Part 2

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.