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.

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.

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.

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.

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.