Part 1

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?