China, we try to separate our consciousness from our body.
We give our body to women with less thought than we give it to the
table, and our consciousness we keep for our friends. But there is
no harmony in such a life. Our mind and our body should be one. We
despise the man who eats grossly because he does not know what he
eats. Shall we call it love when men live with women they do not
know?
MANDARIN. But it is just because we do not know them that they are
desirable.
SECOND CHINAMAN. The body and the spirit are one, but as the stone is
less conscious than the tree, and the tree than the man, so one man
is less conscious than another. Stones and trees love, for stones
and trees live, but we do not call it ‘love’ since it is not full
and conscious enough. Neither is lust full and conscious enough for
that man who desires to live more and more richly, and such a man
will inevitably turn away from it.
ENGLISHMAN. Then you believe that a man should sow his wild oats?
SECOND CHINAMAN. It is a strange expression but I believe the man who
fears nothing and lives, will live according to the power that is
within him. If it is a small power, he will satisfy it
easily—whether with one woman or fifty is immaterial.
ENGLISHMAN. But what becomes of morals?
SECOND CHINAMAN. There is only one moral law which a man can break,
and that is to be satisfied with less than his soul demands. Does it
matter how many he breaks it with?
MANDARIN. Cannot the eye look with pleasure on a beautiful girl
without wanting her as a mistress?
SECOND CHINAMAN. It is unknown what the soul craves for, but when we
say a girl is beautiful we mean that our soul is suddenly more
alive. This feeling of life is so exquisite, that we seize her
greedily in the hope of more, and our life is as suddenly
extinguished. Man must find out how to live. There is no recipe,
although your churches pretend to give you one.
ENGLISHMAN. Do you believe in marriage as an institution?
SECOND CHINAMAN. Does a boatman believe in oars? Yes, until he is
given sails. Does he then believe in sails? Yes, until he finds he
can go easier and further with steam. Marriage has nothing to do
with love.
ENGLISHMAN. Then you do not think that a man should be faithful to his
wife?
SECOND CHINAMAN. To embrace a woman because she is your wife is like
embracing her because she is your mother.
ENGLISHMAN. I do not understand you.
SECOND CHINAMAN. I mean that mere affection should not drive you
further than a mere affectionate embrace. To sleep with your wife
when you are merely fond of her is a sin against love. To sleep with
a woman whom you merely lust after is also a sin against love. In
Europe both these habits are extremely popular.
MANDARIN. I understand you. You mean that they are different symptoms
of the same disharmony.
SECOND CHINAMAN. The fruits of such unions are ugly in body and dull
in mind. I remember standing at your Charing-Cross station watching
the streams of young men and women going to business, and they
looked like herds of disgusting animals. Mongrels, bred not from
harmonious passion, but by accident! Naturally they mostly hate
their parents.
ENGLISHMAN. Then the Western religious bodies are wrong in inculcating
faithfulness?
SECOND CHINAMAN. Physical union without passion is a sin against life.
Lovers who live together after their passion has died are disgusting
to the gods and obviously blunted in mind and body. There may be
passions so harmonious that they endure throughout the lovers’
physical life; that is the only faithfulness. There is no virtue in
hypocrisy even when it is called marriage.
MANDARIN. I do not believe that love is anything more than a pleasure
like eating and drinking. One likes some women more than others as
one likes some foods more than others, but too much of any one of
them will take away the appetite.
SECOND CHINAMAN [_ironically_]. In the beloved there is an infinity of
life. The lover who has just left her for ever is carrying away on
his sleeve a single hair.
FIRST CHINAMAN. One is quite enough, all the others are the same.
MANDARIN. I doubt the reality of this ideal Western love. It is too
much of an abstraction. I should like to see it tested.
ENGLISHMAN. Well, if I couldn’t have one woman I’d have another. Of
course I might prefer the one I hadn’t got.
MANDARIN. Only because you hadn’t got her ... all else is illusion.
It’s the unknown that attracts us. [_With a gesture as if concluding
the argument._] If the popomack were as common as the pineapple we
should not make such a fuss about it, but as we know that we shall
be accounted happy if we taste it once in our lives, it means a
great deal more to us.
ENGLISHMAN. Have you never tasted it?
MANDARIN. Never. I remember my father telling me that when he was a
young man the Governor of his province had one and held a great
feast to eat it.
ENGLISHMAN. I feel deeply sensible of the great honour you have done
me in inviting me to-night to partake of this popomack. I am most
curious to see it.
MANDARIN. Well my friends, the time has come for us to enjoy the most
exquisite delicacy known to man. [_He strikes the gong, which
reverberates slowly through the silence._
[_The lights go out as a servant enters, and the scene is as before,
with_ SIR SOLOMON RAUB _standing by the side of the gong which is
still stirring from the blow he has given it. The door opens and_
HARRINGHAM _enters_.
SIR SOLOMON. Bring in the popomack! [_He turns to the guests._] No
doubt these were the very words Fu-Chi-li used to his servant, who
however returned rushing into the room, white with terror, and
falling prostrate, muttered something in Chinese at which the others
started in astonishment. Even Fu-Chi-li was, I saw, visibly
disconcerted, in spite of his extraordinary self-control. But almost
immediately he was the urbane host again, and dismissing the servant
he explained to us with many apologies that some unforeseen and
altogether extraordinary circumstance had prevented his placing
before us the unique dish with which he had wished to honour our
presence. In spite of his exterior calm, the tone of his voice
betrayed an emotion incompatible with any ordinary feeling of
disappointment, but the other guests remained curiously impassive. I
did not like to ask any questions, and when we parted later, after a
stay somewhat briefer than usual, nothing further had been said.
LORD BELVOIR. And did you never learn what had happened?
SIR SOLOMON. Never!
SIR PHILO. But how did you know that he was going to give you a
popomack?
LADY OLIVIA. And what is a Popomack? You have never told us that.
SIR SOLOMON. Well, when I told Furse, the manager of our Canton
branch, what had happened, he said that Fu-Chi-li must have been
going to give us a popomack; in fact he said he had heard rumours of
it. Furse was a man of about fifty, the son of a Chinese missionary
and born in China, and an absolute mine of out-of-the-way knowledge.
He told me that every now and then, say once in fifty, or once in a
hundred or even a couple of hundred years, a single popomack fruit
turns up somewhere in the East, and that the knowledge of its
existence spreads with extraordinary rapidity and causes the
greatest excitement. There is tremendous competition to procure it,
but all negotiations are mysteriously elaborate and secret; for the
life of any man known to possess it would not be worth a string of
cash. Specimens that have turned up in the past have usually found
their way to the Emperor or to some high Mandarin.
LORD BELVOIR. Had Furse ever seen one?
SIR SOLOMON. No, nor ever heard of the existence of one before.
[HARRINGHAM _enters carrying on a silver platter what looks like a
huge blue orange; it has the shape of an orange, but the hard rind
of a passion fruit or a pomegranate, and is as large as a good-sized
melon and a vivid bright blue. They all gaze at it as_ HARRINGHAM
_places it on the table with a knife and a number of plates. He then
goes out._
MURIEL. What a lovely colour!
LADY PHAORON. I hope it won’t give us indigestion.
SIR PHILO. So that’s a popomack! Extraordinary! Do you know, I believe
it may be the strange fruit mentioned at the banquet of Amenophis IV
of the XVIIIth dynasty about 1500 B.C. The reference to it has never
been understood.
SIR SOLOMON. What does it say about it?
SIR PHILO. The passage is obscure. All I remember is that it mentions
its colour as being remarkable and there was something else strange
about it, but I have forgotten.
LORD BELVOIR. May I ask how you came to get it?
SIR SOLOMON. Furse sent it to me from Canton; it arrived two days ago.
It was a piece of extraordinary luck and is really a remarkable
story, which I must tell you some time. I determined we should have
it to-night in honour of your engagement with Muriel. And now I
think it is time we cut this rarity. I am very curious to taste it.
LADY PHAORON. I hope it won’t give me indigestion.
SIR SOLOMON [_as he takes a knife and proceeds to insert the point_].
Well, I’m sure it would be worth it. The Chinese are great
epicureans and would never have made such a fuss about something
that was merely ordinarily pleasant. This rind is very tough. [_He
makes an effort and succeeds in inserting the point, then pushes the
blade down._] Good God!
ALL [_excitedly_]. What is it?
[_The popomack rolls into two cut halves, and immediately a
frightful smell unlike anything they have ever experienced before
pervades the room._
ALL. Faugh! Ugh! It’s appalling! Take it away! It’s unbearable.
SIR PHILO [_jumping excitedly, holding his handkerchief to his nose_].
That’s it! That’s it! I remember now! It smells! _Une odeur
épouvantable_ Lefebure translates it. It’s quite correct. It’s the
real thing! Wonderful! A divine colour, lapis-lazuli blue, and a
smell like the plague!
SIR SOLOMON [_who has retreated to a far corner of the room with his
handkerchief to his nose_]. Then you don’t think there’s anything
wrong with it?
SIR PHILO. Wrong! Of course not! No, it’s absolutely correct. This
proves it. [_Almost dancing in his excitement._] Marvellous!
LADY PHAORON [_tartly_]. Marvellous! It’s disgusting!
LADY OLIVIA [_the only one who has taken no part in the excitement now
begins to sniff uneasily and suddenly puts her handkerchief to her
nose_]. Oh, my fifth sense! I’ve found it!
[_She shrieks and immediately faints._ SIR SOLOMON _rings the bell
and_ HARRINGHAM _enters in his usual imperturbable manner, but
suddenly visibly shrinks; he makes an involuntary movement towards
his pocket, but recollects himself, and suppresses it with a face
fearfully contorted_.
SIR SOLOMON. Help me to carry your mistress to her room, Harringham.
You had better come too, Muriel. [_To his guests._] Excuse us one
moment.
[_Exeunt_ SIR SOLOMON _and_ HARRINGHAM, _carrying_ LADY OLIVIA,
_followed by_ MURIEL.
SIR PHILO [_his face beaming, at least that part of it which is not
covered by his handkerchief_]. This is really thrilling! I wouldn’t
have missed it for anything. I’m going to taste it. [_He cuts a
slice of the popomack and begins eating it._] Ah! heavenly! Come on
Belvoir, you must taste it. [_To_ LADY PHAORON.] Will you try some,
my dear?
LADY PHAORON. Certainly not, I shall go and see if I can be of any use
to Olivia. [_Exit._
SIR PHILO [_cutting another two slices and beginning a fresh one
greedily_]. Here, you must taste it, Belvoir; you can’t imagine how
delicious it is!
LORD BELVOIR. Well, the smell is pretty awful, but I’ll risk it.
SIR PHILO. That’s right.
[LORD BELVOIR _begins to eat reluctantly, but his expression at once
changes to one of intense satisfaction_.
LORD BELVOIR. You are quite right; it’s really wonderful.
SIR PHILO. Yes, isn’t it?
[_The two men go on in silence, eating greedily and cutting more
slices until the popomack is more than half gone. Gradually they
cease to hold their handkerchiefs to their noses, and by the time_
SIR SOLOMON _returns they have put them back into their pockets.
They are still eating when he returns._
SIR PHILO. How’s Lady Olivia?
SIR SOLOMON. She’s come round, thank you, but she’s going to lie down
for a bit. This is really awful. I must apologize.
SIR PHILO. Apologize! Not at all! Taste it; it’s wonderful! Heavenly!
Isn’t it, Belvoir?
[BELVOIR _nods, his mouth full_.
SIR SOLOMON [_hardly concealing his expression of disgust behind his
handkerchief which he holds carefully to his nose_]. Faugh! I
wouldn’t dream of touching the stuff. I can scarcely bear to stay in
the room with it.
SIR PHILO. Eat it, and you won’t notice the smell; it’s just the same
with cheese.
SIR SOLOMON. No, thank you! But if you like it do you mind finishing
it quickly?
SIR PHILO. Delighted! But I warn you you’re missing something; isn’t
he, Belvoir? and you’ll regret it.
[_He cuts the last slice and hands half to_ BELVOIR _after cutting
off the rind. The two men eat in silence._ SIR SOLOMON _watching
them with a curious expression. Presently he rings for the butler.
Enter_ HARRINGHAM.
SIR SOLOMON. Take what’s left of this away, and burn it!
CURTAIN
Act III
SCENE:—LORD BELVOIR’S _rooms in Half Moon Street, three months later.
Morning. Enter_ NOSEGAY _with a large scent-spray with a rubber grip; he
works carefully round the room, spraying curtains, carpet, chairs,
chesterfield and cushions. The room has two windows in the back wall,
facing the audience and looking on to the street; against the right wall
is a Bechstein grand with the stool at the far end, so that, sitting at
the piano, you have your back to the window wall and look into the room.
There are a few gilt upholstered chairs, a chesterfield near the
fireplace to the left, several comfortable arm-chairs, a centre table
with a few books, a book-case against the wall opposite the fireplace,
and on the wall the landscape of Oliver Bath, and several water-colours.
After spraying almost every article in the room except the piano_,
NOSEGAY _carefully closes the windows. Suddenly a ring is heard, and he
goes out, returning in a few moments preceded by the_ HON. RUPERT
CLAVELLY, _a fresh-looking young man of about thirty, with a cheerful
air._ CLAVELLY _lifts his head as he enters as if secretly apprehensive
of some invisible presence. He does this so adroitly that an eye-witness
could hardly describe his action as a sniff._
NOSEGAY. I will tell his lordship you are here.
CLAVELLY. Stop a moment, Nosegay. Tell me: does he—is it ... as strong
as ever?
NOSEGAY. I am afraid, sir, it is.
CLAVELLY. Good Lord, how awful! But here, this room ... it seems all
right, except ... someone’s upset a scent-bottle!
NOSEGAY [_going to the mantelpiece and taking the spray which he has
put down there_]. No, sir, it’s this, sir. I use it every morning,
and always after his lordship has been here—Not that it has much
effect then, sir!
CLAVELLY. Good heavens! Is it as bad as that?
NOSEGAY. Yes, sir; it’s very bad, sir.
CLAVELLY [_his natural cheerfulness somewhat damped_]. Well, perhaps
you had better tell Lord Belvoir I’m here.
NOSEGAY. Yes, sir [_he hesitates_]. Perhaps you won’t mind my making a
suggestion, sir, but....
CLAVELLY. Certainly, Nosegay, what is it?
NOSEGAY. Well, you see, sir, this is the first time you have seen his
lordship since....
CLAVELLY. Since the Raub dinner?
NOSEGAY. Yes, sir, and ... it will be a great shock, sir. It might
help you if you smoked. [_Hesitating and in a lower voice._] And
there’s another thing, sir, his face. It’ll startle you, sir!
CLAVELLY. Oh, I see. Right! Thanks very much, Nosegay. [_He takes out
his case and proceeds to light a cigarette._
[NOSEGAY _goes out carrying the scent-spray. After an interval of a
few minutes the door opens, and_ LORD BELVOIR _enters in a dark silk
flowered dressing-gown. The change in the man is extraordinary. At_
SIR SOLOMON’S _dinner he would have passed as a good-looking young
Englishman of about thirty-three, rather dark, with a slightly
uncommon sensitive expression and the eyes of an artist, but very
youthful, almost immature in spite of his age, like many Englishmen
of his class. Now he looks every year of his age and more. There is
a strange, almost mocking, expression on his face, and his eyes seem
extraordinarily alive. His face has gone a bright blue, the colour
of the Popomack. As he enters, closing the door behind him_,
CLAVELLY _gasps, but moves towards him, holding out his hand_.
CLAVELLY. How are you, Reggie?
BELVOIR [_letting his hand drop_]. Smoking, Clavelly?
CLAVELLY [_taken aback and fearfully disconcerted by the popomack
smell that proceeds from_ LORD BELVOIR]. I only ... I didn’t
know ... I’ll throw it away.
[_He is about to throw the cigarette into the fireplace._
BELVOIR. No, no, that’s all right. They all do it. Everyone I see—not
that I see many nowadays [_grimly_]. You’ll find you need it.
CLAVELLY [_finding himself unconsciously retreating from_ BELVOIR
_pulls himself up sharply and comes nearer_]. But, I say, can’t
anything be done?
BELVOIR. Tell me, Clavelly, this is the first time you’ve seen me
since—since the night. Do you find it very strong?
CLAVELLY [_trying to look as if he were giving an opinion on a matter
of no importance_]. Well, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s a bit of a
shock at first, but I daresay....
BELVOIR. It’s no use, Clavelly. You should see your face.
CLAVELLY [_with a burst of artificial energy_]. Look here, Reggie,
this is damned unnatural! Surely something can be done?
BELVOIR [_quietly_]. No, nothing. I’ve tried everything, do you hear?
Everything!
CLAVELLY [_helplessly_]. But it’ll wear off. It’s sure to wear off.
BELVOIR [_ironically_]. You really think so?
CLAVELLY [_stubbornly_]. Yes, of course I do; it must.
BELVOIR. So many people have said that. Try and think of something
more original.
CLAVELLY [_desperately_]. Have you tried anything? Have you seen any
specialists?
BELVOIR [_ironically_]. Oh, no, of course not. Why should I? There’s
nothing wrong with me, is there? Have another cigarette? Take one of
these; they’re specially strong. I keep them on purpose.
CLAVELLY. Damn your cigarettes! Why don’t you talk decently to a
fellow?
BELVOIR [_lifting his eyebrows_]. What do you want me to say? That you
are the victim of your imagination? That this is a momentary
illusion? That all will be well to-morrow? Comfortable lies to
soften a quarter of an hour’s unpleasantness! I’ve lied all my life,
but I’ve done with lies now!
CLAVELLY [_obstinately_]. I can’t believe there’s nothing to be done.
BELVOIR. You’ll have to believe it. [_with a change of tone_] Not that
it really matters. For my part, I see no reason why _anything_
should be done.
CLAVELLY [_sullenly_]. I don’t understand you.
BELVOIR. I am not conscious of this unpleasantness which apparently
afflicts my friends in my presence. To myself, I am a healthy,
normal person. Why should I fill the rôle they invent for me, and be
the catspaw of their diseased imaginations?
CLAVELLY. Do you mean to say you don’t believe there is anything the
matter with you?
BELVOIR [_frigidly_]. I must ask you to be more careful in your
language. The fact that we have known each other for some time does
not give you the right to make insulting remarks before my face.
CLAVELLY [_heatedly_]. Well, if that’s the way you are going to take
it....
BELVOIR [_coldly_]. Do you suppose there is any other way of taking
it? Shall I call you a fool, and wait for you to argue mildly that
you don’t believe it? Or shall I say that you stink like a skunk?
CLAVELLY. [_Appalled_]. But.... [_He stammers incoherently._
BELVOIR. There are no doubt people who accept their character as their
friends see it, and live the life their friends expect them to live.
People who have no existence except in the minds of others and who
seek to know what others think of them in order that they may live
at all. I am not one of those people.
CLAVELLY. But there is no getting away from facts.
BELVOIR. What are the facts? My presence, let us say, arouses a
particularly unpleasant sensation in you. Am I to pretend that I
share that sensation when I do not? Am I to regulate my life on the
assumption that my presence is an offence to you and a few others
who, I must say, seem to me in no way indispensable to my existence?
CLAVELLY. Well, you cannot ignore their feelings.
BELVOIR. If I cannot share them, or if they deprive me of my
self-respect, I _must_ ignore them.
CLAVELLY. Look here, you know this is all nonsense! Why not be
sensible and let me help you? It must be possible to do something?
BELVOIR [_deliberately_]. Clavelly, I have had three months of being
sensible and allowing my friends to help me, and what have they
done? They have turned me into a perfectly useless, helpless object
on which to exercise their emotions. I might as well be paralysed in
mind and brain, and have lost control of every limb as lead the life
I have led since last November. I have become a mere phenomenon to
be dragged from one specialist to another, to be exhibited carefully
to a few select friends, to be taken out to lunch or dinner
occasionally with as much preparation and stage-management as would
shift an army corps. I have watched my friends actually blooming in
health through their activity in exploiting the emotional and
theatrical possibilities of _me_. Yes, I have become a mere
puppet—an interesting puppet, a puppet that eats and walks and
sleeps, but which exists solely for the amusement of those who pull
its strings, and has no life of its own to interfere with theirs.
Presently they will get tired of me, and I shall be handed on to
others. There always will be others, always an inexhaustible supply
of fresh people to whom I shall be a novelty and a curiosity. But I
have had enough of it: I am going to live my own life.
[_During the conversation_ CLAVELLY _smokes hard, and edges
involuntarily away from_ BELVOIR _whenever he comes near. Now when
he thinks that_ BELVOIR _is not looking, he takes one of the special
cigarettes_ BELVOIR _pointed out to him_.
CLAVELLY [_comfortably handing him the cigarette box_]. Well, I don’t
see what you are going to do. What about Muriel?
BELVOIR [_hotly_]. What has Muriel got to do with you!
CLAVELLY [_flushing_]. Nothing ... I only wondered how she was taking
it. [_lamely_] I haven’t seen her for some time—you know I’ve been
away.
BELVOIR. Pity you ever came back. I should have thought Africa was
just the place for you.
CLAVELLY. Now my dear old chap you’re not going to ruffle me. I take
it that your engagement is not yet broken off.
BELVOIR. What did you come here for? Have you no better way of
spending your time?
CLAVELLY. Look here, isn’t there anything I can do for you?
BELVOIR [_with a deliberate sneer_]. How much longer do you think you
can stand it?
CLAVELLY [_flushing_]. I didn’t come here to be insulted by an old
friend.
BELVOIR. Are you sure?
CLAVELLY [_nettled_]. Well, if you are determined to act in this
manner there is nothing for me but to go.
BELVOIR. Your limited intelligence is working at last.
[CLAVELLY, _furious, seizes his hat and stick and leaves the room
without another word._ BELVOIR _paces about the room for a few
minutes and then, standing near the curtains, suddenly sniffs the
air. He frowns violently and rings the bell._
_Enter_ NOSEGAY.
BELVOIR. What is this smell of scent?
NOSEGAY [_blandly_]. What scent, my lord?
BELVOIR. Damn you! Don’t quibble with me! The place reeks of scent.
Who brought it?
[NOSEGAY _does not reply_. BELVOIR _stares at him furiously as if
about to strike him, and then with a tremendous effort controls
himself, and walks away_.
NOSEGAY. You have never objected to it before, my lord, and I have
been doing it for the last month.
[BELVOIR _is facing the window with his back to_ NOSEGAY; _after a
few seconds he turns_.
BELVOIR. Nosegay, I want to talk to you. I have no fault to find with
you, but if you are to stay with me, we must understand each other.
It is possible that you would like to find another situation
[NOSEGAY _shakes his head_]. Wait a moment! If you do—and in the
circumstances it would be only natural, and I should in no way
resent it—I shall make it my business to find you a situation in
every way as good as your place with me before ... before the event
of three months ago.
NOSEGAY [_after a slight pause, simply_]. I have no wish to leave you,
my lord.
BELVOIR. Thank you, Nosegay. And I should feel parting with you
deeply. But we must not let any feeling of ... friendship blind us
into imagining that it will bear the strain of our ordinary daily
life. The situation must be a possible one without any feeling
entering into it on one side or the other. Do you understand me?
NOSEGAY. Perfectly, my lord.
BELVOIR. Good! [_pauses, then resolutely._] Now, do you think you can
put up with and totally ignore this ... this affliction of mine
indefinitely? Don’t you feel that it will become too much for you?
NOSEGAY. May I ask, my lord, is it ... permanent?
BELVOIR. Yes. At all events, I am going to act henceforth as if it
were. I am going to seek no cure. I am going to put it completely
out of my mind and out of my life. It does not exist for me. It must
not exist for you. But is that possible?
NOSEGAY. Will you permit me to ask a personal question, my lord? I
have often wondered, but do you not notice it at all yourself?
BELVOIR. Absolutely not at all! Now can you live with me, and put it
completely out of your mind?
NOSEGAY [_slowly_]. Yes, my lord, I think I can. I never had a very
keen sense of....
BELVOIR [_smiling_]. No! Or you couldn’t have sprayed the room with
that filthy scent. Well, no more of that sort of thing, mind! And
now we’ll consider it settled [_the bell rings_]. See who it is.
[_Exit_ NOSEGAY _and re-enters after a second_.
NOSEGAY. Sir Philo Phaoron, my lord.
BELVOIR. Show him up. [_Exit_ NOSEGAY.
[_A noise as of a man dragging upstairs heavily is heard, then a
curiously muffled voice shouting_, Mind those pipes, Nosegay! This
way! Be careful now! _Suddenly the door flies open and_ SIR PHILO
PHAORON _enters clothed from head to foot in a complete
diving-dress, followed by_ NOSEGAY _carrying the long air pipes and
communicating line. Waving one hand to_ BELVOIR, _he has a speaking
trumpet in the other with which he signals to_ NOSEGAY _to deposit
the tubes on the floor_.
[_Exit_ NOSEGAY _closing the door_.
Whatever’s the meaning of this, Phaoron?
[SIR PHILO _lumbers heavily across to the window and opens it.
Putting his trumpet to his helmet he shouts_ More air! Pump harder,
you devils! I’m suffocating! _Then he closes it, turns and waves
both hands to_ BELVOIR, _and shouts through his speaking trumpet_.
SIR PHILO. Help me open this!
[BELVOIR _unscrews a nut as he is directed and then the front of the
helmet swings open, revealing the beaming face of_ SIR PHILO
_covered with perspiration_.] Phew! it’s hot in this rig-out. What a
relief to find no one here! Well, my boy, how are you? Isn’t this a
magnificent idea? [_Pointing to his diving-suit._ LORD BELVOIR
_continues to stare at him in amazement_.] I only thought of it the
other day. Now I can go anywhere. It’s absolutely air-proof.
BELVOIR. Do you mean to say that you’ve been about in that get-up?
SIR PHILO. Certainly! and what is more, my boy, it’s been an immense
success. Three nights ago I tried it for the first time at the Royal
Geographical Society’s dinner. I had been fearfully upset at the
thought of missing it. You know life hasn’t really been worth living
these last three months, and the idea that I should never go there
again just about put the finishing touch on. I was sitting at home—I
hadn’t been out for a couple of weeks—reading some rotten book, _The
Memoirs of a New Guinea Magistrate_ it was, and the fellow was
describing the diving in the pearl fisheries there when the idea
suddenly came to me. I jumped up, went to the telephone, ordered the
whole rig-out, and hired two seamen and a pumping engine—Do you hear
it? It’s outside—and tried it. It was perfect. Now my man dresses me
in the morning, and when the fellows arrive they put the engine in
the car, and I can go anywhere.
BELVOIR. Good God! And how did you get on at the dinner?
SIR PHILO. Of course, I couldn’t eat anything, but my reception was
tremendous. There was a fellow there who had just come back from
climbing Mount Everest, but he was an absolute frost. No one took
the slightest notice of him. At dinner I made a speech—with this
trumpet and a special metal diaphragm in the helmet I can speak
perfectly—I rose in a perfect storm of cheers. ‘Gentlemen,’ I said,
‘you see before you one who has suffered a severe blow at the hands
of Fate—a calamity such as has hitherto befallen no living man’ (Of
course we don’t know about those Chinese fellows who have eaten it.
Probably they smelt so much already that they never noticed it.)
‘But nothing, gentlemen, can daunt the spirit of a member of the
Royal Geographical Society.’ At this they positively yelled at me.
Earl Brasston—you know old Copper-eye—slapped me on the back; he was
nearly delirious, poor fellow, and drank my health, but they pulled
him down, and shouted ‘Go on! go on!’ So I went on—I went on for
nearly an hour. Upon my soul, I couldn’t have believed I was capable
of such eloquence. And the scene afterwards was terrific. They sent
down drinks to my seamen, and I was in a panic lest they should get
drunk and forget to pump, but all went well. And do you know, I’m
simply loaded with invitations. And I’ve got to spend next week-end
at Brasston, the old boy absolutely insisted. I say! I forgot to
tell those fellows to stop pumping! [_He rushes to the window, opens
it and shouts._] Stop pumping there, until I let you know!
BELVOIR. Well, I suppose you feel the problem’s solved?
SIR PHILO [_ever so slightly damped_]. Well, it’s a solution, isn’t
it?
BELVOIR. And what about the enquiries Professor Hermann was making?
SIR PHILO. About that antidote? I heard from him; he has found
nothing; but [_cheerfully_] I am not going to bother about that now.
BELVOIR. Do you propose to go about for the rest of your days like
this?
SIR PHILO. Why not? As a matter of fact, I rather enjoy it. After all,
dress is a mere matter of convention. It’s only a question of
getting used to it. Everybody I’ve seen so far has been thrilled by
my appearance.
BELVOIR. And how long do you think that’s going to last?
SIR PHILO. Oh! I don’t know, and in any case there’ll always be fresh
worlds to conquer—‘To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.’ Just
imagine my first appearance in Paris at the Institut Français. Old
Flammarion would think me a new star.
BELVOIR [_sighing_]. Ah, well! I suppose it’s possible.
SIR PHILO. Possible, of course it’s possible! It’s rather different
for you, I admit. My life outside this apparatus is over. I can
retire to my shell, and the little society I need I can now get by
taking my shell along with me. In fact, I need never come out of it.
All that exists of me to-day at my age is a voice, still issuing
from this decaying body whose increasing foulness I henceforth
disguise for ever. Only my spirit shall move among men, like a sound
issuing out of the tomb.
BELVOIR [_thoughtfully_]. Do you know, I believe you are right.
SIR PHILO. I’m sure of it. I consider myself most fortunate. I am like
a man in the Arabian Nights to whom in a dream some marvellous
transformation has happened, but I am awake, and it is still true. I
wouldn’t go back now to the days before I ate the popomack for
anything. That reminds me, have there been any answers to our
advertisement in the _Times_?
BELVOIR. Not yet, but of course it is still appearing.
SIR PHILO. Did you arrange for it to appear at the same time in the
Shanghai and Pekin papers?
BELVOIR. Yes, but I’m not very hopeful.
[_The bell rings and presently_ NOSEGAY _enters_.
NOSEGAY. Sir Solomon Raub. [_Exit_ NOSEGAY.
[_Enter_ SIR SOLOMON, _in top hat, morning coat, white spats,
looking as glossy and confident as ever, but with, for the curious
observer, a slight uneasiness beneath his outward smooth manner. In
his ears and nostrils are wads of cotton wool._
SIR SOLOMON. How d’ye do, Belvoir?
[_He suddenly sees_ SIR PHILO.
SIR PHILO [_beaming_]. ’Morning, Sir Solomon. [_He slaps him on the
back, and one of the cotton-wool wads drops out._] What’s this?
[_Picking it up._
SIR SOLOMON [_slightly ruffled, snatching it and putting it in his
nose again, pointing to_ SIR PHILO’S _diving-suit_]. And what may I
ask is this?
SIR PHILO. This is my new way of dressing, Sir Solomon. In future you
will always see me arrayed, not as the inferior mass of mankind, but
as one who has eaten the popomack.
SIR SOLOMON [_glaring at him_]. I’m glad you think it a subject for
tomfoolery. Four days ago you told me you couldn’t stand it any
longer, and threatened to commit suicide. My health’s getting ruined
for want of sleep. I’ve not slept for weeks. I’m worn out rushing
from place to place seeing people, to try to discover some means of
getting rid of this awful thing, and here you stand and joke about
it!
SIR PHILO [_cheerfully_]. Have you seen the _Times_ this morning?
SIR SOLOMON. No, I haven’t. I’ve just glanced at it!
SIR PHILO. Well, you evidently did not read the account of the Royal
Geographical Society’s dinner. I was the hero of it. The man from
the Himalayas was nowhere.
SIR SOLOMON. You! At the dinner!
SIR PHILO. Yes.
SIR SOLOMON. How? Whatever do you mean?
SIR PHILO. I in my new popomack equipment. Didn’t you notice the two
sailors and the vacuum cleaner outside the house as you came in?
SIR SOLOMON. Yes. I saw some sort of machine in a car. [_Shortly._
SIR PHILO [_triumphantly_]. Well, it’s mine, but it’s not a vacuum
cleaner, it’s a diving pump for my diving-dress. I was just going
when you came. I’ll be off now and give you a demonstration. [_He
goes and opens the window._] Hallo! Start pumping there! [_He closes
the window._] [_To_ BELVOIR]. Help me to screw this on [_With the
help of_ BELVOIR _he screws on the face of the diving helmet, then
lifts his speaking trumpet to his face_.] Call Nosegay to help me
down. [BELVOIR _rings_.
[NOSEGAY _enters and takes up his air pipes_.
Carefully, Nosegay! Good-bye, my boy. Au revoir, Sir Solomon. Don’t
forget to read that article in the _Times_ [_at the door to_
BELVOIR]. Let me know if you get any answer to the advertisement.
[_Exit with_ NOSEGAY.
[SIR SOLOMON _and_ BELVOIR _sit down gloomily and listen to the car
driving away. The noise fades. Silence._
SIR SOLOMON. I always thought that man was a buffoon.
BELVOIR. Perhaps, but he has solved the problem.
SIR SOLOMON. You don’t mean to say you think you can carry on like
that?
BELVOIR. No, he has only solved his own problem. It remains for me to
solve mine.
SIR SOLOMON. Did he tell you what Hermann says?
BELVOIR. He told me they had no hope of being able to do anything.
SIR SOLOMON. And I’ve heard the same from the Oriental School of
Medicine in Paris.
BELVOIR. Well? I’m not going to trouble about anything of that sort in
the future.
SIR SOLOMON [_alarmed_]. What do you mean?
BELVOIR [_as if thinking to himself_]. It has nothing to do with my
life. To bother oneself with it at all is a mere concession to other
people’s feelings—like wearing a top hat at a wedding.
SIR SOLOMON [_somewhat relieved_]. Well, how many weddings would you
be asked to if you made a habit of appearing in flannels, or—to use
a much nearer analogy—naked.
BELVOIR. More than you think, perhaps; but I don’t grant your analogy.
SIR SOLOMON. The difference is very slight, I assure you. You find it
difficult to realize now. You probably forget at times that there is
anything the matter with you at all since you yourself cannot notice
it [BELVOIR _winces_]. But can’t you remember, can’t you recall what
it was like when I cut it—before you ate it?
BELVOIR. Well, it can’t be so unendurable when you’ve been sitting
here for some time ... and there’s Nosegay.
SIR SOLOMON [_pointing to his nosepad_]. This is a very inadequate
protection, I assure you, but nevertheless without it I could not
stay here much longer. Even so, I suffer extreme discomfort.
BELVOIR [_rising_]. I’ve no wish to inconvenience you.
SIR SOLOMON. Please sit down. Any formality of that sort is out of
place between us.
BELVOIR [_bitterly_]. Yes, you think I have lost even the right to a
conventional courtesy.
SIR SOLOMON. Well, it’s no use living in a fool’s paradise. If I have
to come into a man’s presence padded like this he cannot be
squeamish about trifles.
BELVOIR [_hostile_]. I am not aware that I asked you to come.
SIR SOLOMON. What do you mean? Come, don’t be foolish. I only want to
help you.
BELVOIR. And I am not aware of having asked for your help.
SIR SOLOMON [_with a glance at him_]. I fully understand what you must
be feeling. Believe me, I have the deepest sympathy for you;
especially, as you must realize, when I am in some sort the cause of
your misfortune.
BELVOIR [_violently_]. Misfortune? What misfortune?
SIR SOLOMON [_a little uneasy_]. Well, well, we won’t quarrel over a
word. [_Soothingly._] I have another matter to talk to you about.
BELVOIR [_coldly_]. Indeed! What is it?
[SIR SOLOMON _looks nettled for a moment, then continues smoothly_].
It’s about Muriel. You, of course, realize that in the circumstances
a continuance of your engagement is impossible.
BELVOIR. Impossible! Why?
SIR SOLOMON [_beginning to get ruffled_]. Surely you don’t need me to
tell you why! Be reasonable!
BELVOIR. Reasonable? Why should I be reasonable?
SIR SOLOMON [_is about to retort, but checks himself, then speaks_].
Lord Belvoir, I don’t know why you are adopting this curious
attitude, but I am sure you would not wish to take advantage of
Muriel’s reluctance to break off an engagement which she cannot
possibly desire to continue, but which in the circumstances her
natural sensitiveness may prevent her repudiating.
BELVOIR. You say she wishes to be released from our engagement.
SIR SOLOMON [_evasively but with an assumed vigour_]. Naturally, she
must do so.
BELVOIR [_politely_]. You must forgive me if I fail to see the
necessity or to accept the implication.
SIR SOLOMON [_angrily_]. That’s nonsense! You must see that she can’t
possibly marry you.
BELVOIR. I am sorry not to share your low opinion of me, but I don’t.
I, on the contrary, think very highly of you. I think your manners
are charming.
SIR SOLOMON [_exasperated_]. Don’t waste your irony on me! You refuse
to release her. Very well! It is not of any consequence, but I must
say I’m surprised, I expected you to act like a gentleman.
BELVOIR [_with cold irony_]. I! A gentleman! Do you come into a
gentleman’s presence disinfected like that?
SIR SOLOMON [_shrugging his shoulders_]. I’ve already said that you
have my deepest sympathy.
[_Rising from his seat._
BELVOIR [_controlling himself with an effort_]. Sympathy! Do you think
that if you were not Muriel’s father I should tolerate these
insults? I accept you such as you are; I make no reference to your
defects, personal or moral, but do you therefore think yourself
perfect? My God! I have at least as much difficulty in stomaching
you as you have me! _You_ have my deepest sympathy!
SIR SOLOMON. Thank you, but you see, unlike you, I do not need it. I
at least do not fill my daughter with repulsion.
BELVOIR [_startled_]. Repulsion!
SIR SOLOMON [_mockingly_]. Does that surprise you? Why have you never
been to our house during the last three months? You simply did not
dare to meet her?
BELVOIR. While there was hope I wished to spare her unnecessary
annoyance.
SIR SOLOMON. Annoyance! Three months’ absence to spare a woman a
little annoyance! Well, let that pass, but now? Dare you see her
now?
BELVOIR [_after a slight pause_]. Yes.
SIR SOLOMON [_seeming surprised for a moment, then he laughs_]. I’ve
always said few men have the pluck to face the truth about
themselves.... You’ll have a rude awakening!
BELVOIR. Perhaps, but in that case I shall feel I have had a fortunate
escape.
SIR SOLOMON [_sneering_]. You do value yourself highly. What
attraction do you think you can possibly have for a woman?
BELVOIR. Am I so different a person to-day from the man I was three
months ago?
SIR SOLOMON. You are only physically abhorrent! But perhaps you
believe in the marriage of souls?
BELVOIR [_with a slight shudder_]. I believe that I do not exist
merely as a smell.
SIR SOLOMON. That is true, though there is very little a woman gets
from a man except through her senses. If there were no other man in
the world, no doubt any woman would accept you. But have you
something that no other man has got? [_He bursts out into
laughter._] Ha! Ha! Ha! Of course you have! Ha! Ha! Ha! [BELVOIR
_waits without stirring_. SIR SOLOMON _suddenly stops laughing. He
continues deliberately_] Have you anything else that no other man
has got which a woman can share, can appreciate and enjoy, which
will make it worth her while to endure such a sacrifice as marrying
you entails?
BELVOIR [_gloomily_]. That is what I have got to find out.
SIR SOLOMON. Yes, and when in your presumption you have told yourself
you possess it, you have got to find that _she_ desires it. Humph!
like most men you are a fool where women are concerned! I tell you
that in twelve months my daughter will be engaged to someone else.
In twenty-four months she will be married to someone else. In three
years she will have children by someone else, and the difference
between those children and the children she would have had by you
will not matter to her, or to the universe.
BELVOIR. It may be so, but I don’t believe it.
SIR SOLOMON. Do you think that if you were blotted out to-morrow it
would make any difference to the future? Do you imagine the world
would cease to go on, or that it would be the poorer without you?
Every hen clucks when it has laid its egg, thinking it the only egg
in the universe. Even supposing you are unique, that there is no one
living exactly like you, and—which is quite another point—that your
singularity is of value, do you really believe that Life which has
produced you once cannot produce you again?
BELVOIR. That is what I believe, what I must believe.
SIR SOLOMON. Millions of worms crawling in the Palaeozoic mud
struggled like you, each one for its existence, as if the future
depended upon it. But did any one worm matter? Did they matter even
in their millions? Poor blind existences, they could not conceive a
world without worms, as you perhaps cannot conceive a world without
men, but I tell you that men _and_ worms are like the foam on the
waves of the sea, mere fleeting gestures of the wind signifying
nothing.
BELVOIR. I do not believe it. The breath of life is not without but
within. You yourself do not believe it or why should you care who
marries your daughter?
SIR SOLOMON. I don’t. Do you think I believe she matters, or that
whomever she married I should not despise, as I despise all men,
lusting after women because they can’t help it, and slaving to
satisfy their lusts? It is all loathsome, but I can at least cloak
its loathsomeness in delighting my senses. I can feast my eyes on
the beauty of the bride and the male vigour of the bridegroom, and
in imagination enjoy their nuptial delight, drowning my disgust in
champagne; but I will not tolerate [_with an expression of disgust_]
an offence in my nostrils, as I would not keep a stinking weed in my
garden among my roses.
BELVOIR [_pale_]. Are you sure that you may not fill your daughter
with repulsion?
SIR SOLOMON [_going to the door_]. You do not know women, and Muriel
is not my daughter for nothing. If she never meets you again she may
pity you, and even remember you with what fools call affection, but
if she met you, you could inspire her only with disgust.
[_Exit_ SIR SOLOMON.
[BELVOIR _turns and stares into the empty fireplace. Presently_
NOSEGAY _enters with a note which he presents to_ BELVOIR.
NOSEGAY. Miss Raub is downstairs, my lord, and asked me to give you
this note.
BELVOIR [_opening it_]. Is she alone?
NOSEGAY. Yes, my lord.
BELVOIR [_hesitates and walks about the room_]. Ask her to come up.
[_Exit_ NOSEGAY. _He returns in a moment and opens the door._
NOSEGAY. Miss Raub. [_Exit_ NOSEGAY.
[MURIEL _is charmingly dressed as usual. At the doorway she falters,
turns visibly pale, then walks into the room._
MURIEL. I had to come. Why have you never been to see me?
BELVOIR [_he does not attempt to approach her, but moves farther away
towards the piano_]. Your father has just been here.
MURIEL [_involuntarily_]. What a narrow escape!
BELVOIR. Ah! You realize that!
MURIEL [_nervously_]. Why was he here—any news—anything special?
BELVOIR. If you mean, did he bring any good news, No!
MURIEL. Any bad?
BELVOIR. Not really. Tell me, Muriel, have you ever shared these
fatuous expectations of my being cured of this—?
MURIEL. Why fatuous? [_hesitatingly_]. I have always hoped....
BELVOIR. Well, there is no hope. Do you understand? Absolutely no
hope!
MURIEL [_desperately_]. I don’t believe it! I can’t believe it!
BELVOIR. Professor Hermann says so. Your father has heard the same
thing from Paris. You see, it is something quite out of the
ordinary, and in a way natural. To alter it now is like trying to
change the colour of one’s eyes.
MURIEL [_faltering_]. It’s incredible!
BELVOIR. I have made up my mind. I am not going to waste my life going
from specialist to specialist and running after every new quack, who
thinks he can cure me of a disability of which I am not conscious,
which in no way affects my mental or physical vigour, and which is
really as irrelevant to my true personality as a wooden leg. If I am
not to become like one of these unhappy victims of imaginary
diseases who exist only as a subject for medical experiment and
discussion, I must abolish from my mind the very existence of this
affliction. This would be quite easy for me to do if I could live
absolutely alone, but as that is impossible, the only alternative is
for my friends also to be completely oblivious of it, to put it
completely out of their minds for ever. Those who cannot do this I
shall not number among my friends, and I will take care to show them
that they are not wanted. [_He pauses_, MURIEL _does not speak.
Anxiously_] Muriel, you are silent! What are you thinking?
MURIEL [_softly_]. You are asking a great deal from them. You, of
course, do not realize how much.
BELVOIR. Muriel! Is it so very much? To ignore a mere sensation, an
ugly sensation, if you will, but do they never put up with ugliness
in the world about them? Are they so sensitive that they cannot
tolerate a slight physical discomfort for the sake of— [_He
hesitates._
MURIEL [_gently_]. For the sake of what?
BELVOIR [_stares in front of him: he does not dare to look at her_]. I
have not always wholly liked the people I have known intimately.
There have been things about them, personal things, sometimes
physical, sometimes neither physical nor mental, but far deeper,
which have aroused in me profound distaste. I have even felt about
some that they were evil, a feeling far worse than any that can be
caused by a mere physical deformity, yet I have never turned my back
on them without a consciousness of loss.
MURIEL [_with a slight shudder_]. How one longs to be brave!
BELVOIR [_he does not look at her_]. Muriel!
MURIEL [_as if in a dream_]. I do not understand these things. One
does them, or one doesn’t do them, and one never knows what one is
going to do. I am afraid of myself. What am I going to do? [_She
walks slowly towards_ BELVOIR, _who stands absolutely motionless,
and puts her arms around him_.] Reg—! [_She faints._
[BELVOIR _places her gently on the chesterfield and rings the bell_.
[NOSEGAY _enters_.
BELVOIR. Miss Raub has fainted. Call the housekeeper, and bring some
brandy.
CURTAIN
Act IV
SCENE:—LORD BELVOIR’S _old rooms in Half Moon Street. Time:—Evening.
Nothing is changed except for a few books and miscellaneous articles.
Seated in an armchair facing the picture is the_ SECOND YOUNG MAN _of
Act I. In another chair is the_ FIRST YOUNG MAN. _They are smoking after
dinner._
FIRST YOUNG MAN. You say Lord Belvoir shot himself. Was it in this
room?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. It isn’t known whether it was here or in his
bedroom.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. What was the reason?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. There were all sorts of stories about his having
eaten a Popomack and smelling horribly; it was a most mysterious
affair.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. I wonder you care to live here.
SECOND YOUNG MAN. I didn’t intend it. But I had always wanted that
picture. You remember how annoyed I was when we went back to the
gallery and discovered that it had just been bought. Then when I
heard all his things were to be sold I came here to see it, and when
I was here looking at it, I suddenly thought why shouldn’t I buy
everything, and live here myself?
FIRST YOUNG MAN. What a strange idea!
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Not at all. I had always been attracted by what I
had heard of Lord Belvoir, although I had never met him; the very
fact that he had bought that picture seemed to be a link between us,
and the impulse came over me so suddenly and was so strong it was
just as if I was doing something that had always been inevitable.
FIRST YOUNG MAN [_with a shudder_]. I shouldn’t like to live here.
There’s something queer about the place, I should feel it was
haunted.
SECOND YOUNG MAN [_leaning forward_]. It _is_ haunted.
FIRST YOUNG MAN [_startled_]. Good God! What do you mean?
SECOND YOUNG MAN [_in a strange voice_]. I have been trying to
understand what happened to Lord Belvoir, and I often sit at night
looking at that picture, and slowly, as I sit there, I feel that I
am getting very near to what happened. I feel it is all round me,
printed as it were indelibly upon the air, and that it requires only
a very little to make it all suddenly visible. [_In a lower tone._]
That is why I have moved nothing since I came here. Everything is
exactly as it was when he went out for the last time, or stood in
this room and shot himself. And I’ll tell you something more. I
believe I know exactly where he shot himself.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. Good God!
SECOND YOUNG MAN. He came and stood in front of this picture and shot
himself there [_rising and continuing with suppressed excitement_].
He stood just here, do you see? Now why did he do that?
[_He clasps his head and paces up and down._
FIRST YOUNG MAN. But how do you know all this?
SECOND YOUNG MAN [_resuming his seat_]. I suddenly saw it as I sat
looking at that picture. I believe if we look at it long enough and
surrender ourselves to the influence of this place, we shall see all
that happened in this room [_in a whisper_]. Can’t you feel that it
is all here?
FIRST YOUNG MAN [_shivering_]. There’s something strange about this
place.
SECOND YOUNG MAN. It’s Belvoir! He’s here! Everything that passed
through his mind as he stood gazing at that picture before he shot
himself! He lived it all over again that last day, and we shall see
it. Look there! Look! It’s Belvoir.
[_The lights go out and then rise again on the same scene. There is
no one in the room but_ BELVOIR _and he is reading. Presently he
looks at his watch and goes to the telephone._
BELVOIR. Mayfair 2713, yes, please. Hallo! Is that Mayfair 2713? I
want to speak to Miss Raub; will you put me through? Hallo! Is that
you, Muriel?... Yes, the same as usual! What have you been doing
to-day?... Did you enjoy it?... Who was there?... Yes.... Was
Clavelly there?... Oh, did he?... Yes, but I felt nervous, going out
for the first time for weeks. However, it was splendidly arranged.
There was not even a commissionaire at the door. I had the whole
gallery to myself. Nosegay waited downstairs for me. I stayed there
a couple of hours, and looked at all my favourite pictures. The
English loan collection is admirable. There are some beautiful early
Johns. One, a dark gipsyish girl in a blue and yellow spotted frock,
dark blue blouse, and a curious bluish grey hat, lying by a mountain
lake. Extraordinarily rich, but strangely still and reposeful. That
alone was worth the trouble. They’ve got the _Smiling Woman_ in
there and a lot of other good things. I saw the Orpen your father
lent them.... I thought it extremely clever, but unsatisfying,
rather like him. Yes, several water-colours: you know the Cotman I
keep in this room and a couple of others I had sent up from Belvoir.
I suppose you’re going to-morrow to the private view.... Who’s going
with you?... Oh! How is your mother?... No, not one so far. Phaoron
tells me our advertisement for the popomack has been appearing in
the Chinese papers for a good many weeks now, but that’s no reason
to be despondent. There are not likely to be many people alive even
in China who have ever heard of it, and the news that someone is
advertising will only get about slowly ... [_he looks at his
watch_]. It’s just on half-past seven.... Must you? Where are you
dining?... Yes, I’ve met them once, about a year ago.... Good-bye,
darling. You’ve something to say to me! What is it! Tell me now! Oh,
very well, I’ll ring up when you get back. About eleven, will that
do?
[_He rings off, walks about the room for a few minutes, and then
returns to his armchair and takes up the book he was reading.
Presently he seems to have fallen asleep._ [_Enter_ NOSEGAY.
NOSEGAY. There’s a man downstairs, my lord, who says he has come about
an advertisement. Did you expect anyone?
BELVOIR. About an advertisement. It must be about the popomack!
[_Eagerly._] Show him up. Wait a moment. What sort of a man is he?
NOSEGAY. He’s a man of about fifty, my lord, and looks rather like a
sailor.
BELVOIR. Very well, show him up.
[NOSEGAY _goes out and presently returns with_ CAPTAIN ANTHONY, _who
is carrying a large handkerchief which he holds to his nose. He
wears the soft loose clothes of the_ OLD MAN _in Act I, whom he
exactly resembles except that he has a white beard_.
NOSEGAY. Captain Anthony. [_Exit._
BELVOIR [_rising and holding out his hand_]. How do you do? My name is
Belvoir, Lord Belvoir.
ANTHONY. Very pleased to meet you, Lord Belvoir.
BELVOIR. Will you have a cigar? Do you mind helping yourself? They’re
in that box. Take a chair. That’s a comfortable one.
ANTHONY [_takes one_]. Thank you.
BELVOIR. I suppose it was the advertisement in the _Times_ you saw?
ANTHONY. No, I never see the _Times_. I only got in yesterday.
BELVOIR. Then you’ve no doubt come from the East?
ANTHONY. Yes. Shanghai.
BELVOIR. Did you see the advertisement there?
ANTHONY. Well, not exactly, but I heard of it, and as I was coming
home, I found out all the particulars. I thought I might come and
see the person. That advertisement did not say much.
BELVOIR. It said a high price would be paid to anyone who could
procure, or could inform the advertiser how to procure a popomack
fruit. That seems to me quite enough.
ANTHONY. No doubt, no doubt, if it were a matter of ordinary business.
But the popomack is not ordinary business. I am curious to discover
how you came to know anything about it. I am astonished that you
came to eat it.
BELVOIR. Well, there is very little to tell. A friend of mine received
from China, where he has a business house, a popomack, and having
heard how rare a delicacy it was, he invited myself and others to
dinner some three months ago. One other guest beside myself ate this
fruit with the unfortunate result of which you are no doubt
conscious, and we simply want to obtain another popomack. That is
the purpose of our advertisement.
ANTHONY. I see. I suppose you know all about the popomack by now.
BELVOIR. Well, no one seems to know very much about it. Few people in
the world have ever heard of it, and it seems highly probable that
my friend and I are the only people living who have tasted one.
ANTHONY. No, that is not so!
BELVOIR. Ah! then you know where this fruit can be got?
ANTHONY. Do you mind telling me why you want another popomack?
BELVOIR. I am engaged to the daughter of the man who gave that dinner.
When she has eaten it, we are going to get married.
ANTHONY. Twenty years ago, when I was before the mast, I was in a brig
engaged in the island trade of the China sea. We had with us a young
man who had run away from home to be a sailor; his name was
Marjoribanks, but he called himself Marchbanks, same as your name is
Belvoir, but you call it Beaver. We had been driven out of our
course in a storm, and at daybreak one morning we found ourselves
near a small island. As we wanted water we manned a boat and landed
a party who scoured about to find a spring. Presently Marjoribanks
returned with a huge blue fruit which he had found growing. We
decided to cut it and try it, but on opening it there came forth
such a stench that no one could touch it except young Marjoribanks,
who ate the whole thing under our eyes before you could say Jack
Robinson. When the fruit was all gone, however, the stench remained,
and seemed to come from Marjoribanks. We ducked him in the sea, but
still he smelt. We didn’t know what to do with him, it was almost
impossible to go near him, and so we left him on the island.
BELVOIR. You mean to say you left him alone on the island?
ANTHONY. Yes, we sailed away, and for all I know he’s there to this
day.
BELVOIR. Could you find that island again?
ANTHONY. I daresay I could.
BELVOIR. Well, will you take my yacht _Adventuress_, and bring back a
popomack, or as many as you can?
ANTHONY. Well, that’s a proposition; but I dare say I might accept it.
When shall I start?
BELVOIR. O, you can start at once.
ANTHONY. Excellent! Do you know I should rather like to see poor
Marjoribanks again. I have often thought about him.
BELVOIR. Well, I’ll give you a letter to the officer in charge of the
_Adventuress_ at Southampton, he will supply you with all you
require, and when you return wire me and come straight here with the
popomack.
ANTHONY. I will. [_The scene fades. When it becomes visible again_,
BELVOIR _is still in his chair. The door opens, and_ NOSEGAY
_appears_.
NOSEGAY. Captain Anthony has arrived, my lord.
BELVOIR [_excitedly_]. Show him up!
[_The door opens and_ CAPTAIN ANTHONY _enters_.
ANTHONY. I hope you got my wire, sir.
BELVOIR. Yes, have you got it?
ANTHONY. Yes, here it is. [_He takes from a large bag a popomack and
places it on the table._
BELVOIR. I have told Miss Raub; she will be here to eat it in a few
moments, and then, Anthony, we shall be married the day after
to-morrow, and you must come to our wedding.
ANTHONY. I shall be delighted. [_Enter_ NOSEGAY.
NOSEGAY. Miss Raub, my lord.
BELVOIR. Show her up; and, Nosegay, bring a knife and plate.
NOSEGAY. Yes, my lord.
[_Exit. The door opens and_ MURIEL _enters_.
BELVOIR. Muriel! Allow me to introduce you to Captain Anthony.
[_They shake hands, and_ BELVOIR _walks about the room in a state of
great excitement_. MURIEL _is pale and obviously distressed_.
MURIEL [_hesitatingly_]. Reggie!
[_At this moment the door opens and_ NOSEGAY _enters with a knife
and plate which he places on the table. He goes out_. BELVOIR _at
once takes the knife and is about to insert it in the popomack_.
MURIEL [_imploringly_]. Stop, Reggie! I came to tell you. Oh, do
forgive me, but I can’t!
[ANTHONY _creeps out into the shadow_.
BELVOIR [_thunderstruck_]. Muriel! What do you mean?
MURIEL [_clenching her gloved hands_]. I simply can’t do it. I can’t!
I can’t!
BELVOIR [_helplessly_]. But, Muriel, you promised. We’ve been months
waiting for this day. I don’t understand you!
MURIEL. I don’t understand myself.
BELVOIR. But why this sudden change?
MURIEL. It isn’t a sudden change. I’ve known all the time in my heart
that I couldn’t do it, but I’ve been too great a coward to tell you.
BELVOIR. But ... Muriel, don’t you love me?
MURIEL. I’m very fond of you, Reggie, but I can’t marry you.
BELVOIR. Can’t marry me? Muriel darling, you’re frightened, but it’s
nothing. Now just eat this, and all will be well.
MURIEL [_firmly_]. Reggie, it’s no good. I’m not going to marry you.
BELVOIR. I don’t understand. What is the matter? Muriel! [_He moves
towards her to take her in his arms, but she recoils._
MURIEL. Don’t make it harder for me, Reggie!
BELVOIR [_furiously_]. Hard for you, but what about me? Do you expect
me to take any notice of such nonsense. [_He seizes her and kisses
her passionately, but she resists strenuously and at last he lets
her go._
MURIEL. Give me some brandy quick!
[_He rushes to a cupboard and pours out some in a tumbler. She
drinks it._
MURIEL. [_coldly_]. Now will you let me go?
BELVOIR [_imploringly_]. Muriel, what’s the matter with you? Why have
you changed?
MURIEL. I am awfully sorry, Reggie, but I have found that my feelings
are not what I thought they were.
BELVOIR [_scornfully_]. Well, your father was right. He said you’d
never be able to stand me now.
MURIEL. It isn’t that, I assure you.
BELVOIR. Oh, yes, it is.
MURIEL. You’re wrong! Even if I ate the popomack it would make no
difference really!
BELVOIR [_laughing almost hysterically_]. Oh, wouldn’t it? Do you
think the fellow you want to marry would have you then?
MURIEL [_flushing_]. I don’t want to marry anyone.
BELVOIR [_coldly_]. Let me tell you you’re a liar! Don’t you think I
haven’t known this would happen? Here while I have been cooped up
unable to take you about, other men have been seeing you, talking to
you, dancing with you, riding with you! My God, to think what I’ve
suffered! Day after day I have had to sit here absolutely helpless,
knowing that every minute I was losing you, and [_with a change in
tone_] losing you for ever to some worthless bounder who smells of
tobacco instead of popomack!
MURIEL. I am sorry, Reggie, really!
BELVOIR. Are you quite sure you love this one? Do you know anything
about love at all? How long do you think it will last?
MURIEL. I’ve told you before I’m not in love with anyone.
BELVOIR. I believe you. But now and then you want a man, and you’re
not going to take a man who will be a nuisance as I shall be.
Neither are you going to sacrifice the pleasures you’ve been
accustomed to in order to go away and live with him. You haven’t got
it in you to make yourself a new life with me.
MURIEL [_desperately_]. _Will_ you believe me! I am acting on
instinct. Do you think I’d let anything stop me if I loved you?
BELVOIR. But, Muriel, you loved me; I know you loved me.
MURIEL. Perhaps I did. I don’t understand it.
BELVOIR. You’ll find you love me still. It is merely this unfortunate
affair. Everything will come right if you take this [_offering her
the popomack_]. Do, Muriel!
MURIEL. It’s no use, Reggie, I can’t.
BELVOIR. Well, there’s nothing more to be said. I wonder if you know
what you do want.
MURIEL. I don’t think what I want exists.
BELVOIR. No, and if it did, you wouldn’t know it!
MURIEL. But I feel I ought not to do anything that I can resist doing.
Why can’t you make me want you so badly, Reggie, that I should eat
the popomack, or do anything for you?
BELVOIR. Yes; blame me that you don’t love me.
MURIEL. Well, you are to blame. There must be something lacking in
you.
BELVOIR. My God! Why do I love you?
MURIEL. Perhaps you don’t, perhaps you only think you do! [_Holding
out her hand_] Good-bye!
BELVOIR [_speechless_]. Oh ... er—good-bye.
[_She goes immediately._ BELVOIR _stands motionless for a moment and
then walks about the room kicking everything that is light enough to
be kicked painlessly_.] Damnation! [_He rings furiously._ NOSEGAY
_enters_.] Where’s Captain Anthony?
NOSEGAY. I don’t know....
ANTHONY [_emerging from the shadows_]. Here I am.
[NOSEGAY _vanishes_.
BELVOIR [_looking towards the popomack_]. She won’t touch it.
[_Furiously._] She’s got hold of some other man now! She’s a
heartless minx! Her father was right, damn him!
ANTHONY [_ironically_] I thought she’d be a wonder if she took it.
BELVOIR. But she never seemed more desirable! Why did I let her go!
Fool! Why didn’t I force her to eat it? My God! I am an idiot! She
doesn’t know her own mind. Force is what she wants. My God, I am a
fool!
ANTHONY. You can easily do the trick if you want to!
BELVOIR. What’s that you’re saying?
ANTHONY. You can easily get your own back on these folk.
BELVOIR. What do you mean? How?
ANTHONY. Give out that you’re cured by an antidote I’ve brought back
from China. Invite them to a celebration dinner and give them the
popomack disguised in the soup. Then you’ll all be in the same boat,
and she’ll have to have you.
BELVOIR [_staring in astonishment_]. Splendid! My God, you’re a
marvel! What an idea! I’ll fix it up at once. [_He goes to the bell
and rings it._
[NOSEGAY _appears at the doorway. The scene fades. When the lights
go up the table in_ BELVOIR’S _room is laid for a small
dinner-party. The room seems empty. Presently the door opens and_
NOSEGAY _ushers in_ SIR PHILO _and_ LADY PHAORON: SIR PHILO _is in
his diving-dress with helmet and trumpet_.
LADY PHAORON. Thank God he’s discovered an antidote. Now you’ll be
able to get rid of that ridiculous affair, and lead a decent life.
SIR PHILO [_through his trumpet_]. What’s that, you say, my dear?
LADY PHAORON. For God’s sake pull yourself together! You’re not deaf,
yet, are you?
SIR PHILO. No, but your voice reverberates so, my dear, in this
helmet, you have no idea.
LADY PHAORON. I said thank God he’s found an antidote, so that you’ll
be able to walk about like a civilized human being again.
SIR PHILO. Civilized?
LADY PHAORON. You heard quite well what I said.
SIR PHILO. I don’t want to be civilized. You wouldn’t have thought
Thotmes III civilized.
LADY PHAORON. You’re not Thotmes III. You’re a Georgian knight.
SIR PHILO. A what?
LADY PHAORON [_exasperated_]. A Georgian knight, you fool!
SIR PHILO [_shouting_]. What’s a Georgian knight, you fool?
LADY PHAORON. God knows why I married you!
SIR PHILO. God knows what? What does God know?
[LADY PHAORON _gives him up and sits down with a resigned shrug. She
helps herself to one of_ BELVOIR’S _cigars. They sit without
speaking._ SIR PHILO, _who is usually brisk and talkative, is
huddled up in a dejected mass of tubes and gadgets with his trumpet
dangling forlornly upon his breast. Presently the door opens and_
NOSEGAY _ushers in_ SIR SOLOMON _and_ LADY OLIVIA _and_ MURIEL.
SIR SOLOMON. How d’ye do, Lady Phaoron? [_Louder._] Well, Philo, this
is a most fortunate affair. Aren’t you looking forward to getting
out of that rig-out?
[SIR PHILO _shakes hands spiritlessly and mumbles something
unintelligible inside his helmet_.
LADY PHAORON. Of course, he is; it’s a godsend!
SIR PHILO [_shouting through his trumpet_]. I’m sick of God and what
He sends.
LADY PHAORON [_loudly_]. There’s no call for blasphemy. I thought you
couldn’t hear unless one shouted.
SIR PHILO [_shouting_]. I didn’t hear. I guessed.
LADY OLIVIA. I’m sure you must be delighted, Sir Philo. It must have
been awful for you these last three months.
LADY PHAORON. Awful! It’s been positively ghastly! We’ve been nowhere;
we’ve seen no one, and, what with shouting and being shouted at, my
nerves are all in pieces.
SIR PHILO [_to_ LADY OLIVIA]. I’ve had a delightful time, the best
time of my life.
[_Re-enter_ NOSEGAY _with another man-servant carrying soup-tureen_.
NOSEGAY. Will you please to be seated? His lordship has instructed me
to ask you to begin; he has just telephoned and will be here
presently. He was very particular that you should on no account
wait.
SIR SOLOMON [_to_ NOSEGAY _as they seat themselves where indicated_].
Where’s the antidote? Sir Philo Phaoron won’t be able to eat until
he has it.
NOSEGAY [_as he serves the soup_]. I don’t know, sir. Perhaps Lord
Belvoir will bring it with him.
SIR SOLOMON [_who is in a good humour_]. This is excellent soup,
Philo. It has a most delicious flavour. What is it, Nosegay? I’ve
never tasted it before.
NOSEGAY. It’s a new recipe, sir; we’ve never had it before.
SIR SOLOMON. You must get Belvoir to give it to you, Olivia; don’t you
think it’s quite remarkable?
LADY OLIVIA. It is excellent.
[_They all eat the soup except_ SIR PHILO.]
SIR SOLOMON [_shouting jovially to_ SIR PHILO]. Can’t you put one of
those tubes in the soup?
LADY OLIVIA. You’ll soon be able to enjoy a dinner-party again. I’m
surprised you’re not more excited about it. [_The soup is cleared
away._ NOSEGAY _and the waiter go out_.]
SIR PHILO. I think people should eat alone. I don’t know whatever
Belvoir wanted to find an antidote for. I was perfectly happy.
MURIEL. Well, you ask him. Here he is.
[_The door opens and_ BELVOIR _enters_.
BELVOIR. Good evening! How d’ye do, Lady Olivia. [_He shakes hands
with her and_ LADY PHAORON _and bows to_ MURIEL].] I must apologize
for asking you to sit down to dinner without me, but it was
unavoidable.
SIR SOLOMON. Congratulations, Belvoir. It’s a most wonderful bit of
fortune. How did it happen?
BELVOIR. I suppose you all notice that I’ve absolutely recovered.
SIR SOLOMON. Absolutely. [_The rest nod._
BELVOIR. You can ... smell nothing?
SIR SOLOMON. Nothing! It’s wonderful!
BELVOIR. You don’t seem very pleased, Sir Philo.
SIR SOLOMON. You know, I don’t believe he wants to take the antidote;
he likes going about in that fantastic get-up.
LADY PHAORON. Ridiculous! he must take it. Make him take it at once,
Lord Belvoir.
SIR PHILO [_lugubriously_]. If there’s an antidote I suppose I shall
have to take it. There’s no point in going about like this if you
can cure yourself any minute. You’d simply be a fraud, and no one
would take any interest in you.
BELVOIR [_quietly but very distinctly_]. Well, Sir Philo, allow me to
tell you that you are cured already. [_They all gasp in
astonishment._] I mean what I say! Take off that suit, and prove it.
[SIR SOLOMON _helps him off with his helmet_.
LADY PHAORON [_delighted_]. Cured! Oh, how can I thank you, my dear
Lord Belvoir?
[MURIEL, _who has been silently watching, suddenly changes colour,
the truth of the situation bursts upon her_.
MURIEL [_starting forward_]. My God, he’s tricked us!
SIR SOLOMON [_turning white_]. What do you mean?
LADY OLIVIA [_shocked_]. Muriel!
MURIEL. Can’t you see why we can’t smell him, and why we shan’t be
able to smell Sir Philo? He’s given us the popomack in the soup!
SIR SOLOMON. My God!
SIR PHILO [_dancing excitedly, his head bare_]. Hurray! Hurray!
SIR SOLOMON. Shut up, you blithering buffoon! [_To_ BELVOIR, _who is
standing calm but pale_] _Is_ this true?
BELVOIR [_deliberately_]. Yes, every one of us in this room stinks
worse than a skunk, and like the skunk, we alone are unconscious of
it.
LADY PHAORON [_as it slowly dawns on her_]. My God! [_She reels
backward into a chair, half-fainting._
SIR PHILO [_his expression changing from one of extreme joy to one of
disappointment and exasperation_]. What! she smells too now?
BELVOIR [_grimly_]. Yes; you’ll have to get another diving-suit for
her.
SIR PHILO [_beaming, as this new aspect dawns upon him_]. Of course!
Splendid! We’ll never be able to hear each other again!
LADY PHAORON [_blubbering_]. I’ll not wear one of those horrid things!
I think it’s wicked of you, Lord Belvoir, wicked! What have I done
to deserve such treatment? I’d rather die than go about like that.
[_She weeps._
SIR PHILO [_jumping excitedly about_]. Splendid! Splendid! Belvoir,
you’re a marvel! She’s human at last!
SIR SOLOMON [_violently_]. Do stop this idiotic jabber! You’ll drive
me mad! Belvoir, I think you’re a scoundrel!
BELVOIR [_coldly_]. Pardon me. I ate the popomack at your house; you
have now eaten it at mine. That is all.
SIR SOLOMON [_hotly_]. But I did not premeditate it. I acted in
ignorance; it was a pure accident!
BELVOIR. And it is now a pure accident that you have eaten it here.
The accident that Muriel no longer loves me [_pause_]. But I love
her and no one else is going to have her.
MURIEL [_passionately_]. Do you think I’d have anything to do with you
now? I’d rather die!
BELVOIR [_grimly_]. It is easy to say that, but wait until you have
had months of isolation as I have had, months without speaking to
anyone except through a telephone, and then you’ll change your mind.
MURIEL [_gloomily_]. Do you think that matters? Do you think you’ve
got me even if I am forced to live with you because there’s no one
else in all this world to live with? [_She clenches her hands._] No
one else in all this world!
BELVOIR [_bitterly_]. Yes, imagine that yesterday you had the whole
world to live with! What is this wonderful world? A mass of
squirming reptiles walking on their hind legs! There is not a single
man in this universe whom you could put in my place at this moment,
and say truly that you would be prepared to abandon everything for
him. You cannot forgive _me_ this trick, but there is no one, _no
one_ you could forgive, and there never will be!
MURIEL. I hate the sight of you!
BELVOIR. Perhaps I also hate you. I cannot think that love would act
like this. But this way I shall win you, and if I had really loved
you I should have lost you.
MURIEL. O how I hate this talk about love! I don’t want to love, I
want to live!
BELVOIR. Well, you shall live with me.
MURIEL. You will wish you were dead. Yes, perhaps I shall live with
you, a vile, hateful life because neither of us is free, bound to
each other by a hunger as basic as the need for food, yet only a
partial hunger, a hunger in which only a fragment of us takes part,
dragging the rest of us with it. Why couldn’t you let me go, and
wait?
BELVOIR. Wait! I’ve waited for thirty years, and now I should wait for
ever, for I should meet no one. Better have you than nothing.
MURIEL. You are wrong. This way you are not getting me! You are
getting nothing that will satisfy a _man_! You are no better than a
dog or a monkey!
BELVOIR. I am a monkey, an enlarged and more intelligent monkey. We
are all monkeys!
MURIEL [_looking at him steadily_]. Now I know why I couldn’t love
you. I never could understand it, but now I know.
BELVOIR. I suppose you think you are perfect, you think you could fall
in love with nothing less than a god. I am not so ambitious.
MURIEL [_scornfully_]. You! Anyone would do for you. You’d fall into
the first woman’s arms who would take pity on you.
BELVOIR. You underrate yourself. Do you think I would have taken this
trouble for anybody?
MURIEL. Oh, no doubt you have a good taste in clothes.
BELVOIR [_intensely_]. Do you know you are extraordinarily beautiful?
MURIEL. Oh, you’d be a judge of that too!
BELVOIR [_passionately_]. Muriel, I love you. Before your beauty God
would tremble. I cannot live without you.
MURIEL. That is another reason why I do not love you. I can love no
man who wants to find his life in me.
BELVOIR [_gloomily_]. I should find no life in you, but you would be
something.
MURIEL. I don’t want to be something. I want to be everything and
nothing.
SIR SOLOMON [_grimly_]. Well, Belvoir, you’ve got the best of us and
Muriel, too, for she’ll never be able to marry anyone else unless
she does the same as you’ve done, and—[_the idea suddenly striking
him_] why shouldn’t we? Have you any of that popomack left?
BELVOIR [_gloomily_]. I don’t know. I expect so.
SIR SOLOMON [_rubbing his hands_]. But of course, that’s the thing to
do. Why, it will solve all our difficulties. I’ll invite everyone I
know; we’ll have a regular banquet. By God! all my friends and all
my enemies too. There are dozens of people who’d give their souls to
be asked to dinner by us. Well, they shall all come! Ha! ha!
[_He laughs fiendishly._
SIR PHILO [_almost whining_]. And what’ll become of me when everyone’s
eaten the popomack?
[_No one takes any notice of him and he goes on mumbling
disconsolately._
SIR SOLOMON. Well, Muriel, you won’t need to marry our friend Belvoir
after all. You can invite the man you want.
MURIEL. Oh, you are all loathsome! I shall invite no one!
BELVOIR [_to_ SIR SOLOMON]. You seem to take it for granted that I am
going to give you the popomack.
SIR SOLOMON [_craftily_]. Why should you refuse? The more people there
are who have eaten it the better for all of us.
BELVOIR [_uneasily, evidently wrestling with himself_]. And I shall
lose Muriel. I know the craftiness of women. She won’t invite the
man she wants, but he’ll be there, oh yes, he’ll be there! [MURIEL
_says nothing, but throws one profound look at him. He continues,
turning to_ MURIEL] You think I am weak because I need you so badly,
but I tell you you are wrong. I cannot live without your beauty. I
cannot live without _you_, divine spirit that you are. For there is
no one who knows how beautiful you are, no one but me; no one who
will watch you fade day by day upon the air with such passion and
such pity. I want to possess you, for you are me. I want to find
myself, for you are myself. No one will know you; you will go about
the earth unrecognized, but I know you. And because you are
imperishable, and because no man will find you, I will let you go
free.
[_The scene slowly fades. When it is light again_, BELVOIR _is seen
seated in his chair with his book on his knee exactly as he sat down
after speaking on the telephone to_ MURIEL. _His eyes are closed,
but it is impossible to tell whether he is asleep. There is silence.
Presently a clock is heard striking._ BELVOIR _opens his eyes, and,
surprised, gazes round the room. He gets up and walks thoughtfully
across to the bell, which he rings_. NOSEGAY _enters_.
BELVOIR. Has a Captain Anthony been here, Nosegay?
NOSEGAY [_puzzled_]. No one of that name that I know of, my lord.
BELVOIR [_putting his hand to his head_]. Has no one been here, not
Sir Solomon and Miss Raub?
NOSEGAY. No one, my lord. [BELVOIR _walks away thoughtfully_.] Is
there anything else?
BELVOIR. No, very well. [NOSEGAY _goes out_.] Extraordinary! [_He
looks at his watch. He walks to the telephone. He takes off the
receiver eagerly in obvious uneasiness._] Mayfair 2713! Hullo! Is
that Mayfair 2713? I want to speak to Miss Raub, please. Hullo! Is
that you, Muriel, back safely?... Who brought you home?... Tell me
what was it you wanted to say to me? What! You’re going to marry
Clavelly! But, Muriel, you’re engaged to me!... Muriel, I don’t
understand.... [_He drops the receiver and walks into the centre of
the room._] I can do nothing, nothing!... [_He walks about the room,
stands a moment in reflection and then crosses to the bell and rings
it._
[NOSEGAY _enters_.
NOSEGAY [_after standing for a moment_]. You rang for me, my lord.
BELVOIR. Go and buy me a cheap revolver.
NOSEGAY [_surprised_]. But I can’t get one at this hour, my lord.
BELVOIR. What’s that? Oh, of course not! Never mind, in the morning
will do. [NOSEGAY _goes out_. [_The lights fade and go up again on
the two_ YOUNG MEN, _sitting gazing as if in a trance straight
before them_.
SECOND YOUNG MAN [_slowly moving and looking round with a shudder_].
Did you see?
FIRST YOUNG MAN [_whispering_]. Yes. My God! how awful! So that was
how it happened. But did I really see it, or have you been telling
it to me so vividly that I imagined it all happening as you spoke?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. But how did I know it? Did I imagine it? I wonder!
FIRST YOUNG MAN. I don’t understand at the end Belvoir’s waking up and
finding that no Captain Anthony had ever called and that there had
been no dinner-party.
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Well, you see, it’s quite simple. Belvoir had been
advertising for a popomack, and Muriel had promised to take it when
they got it and then marry him; but they have been advertising for
some time without success, and Belvoir has been getting more and
more depressed as he never sees Muriel and he hears of her going
about everywhere with other men, so that when she tells him to ring
her up when she gets back home as she has something important to
say, it makes him at once uneasy and works on his mind
sub-consciously to such an extent that when he falls asleep in his
chair he starts dreaming. When he wakes and discovers it is a dream
and telephones Muriel he finds that his fear that he had lost her,
which was the root of his dream, has proved correct.
FIRST YOUNG MAN. But why did he shoot himself before that picture?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Do you remember the couple in the gallery that day
we saw that picture?
FIRST YOUNG MAN. I remember there was a couple sitting down.
SECOND YOUNG MAN. Yes, it was Belvoir and Miss Raub, and that picture
had evidently some cherished association for Belvoir.
FIRST YOUNG MAN [_going up to the picture and looking at it_]. I see
there’s a red paper disc stuck in the corner of the glass. I have
often seen it on pictures at shows. What does it mean?
SECOND YOUNG MAN. It means—[_he suddenly bursts into savage laughter,
then stops dead and continues with slow emphasis_] it means _Sold_.
CURTAIN
PRINTED AT THE SHAKESPEARE HEAD PRESS
STRATFORD-UPON-AVON
MACHINE-SET BY ARTHUR HINE
R. J. STEPHENS AND LIONEL TODMAN
THE HAND COMPOSITION BY W. W. DYER
THE PRESSWORK BY J. ROE H. EDMONDS
AND LESLIE LEE
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE BRITISH DRAMA LEAGUE LIBRARY OF MODERN BRITISH DRAMA
Mr Basil Blackwell, as Publisher to the Shakespeare Head Press, of
Stratford-upon-Avon, has arranged with the British Drama League to
publish a standard Library of new plays, the first four volumes of which
are now ready.
Efforts are being made in various directions to improve the conditions
of the English Theatre, but no real renaissance of our drama can take
place without a new impulse towards the writing of plays. For authors
write for an audience, and since, generally speaking and outside a few
established reputations, plays cannot succeed in securing the judgment
of the public in published form, and the difficulties in the way of
their production on the stage are notorious, the Drama is being more and
more abandoned as a medium of the literary craft.
The Drama League believes, therefore, that it can perform no more useful
function than this of securing publication for the best examples of
modern drama that come within its ken. Selections will not be confined
to any branch of drama, nor governed by any consideration of a play’s
commercial value. Each play to receive the League’s imprimatur will
simply be one which seems to the Reading Committee, from whatever point
of view, to be, in the first place, worthy of production and, in the
second place, of preservation in book form, whether its author’s name is
or is not known to the public. It is hoped that the Library will take
its place as the recognized representative series of modern British
Drama.
_Ask your Bookseller to advise you of all additions to the Library_
Oxford Basil Blackwell
Publisher _to the_ Shakespeare Head Press
_of_ Stratford-_upon_-Avon
The British Drama League Library of Modern British Drama
_The volumes already published of this Series with Authority (every play
in which is selected for publication not by the publisher but by the
Selection Committee of the League) are the following_:
1. False Premises _By_ LAURENCE HOUSMAN
Five one-act plays for three and four characters
2. The Man who ate the Popomack _By_ W. J. TURNER
A tragi-comedy of love, in four acts
3. Up Stream _By_ CLIFFORD BAX
A drama in three acts
4. Advertising April: or, The Girl who made the Sunshine Jealous _By_
HERBERT FARJEON & HORACE HORSNELL
A comedy in three acts
_Uniform, paper boards, with coloured cover design
by_ GABRIEL PIPPET. _3s. 6d. net each_
_A limited and numbered edition (generally of from
50 to 100 copies), on hand-made paper, signed by
the Author, in quarter vellum, with the coloured
cover design of the series._ _10s. 6d. net each_
_Any of the above may be obtained from your
bookseller, who will also, if requested, advise you
of the publications of new volumes of the Library.
In case of difficulty write to the Publisher_
Oxford Basil Blackwell
Publisher _to the_ Shakespeare Head Press
_of_ Stratford-_upon_-Avon
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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