LITTLE COMEDIES
"This green plot shall be our stage, this liawthorne brake
our tyring house."
"Like cutler's poetry
Upon a knife, Lore me and leave me nut."
LITTLE COMEDIES
OLD AXD
BY
JULIAN STURGIS
AUTHOR OK
AN AIVUMPLISHEI) GENTLEMAN.' ' JOHN-A-I>RKAMS,' KT( .
WILLIAM BLACKWOOI) AND SONS
HKINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCLXXXII
CONTENTS.
PAGE
APPLES 1
THE BISHOP ASTRAY, . . . . .41
FIRE-FLIES, 67
A FALSE START, 89
THE LATIN LESSON, 117
HALF-WAY TO ARC AD Y, 135
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE, 149
MABEL'S HOLY DAY, 177
HEATHER, 201
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET, 221
FLORIO, 251
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH, 269
PICKING UP THE PIECES, 283
APPLES
APPLES.
It is spring-time in Rome, and one of the first hot
.) A character !
A. The pity of it ! What is the value of such
dignity and comely obesity save for a heavy father?
The boards shall groan beneath your tread. Come
with me to Winbeach, and be presented to the best
of managers as my Alter Ego which for your ears
unlearned I will render as " My other self," as my
most substantial shadow.
B. My path lies in the other direction. I am on
my way to Winford.
A. Speak not of Winford. I have been starring
there.
D
50 LITTLE COMEDIES.
B. Starring!
A. Yes, sir. I arose a new star over the steaming
flats of Winford ; but the eyes of the yokels had
grown so used to staring on earth, that they could
not look towards heaven. I was compelled to aban-
don the last two acts of " Hamlet," and, in lieu of
harrowing my royal mother's soul, I betook myself to
some ground-tumbling. Then was I under the eyes
of the earth-born ; they were aware of me ; they
thundered with their hobnails on the boards.
B. A precarious life, I fear, my friend.
A. Up to-day and down to-morrow; luckily it is
always to-day. Isn't this good enough 1 This wood ;
this air full of healthful fragrance ; this fresh spring-
ing fern where the sunshine is 'prisoned ; this mossy
couch, whereon even you might yield me a corner for
sitting. Thank you ; that's good. Xow, here are we
two rascals as happy as virtuous souls ! All this
scene is ours, and all for nothing ; we sit at our ease
like gentlemen ; we have, as it were, come in with an
order; we are on Nature's free list. But come, you
THE BISHOP ASTRAY. 51
were singing as I drew near ; I too will lie along ;
and now, like Tityrus and Meliboeus, will we contend
in song. Do you begin ; and if the victory be yours,
I will give you a shilling.
B. No, no, I I did not know that I was
singing. I was but testing my memory. It is very
important for me that my memory should not fail me.
I have a great deal to remember, a great deal of grave
responsibility.
A. Powers of the air ! This man speaks like an
orator.
B. An indifferent orator.
A. Are you a politician ?
B. My position compels me to take some share in
legislature.
A. ((jroans and says ) Eepent, and take some
honest calling. My heart warms strangely to you :
come with me and be a heavy father.
B. Truly, sir, I did not look to be admonished by
a gentleman of your profession.
A. Come to me for good counsel. (He sings.]
52 LITTLE COMEDIES.
" In the morning, by the bright light,
When Gabriel sounds his trumpet in the morning."
B. Gabriel!
A. Pardon me : I have a weakness for piety. Even
you, though sadly given to flesh, may have some taste
for religion. Have you ?
B. A what ? Have I what ? I trust I devoutly
I humbly trust that I am not without religion.
A. Enough of this mocking tone ! "How ill grey
haii-s " You know the rest. (He sings.)
" Carve that possum, chillen,
Carve that possum, chillen,
Carve him to the heart ! "
You too need carving to the heart, old possum. It
may be that you have a heart ; but it beats faintly
beneath that load of flesh. Dig down to it ; lay it
open to sweet nature.
B. My friend, I am not in the habit of hearing
sermons.
A. I would you were. Layer on Ryer of worldli-
THE BISHOP ASTRAY. 53
ness, repelling jelly-like ; and yet deep down my love
for you descries a scarce perceptible human pulse, a
faint heart -beat. I am strangely moved by some
consciousness of a divine spark smouldering under
this mountain ; I would have you fan the flame.
My unknown uncle may be some such feather-bed
as you, and yet not wholly feathers.
B. Your uncle !
A. " A little more than kin, and less than kind."
My mother's brother, but no more like my mother
than I to Hercules. My mother " was a lady ; last
night she died ; " or, to speak more accurately, she
died in giving me birth ; my father the fiddler sold
me for drink ; my sister the ballet-girl taught me to
dance; "my name is Xorval."
B. A fiddler ! God bless my soul !
A. Amen to that ! For the rest, I was baptised
in a pint-pot, and they called me Auriol, after the
carpenter's cat, who was my sponsor. Auriol, Aurio-
lus, Auriolanus, Coriolanus, or what you will. Such
as I am, I am beloved by all men, save only managers ;
51 LITTLE COMEDIES.
I have a good leg but a torn stocking ; a defective
shirt but a cheerful heart beneath it ; nay, here under
this waistcoat under this place where once a waist-
coat was there is a spark, a divine glimmer, a
prisoned fire-fly, which I would not exchange for a
dinner a-day, for the savoury meats which you love.
B. Poor lad!
A. Nay, not so poor neither. Listen ! Do you
hear that chink 1 It takes two coins to chink.
Moreover, I have a royal mantle ; item, a blunted
sword ; item, a plume twice dyed for my hat ; item,
a pair of long stockings of good silk, plum-coloured,
but little darned ; item, an unfailing stock of health,
and of spirits, for which I must ask your pardon.
You are probably richer than I; indeed, I observe
that your shoes are but little worn, and that your
cob is well-rounded in the barrel; yet who knows
if you are happier than I. If I am sometimes too
hungry, you are -always overfed.
B. You should avoid personalities. You spoke of
your father as a violinist 1
THE BISHOP ASTRAY. 55
A. Fiddler; a bad fiddler, and a worse man; a
poor thing, but mine own my father : in our society
it is much to have had a father.
B. What was your father's name 1
A. " Old Scratch " was he called ; methinks the
name became him well.
B. Can you tell me no more of him ?
A. Perhaps you knew him.
B. Xo.
A. He was worth knowing. He was a merry man
when sober ; but he would cry in his cups : he drank
at the fountain of a sentimental melancholy. And
he was a regular man, too ; you could tell the day of
the week by my father's eye. Of a Saturday night it
was dissolved in tears, for he was borne to bed weep-
ing ; on Sunday it was red and dry as Sahara, and he
would often go to church with much groaning of the
spirit ; but after church the desert eye would slowly
disappear like a lurid sun in mist, while my parent
sought to forget the wickedness of the world ; on the
Monday it was but half open ; on the Tuesday it was
56 LITTLE COMEDIES.
kindly sentimental; but by the Wednesday it was a
merry eye, and my father went cheerfully to work.
Yet cheerful himself, he caused no cheerfulness ;
mothers rebuked him for their infants' pangs; only
curs sang to his fiddling ; and thus did he, who began
life with a pointed toe and a curl on his forehead,
teacher of the ancient art of dancing
B. He was a dancing -master 1
A. Ay, sir ; he taught the graceful art to crisp and
pig-tailed maidens in a country town ; and from that
height he fell ! First, he was extra fiddle, dresser,
rougist, and occasional crowd to a company of strol-
lers; and at last, as the curl grew thin, and the foot
grew thick, he would even play at street corners, and
would reap the reward of iniquity, being paid the
more readily in proportion to the harshness of his
playing.
B. And was he married when he taught dancing 1
A. He danced into matrimony. He was a young
and comely bachelor, when he pointed the toe of
example. Pupils came and went those of finer ear
THE BISHOP ASTRAY. 57
went first. Among those who came was one, one in
whose heart young love had lit his flame. She
marked and loved the curl upon his brow. He
marked and loved the pigtail at her neck. They
fled together, and excuse these tears; she was
my mother.
B. And her name 1 What was her name 1
A. The sacred name of wife, and in due time the
yet more sacred name of mother.
B. What was her maiden name ?
A. Her maiden name was Susan Tomlinson. Her
father plied the trade of bookseller at dreamy Sand-
wich, by the eastern sea.
B. Good heavens !
A. Do not swear, old man.
(The Bishop remains silent, lost in thought
and staring at Auriol : Auriol whittles.)
B. And your sister? You spoke of a sister?
Is she older than you?
A. We are twins twin blossoms on one stalk.
58 LITTLE COMEDIES.
B. And you said, I think, that she danced ?
A. Yes, sir. Our mother died and left us. Our
father melted from us. But ere he melted, he taught
my sturdy sister some steps "of the dance. Now she
dances much and well. She is famous, while I but
no matter ! a time will come.
B. And your sister ? A dancer's profession is, I
understand, beset by peculiar perils. Has she is
she
A. She is. She goes straight. She is a square
girl. She is as good a woman as stands on one toe
in England.
B. And her tastes ? How would she be, for
instance excuse my asking such questions, but you
interest me, you and your story how would your
sister fill a more secure, a more domestic position 1 ?
A. She can make an Irish stew with any cook in
England.
B. But again pardon me has she education,
refinement 1
A. If I be poor, I am honest : Josephine lacks
THE BISHOP ASTRAY. 59
culture. She has not her brother's polite education ;
the grosser baby, she is still the grosser ; she writes
with much action of the tongue; she knows not a
line of Shakespeare ; but to her honour be it said that
she can remain on the blunted end of her right foot
for a longer time than any woman of her weight in
England.
(The Bishop groans.)
A. Now, though our songs be yet unsung, I must
away for Winbeach, where I trust to find the salt
fisherman more open than the loamy yokel to the
touch of genius. Farewell, good father.
B. Stay a moment. Shall you be long at Win-
beach 1
A. So long as the marine audience afford me other
victual than stale fish.
B. And your address is The Theatre ?
A. Yes.
B. An actor has sometimes a collection I should
say a benefit ]
60 LITTLE COMEDIES.
A. Sometimes and sometimes he makes money
by it.
B. Could you not take the theatre for a night?
If so, I you have interested me so much I am
perplexed how to serve you I would privately pri-
vately, of course take all the sittings.
A. Let me look on thee. Come to my heart, old
man ; and address your cheque to the Theatre Eoyal.
B. And perhaps I could without indelicacy
send some present, some useful present, to your
sister.
A. You can, and shall. You have nothing more
to say to me? Not Then, farewell again.
B. Good-bye.
(Auriol goes away. The Bishop, left alone,
ambles up and down in sore per-
plexity.}
B. My nearest kin, my nearest kin ! What's to be
done ? A stroller and a dancer ! The scandal, the
THE BISHOP ASTRAY. 61
scandal ! I cannot see my duty plain. Hi, there !
Stop ! You, sir ! Mr Auriol, hi !
(Auriol comes back.}
A. Well?
B. I am in great perplexity.
A. Come to me for counsel
B. To you, an actor ? Pardon me, but it is a point
of conscience.
A. I, too, have a conscience. I make a point
of keeping one about me.
B. Well, I will put it to you. It can do no harm:
Your story has perplexed me strangely. It has called
to my mind the case of a friend of niina
A. Ha, ha. That friend ! That old stage friend !
We all know him. I lend my ear. Proceed.
B. My friend has a somewhat exalted position in
the world ; in fact he is a dignitary of the the
Bench; or rather (to be more strictly accurate)
of the Church.
A. Nothing is proved against him so far.
62 LITTLE COMEDIES.
B. My friend had but one relation in the world
a sister, whom he loved very dearly. When a mere
boy, he was ordained, and went away to a distant
part of the country. He was absorbed by his new
work, and eager yes, as I most truly believe eager
to do good ; he was perhaps forgetful yes, too for-
getful of his home. Thus it happened that his sister
his dear sister left alone formed an unfortunate
attachment. She went away with a man who taught
a man her inferior in every way. My friend strove
hard to find her ; but he failed. She kept her secret
all these years ; I only found out lately that her
silence was the silence of the grave. Poor Susan !
A. Poor friend of yours !
B. Yes ; it was terrible for my friend. She was
dead ; but she had left children two children. My
friend heard that these children had grown up in
great freedom ; had, in fact, led a roving life ; quite
harmless and even worthy, but a life which had
unfitted them, or presumably unfitted them, to share
the sober and decorous life of my friend. They were
THE BISHOP ASTRAY. 63
both, hi some way or other, connected with the stage.
That is why I am moved to ask your advice. Advise
me. And I will advise my friend.
A. What is your difficulty that is, the difficulty
of your friend 1
B. Is he bound to make himself known to these
people ? to take them to his home ?
A. His near kin ?
B, His nearest kin.
A. Should these strollers sit at a bishop's table?
B. Is it not impossible ? Ought he to ask them ?
A. Would they come 1
B. Of course. What a change for them ! From
poverty to comfort, from a precarious to a settled
and dignified life.
A. From porter to claret, doubtful porter to cer-
tain claret ! Are you honest with me, lord bishop 1
B. What would you have me say ?
A. I would have a bishop speak the truth.
B. I am your uncle your mother's brother.
Now?
64 LITTLE COMEDIES.
A. I knew it.
B. You knew it 1
A. We know that friend, we of the buskin :
bishops and all, you borrow that old trick from the
boards. I think I half knew you, when I saw you
first.
B. What shall I do 1
A. Nothing.
B. Nothing !
A. I shall think better of bishops for your sake.
But I will not live with you, eat with you, or drink
with you. Like our coats, we are cut differently. I
should make your friends jump ; you would stifle
mine. Go home, good mine uncle, and say that you
have met a fool i' the forest; and, prithee, think
better of fools, as I will think better of bishops.
And so give me your hand, good uncle, and good-bye ;
and by the powers of the air I will never call you
nunky again !
B. But your sister 1
A. My sister shall know nothing. She would be
THE BISHOP ASTRAY. 65
dull as a modern tragedy, were she tied to a bishop's
apron-strings; yet for the weakness of woman, and
for her itching for pantries and kitchens and good
order, I dare not tell her. A linen -closet might
tempt her to her own damnation.
B. Hush!
A. She shall know nothing, and be happy with
her dancing and smiling.
B. But can I do nothing for her ?
A. Ay, that you can. You shall settle something
on her (be it mine to devise the means) ay, and on
your loving nephew too, pardye !
B. That I can do, and will My lawyer shall
arrange the matter with yours.
A. With mine ! I keep a lawyer ! I'd as lief
keep a polecat.
B. Well, well : a not unnatural prejudice ! How-
ever, I will speak to my lawyer, in whom I have per-
fect confidence ; he will arrange everything without un-
necessary publicity : he shall write to you to the theatre
at Winbeach, "and, if necessary, arrange a meeting.
E
66 LITTLE COMEDIES.
A. If necessary, I will risk it. And now I am
already a man with an income, with so much a-year !
Pray heaven it do no violence to my art, that my
wit grow not lean as my waist waxes. Yet I'll risk
it. And now for the last time, mine uncle your
blessing, uncle.
B. I give it you with a full heart.
A. Ay, and with a full purse, like a nabob uncle
in a play : if I did not laugh, I should weep and so
no more, but thank you.
B. And I thank you.
A. What for ?
B. For a lesson.
A. Good-bye. Let me hold your stirrup : so. And
now, your road lies eastward ; mine to the setting sun.
See how the grass road lies golden under my feet.
Chink, chink, two shillings to ring together ! Clink,
clink, and away in the golden weather ! Good-bye.
B. Good-bye, my dear boy, good-bye.
A. Good-bye.
FIRE-FLIES
FIKE-FLIES.
The long row of windows is yellow with the festive
light within, and yields gay music softened to the
summer night : before the windows the broad
terrace is mysterious under the rising moon ; and
far below dreams the old river, and the shadows
fade from her. Ancient and grim is the city,
with her palaces and prisons. Here on the terrace
is a young woman, mashed and musing : there is
a young man, musing and masked. She speaks.
Bice. I am so sorry that I can't feel sad. I parted
from Bino this morning. I love Bino. Certainly I
love him. We are parted. Parted ! Why do I not
70 LITTLE COMEDIES.
feel sad? It is very distressing. The night is so
beautiful and the dance so gay. For no woman in
the world but the Vera would I dance after a parting
from Bino. The Vera sent for me in her old im-
perious way, and here I am. Here am I in this cruel,
cruel city, left alone, in gay attire, and hiding beneath
the mask, a sad, sad face. Only it is not sad. Ah
me ! There is too much joy in the air : the night is
too beautiful : the music is too sweet : it comes to
me like fairy music. The river lingers in the moon-
light, and I linger. Bino mio, my love what a
very pleasant evening it is !
Bino. It is strange that I should be here, I who
should be flying far away. After that parting from
Bice, that sweet parting, how have I the heart to
linger in this gay scene ? It is gay. Where is that
little wretch, our adorable hostess, the Vera? For
no woman, else would I linger so near the house,
wherein I parted this morning from the sweetest
creature of the world. Ah me ! it is a night of stars ;
the ancient river grows young in the moonlight ; the
FIEE-FLIES. 71
air beats with the passion of a thousand mandolines.
beautiful night, I bless thee for the sake of my
Bice. Perchance she leans from her window to the
fragrant air of her garden, and whispers my name.
Now she lays herself upon her little bed, and veils
those violet eyes. Sleep little one, sleep while I
watch. A sad and lonely vigil. Ah ! the music !
Bice mia, to each cup which I shall quaff to-night,
1 will whisper one name, thy name. I will go quaff
one now. But who is this ? A lady masked. If it
should be the Vera. I dare swear 'tis -she. I know
her by a certain imperious trick of the elbow. I am
never wrong in such matters. Will she know me ?
I think not. Now to go masquerading. Fair lady !
Bice. Gentle cavalier !
Bino. What read you in the stars 1
Bice. That day is done, sir.
Bino. But the light of love eternal
Bice. It may be that the stars are eternal; it is
certain that they are many.
Bino. And so unlike to love, who is but one.
72 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Bice. Where did you learn to speak so cunningly ?
Bino. Here. I was dumb till I saw you.
Bice. By my lady's parrot 'twere a better compli-
ment to have been stricken dumb by the sight.
Bino. Alas ! I have no gift of compliment.
I cannot flatter, no not I,
Oh no, not I ;
I am all truth, sweet harmony,
And love by-and-by.
Bice. Save us from song ! And yet beyond ques-
tion you and I were born in one rhyming hour. For
mark me now.
I cannot flatter, I am too true,
Oh much too true ;
I like a many, love but few,
And love not you.
Bino. Shield me, ye sacred Ifine, who were every
one a woman ! An improvising lady ! I am dumb
before genius.
Bice. I can no more, sir. Once in twenty-four
hours I am a poet for five minutes.
FIRE-FLIES. 73
Bino, And I have known more famous bards
who were poets but once in ten years.
Bice. Indeed 1
Bino. And that was in their youth. When the
hoary head was crowned, there was but prose in
the shrunken heart.
Bice. Are you a neglected poet?
Bino. Whether I am a poet, I know not. I
know that I am neglected, and chiefly by ladies.
Bice. There is a vile manner of boasting of your
successes.
Bino. Believe me, no. I speak in sober truth.
Bice. Truth and soberness ! And you boasted
yourself a poet.
Bino. Never.
Bice. Have you no imagination? Speak poetry,
as you are a poet.
Bino. You will scorn me, as you are a woman.
But stay. I am possessed by the God. Now the
divine madness works. You draw poetry to you,
lady, as the moon the tide. Hush !
74 LITTLE COMEDIES.
dainty mask, like our Italian night,
Most beautiful, and hiding all but stars,
Whose is the face thou hidest from my sight ?
Would I could find some other rhyme than
" wars."
May wars never come between us.
Bice. My lips were not the first to frame the
word.
Bino. Thy lips should frame things sweeter than
mere speech.
Bice. I know no rhyme more gracious than,
Absurd !
Bino. And I no rhyme less terrible than, Breach !
Bice. In truth, I fear you are but a camp-singer,
for war and breach come quickest to your lips.
You are no poet for a lady's chamber, to conjure
a nap before dressing - time. Eather you should
swagger in camp, and be clapped on the shoulder by
comrade This and comrade That, with, " A draught
of wine, my lad ! " or, " A rousing song, my boy ! "
Ah, if you should be less a poet than a swashbuckler !
FIEE-FLIES. 75
Bino. For it's ho ! wine ho !
And give me a flagon of wine,
Till here and there I go, what ho !
And reeling to and fro, what ho !
Dare swear the world is mine.
Bice. A kitchen-wench would cry "Good" to
those lines. They are well enough to call a tapster
what ho !
Bino. lady of the starry eyes,
lady of the bitter tongue,
Lips should be taught more sweet replies,
While you and I are young.
Bice. Are you young ? Many a mask hides
wrinkles.
Bino. Not yours, on my life ! Your mouth is
not old.
Bice. No younger than my face, I give you my
word.
Bino. I believe you.
Bice. 'Tis a marvel if a man believes a woman.
We tell men the truth : they believe the opposite :
76 LITTLE COMEDIES.
and so we deceive them very pleasantly, and our
conscience is saved.
Bino. By your lips you are young.
Bice. You wear a mask on your mouth.
Bino. Nay, 'tis but an indifferent moustachio.
Bice. A most delicate fringe for fibs.
Bino. I know that you are pretty. Is not that
true?
Bice. It is not true that you know it. I wear a
mask.
Bino. I know whose face is under it.
Bice. No man in the city knows that.
Bino. But we are in fairyland, and I know.
A flower city, rose of all the earth,
Most naughty city if all tales be true,
To one true woman of true race gave birth,
That truant true and dainty dame is
Bice. Not I, in faith. There is no truth in
poetry even when bad. I am not the Vera. I am
but that Bice who is known to friendly citizens as
Bice of the yellow hair.
FIRE-FLIES. 77
Bino. Not you. On my life, you are not she.
And pray, how know you the lady?
Bice. So we tell men the truth, and they believe
the opposite. most exquisite sweet gulls ! And
you know this little Bice then, who I am not?
Bino. A little.
Bice. Is she so sharp of tongue as they say 1
Bino. Her speech is gentle and her eyes soft.
Bice. So not like my eyes.
Bino. Your eyes ! Why, they are afire with all
the mischief of Europe. They twinkle like two
naughty stars which love to cheat the mariner.
Bice. And yet they are the eyes of none other
than Bice.
Bino. Let me look closer.
Bice. Whose eyes are those that look ?
Bino. None know better than you.
Bice. Whose?
Bino. Ah, the little imperious one ! I will tell
you. I am the last man in this assembly who
should declare himself to-night, and for that suf-
78 LITTLE COMEDIES.
ficient reason I will incontinently tell you that I
am he.
Bice. Who?
Bino. He, who is more famous for his heels than
his head, he who is the sworn comrade and boon
companion of the duchess's ape, the prince of im-
provising rhymers, the loose ingredients of a poet,
the pudding that never went into the bag, one who
will eat green figs against any man or mule in Italy,
the darling of his mother when his hair is dressed,
the beloved of all ladies, himself more madman than
lover, the one happy idler, and known to all de-
corous citizens from the father of the senate to the
cook's new dog with the liver patch over his right
eye, as Bino of the merry heart.
Bice. No ! on my life you are not he.
Bino. And so you know this Bino !
Bice. A little. He left the city to-day.
Bino. Who bade him stay for this sweet 'night of
revel ?
Bice. He did not stay, believe me.
FIRE-FLIES. 79
Blno. I am he, believe me or not as you will;
but you know it.
Bice. Stand in the moonlight.
Bino. Little princess, how you command me !
You bid me do what I ought not, and therefore
do I obey you.
moon, my lady moon,
Sweet lady of the night
Lend me thy light,
And bid this fairer lady answer soon
If I am Messer Bino. Now behold !
Dian doth kiss me, and the tale is told.
(He bares his face to the moonlight, and
there is silence between them.)
Bice. You are not the Bino that I knew.
Bino. The only one of the world, the very para-
gon of philosophers.
Bice. My Bino was a truer man.
Bino. Thy Bino ! And who gave him to thee ?
But he is thine, all thine for an hour or so.
80 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Bice. Good-bye.
Bino. You must not go till I have seen thee.
The stars have seen my face. Let them see thine
and learn to love.
Bice. Good-bye.
Bino. And if it must be, well. I will not be so
unmannerly to hold a lady here against her will.
To our next merry meeting !
Bice. I leave the place to-morrow. Good-bye.
Bino. The whole city will follow you, from the
head of the Council to the cook's dog aforesaid,
lean princes and fat citizens, churches and palaces.
Why, the very bridges will run away with the
river. The city cannot be without you, or I can
breathe without breath. To our next merry meet-
ing !
Bice. Good-bye.
Bino. By the town-clerk you have no more variety
than the cuckoo. Good-bye ! Cuckoo !
Bice. Good-bye.
Bino. Cuckoo !
FIRE-FLIES. 81
(As Bice passes away into shadow, one of the
big windows is darkened by a band of
revellers, who pour forth on to the terrace
with laughter and riot. As they flit in
the moonlight with snatches of song, they
leave the Vera alone in the window. She
stands distinct against the yellow glare,
which touches her hair with flame, but
the moonshine is uncertain on her face.
Is it she or the trem,ulous light that is
laughing ? Bino looks at her, and sees
a witch or a ghost. As he stands staring,
the masks come laughing once more, danc-
ing with arms entwined, and bearing on-
ward in their midst Bice, half -unwilling.
As Bino goes quickly to them, they wlieel
away and leave the lady standing. Once
again they darken the yellow light of the
window, and when they are gone, the Vera
is seen there no more.}
F
82 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Bino. By magic and moonshine, lady, who are you 1
Sice. Am I not the Vera ?
Bino. No.
Bice. Alas, no ! I am not gay, nor witty, nor
pretty.
Bino. I cannot see, but I know that you are fairer
than she.
Bice. You like me, then ?
Bino. Like ! The word is colder than the breath
of Boreas. There is no such word in my language.
I adore you.
Bice. You will add me to the list 1 joy ! Quick
with your tablets. List of fair ladies beloved by
Messer Bino :
1. The Vera.
2. The unknown of the mask.
3. Bice the biondina.
Bino. Bice !
Bice. Ay, so they say. But I doubt if she be fair
enough to grace the triumph of so great a conqueror.
I have heard that she is crooked.
FIRE-FLIES. 83
Bino. It was not trua
Bice. That her tongue is too sharp.
Bino. The kindest speech in Europe.
Bice. That her hair was not always so yellow.
Bino. The angels wove it of sunbeams.
Bice. The Graces help us ! He has an attack of
poetry. And so this little Bice is still on the list.
Strike out the fair unknown ; and so once more Good-
bye.
Bino. I love all ladies. Leave me not alone.
Bice. A devouring monster !
Bino. Nay, I am but like Cerberus, with three pairs
of lips.
Bice. A most monstrous similitude. For see how
far you must ever be from the gates of Paradise.
Bino. I am near thee.
Bice. Stand back, faithless man !
Bino. I am all faith.
Bice. For all women.
Bino. But I love in degrees. I pray you, let me
see your face.
84 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Bice. Swear that I have no rival, and I unmask.
Bino. How can I swear it ?
Bice. With your triple mouth, and in each a double
tongue. I am jealous of this Bice, with her hair
woven of sunbeams, forsooth.
Bino. Put back your hood, and I will praise your
locks more prettily.
Bice. It is said that you are promised to this Bice.
Bino. And you believe it 1
Bice. It is said that she is beautiful.
Bino. Not beside thee. I pray thee, show thy
face.
Bice. That she is very wise.
Bino. Believe me, no. Unmask.
Bice. Then she is ill-favoured, foolish, and you love
her not.
Bino. Yes, yes. ISTow let me look on thee.
Bice. moon, my lady moon,
Sweet lady of the night,
Lend me thy light,
And bid this exquisite gay masker swoon
FIRE-FLIES. 85
At sight of hair the angels wove from gold ;
Dian doth kiss me, and the tale is told.
(She bares her face to the moonlight, and there
is silence between them.)
Bino. Bice !
Bice. Ill-favoured, foolish, and unloved.
Bino. Bice !
Bice. Most wearisome iteration. Cuckoo !
Bino. What shall I say 1
Bice. Nothing.
Bino. What can I do ?
Bice. Nothing but go.
Bino. Bice, spare me ! I love none but you.
Bice. And the masked lady.
Bino. I was but curious, no more.
Bice. Have men no vices that they must rob woman
of her only fault ? Leave curiosity to us.
Bino. Bice, if you love me
Bice. I love you not.
86 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Blno. Forgive me.
Bice. No. Good-bye.
Blno. Good-bye. But stay. Something puzzles
me. Why are you herel
Bice. I ? Because the Vera sent for me.
Bino. And I for the same reason.
Bice. No. I came for my pleasure.
Bino. And I for mine.
Bice. Most wickedly.
Bino. And you?
Bice. "I How could you think of pleasure on the
Bino. ) very day of our parting 1
Bino. I always think of pleasure. I was made so.
Is it very wrong to be happy ?
Bice. Perhaps not. Alas ! I am womanly weak in
argument.
Bino. I will reason and you shall love. The head
and the heart are best together.
Bice. We are young. It is not wrong to be young.
Bino. And we love each other.
Bice. To love is one thing, to laugh is another.
FIRE-FLIES. 87
Bino. Yet love and laughter fly well together, as
the doves of Venus.
Bice. Can you laugh with all, and love but one ?
Bino. I have. I do. I will.
Bice. I will too.
Bino. There are a myriad stars, and but one moon.
Bice. There are many nights in the year, but never
another like this.
Bino. It is a night for dancing.
Bice. It is a night for laughter.
Bino. It is a night for love.
Bice. For mandoline, guitar, quick vpws, and quick
forgetting.
Bino. For countless ripples of folly and one deep
sea of love.
Sice. Let us dance.
Bino. Let us be happy together.
Bice. Joyous together, and not unhappy apart.
Bino. Never apart and ever happy. Let us dance.
So they flit in the moonlight : the Vera comes
88 LITTLE COMEDIES.
stepping through the window, but they see
her not : behind her the masks are peer-
ing. The music swells forth triumphant,
and slowly dies to silence: the lights in
the palace grow faint and fainter, and
die : a mist creeps up from the river : a
cloud goes over the moon : there is night
and nothing more.
A FALSE STAKT
A FALSE STAKT.
Harry. I am hungry. Can I live another half-hour
on a cup of coffee? Half an hour! I'll stand it
somehow. Ill starve myself every morning for
Nora's sake. I'll sacrifice myself every hour of the
day for Nora's sake. I'll I wonder where
she got this notion of breakfasting in the foreign
fashion ; as if I hadn't had enough of foreigners and
their fashions ! I did think that when I married
I should leave all that nonsense with my mother
in Paris, and come home and live like a Briton ;
and eat ham and eggs at nine o'clock, and a muffin
a muffin ! Oh, but Nora wishes it, and she shall
never know that I don't delight in waiting for my
92 LITTLE COMEDIES.
breakfast till twelve o'clock. Clara Roedale would
never believe it of me. I always knew that marriage
would bring out the finer parts of my character.
I am married, and the finer parts of my character
are brought out. Muffin ! There's nothing eatable
about here ! One can't eat coaL A paper knife !
No. By George, there was a biscuit somewhere
yesterday ! Yes there certainly was a biscuit in
my greatcoat - pocket. I can be cheerful with a
biscuit; and Nora shall never know what I suffer
for her sake.
(Harry goes in search of the biscuit; and
Nora comes in search of her husband.}
Nora. Harry ! Harry ! Where can he be ? Oh,
I am famished, and I am glad of it ! Harry, it
is for your sake that I endure these torments. You
shall never have reason to say that you resigned
the easy habits of Continental life for the sake of
a little girl like me. Your friend Lady Eoedale
A FALSE START. 93
dear Lady Eoedale shall never be able to say
that I put a stop to a single one of your delightful
bachelor amusements. You shall smoke everywhere.
I will beg and implore you to go to your horrid club.
I will teach myself to dote upon your absence. I
will learn to like tobacco. I will starve myself every
day till noon. I will Oh, if I could only
find the smallest morsel of bread! Half an hour
more ! no ; only six-and-twenty minutes ! Courage !
That's Harry's step. With him I could go without
breakfast for ever. Always meet your husband with
a smile. That's Clara Eoedale's golden rule. I will
smile, if I die for it.
H. (as he comes in). Ah, Nora! Why, what's
the matter, dear ? What an odd smile you've got !
N. Have I, dear 1 I was thinking of you.
H. Thanks, Nora; you don't know what an
awfully clever dog your Moppet is.
N. Isn't he clever ?
//. Fancy his getting a biscuit out of my great-
coat-pocket !
94 LITTLE COMEDIES.
N. Did he really ? The clever darling ! Are you
quite sure 1
H. I saw the crumbs on the floor.
N. You speak quite sentimentally about it.
H. Oh yes, it's quite pathetic this sagacity of
dumb animals. Isn't it a lovely morning? I've
been round the garden and the meadow.
N. To get an appetite for breakfast?
H. No that is, I'm hungry enough, I'm not
very hungry.
N. Of course not. Nineteen minutes and a half !
H. What, dear 1
N. Nothing. Is there anything in the paper ?
H. I don't know.
N. Haven't you read the paper 1 I thought that
every man began the day by reading the paper.
H. Began the day !
N. Don't you read the papers ?
H. I always read my paper after breakfast.
(Here is a pause full of emotion.)
A FALSE START. 95
N. Did you remember to order the carriage ?
H. Yes, dear.
N. Isn't it a lovely day for the picnic 1 I am so
glad ! I do so love tea on the rocks !
H. Tea! Oh! And a muffin!
N. What's the matter, Harry ?
H. Nothing, dear. I think I feel it less if I keep
moving.
N. You do like picnics, don't you, Harry 1
H. I'm awfully fond of picnics. (Walking up
and down he murmurs to himself} Clara Roedale
wouldn't believe it of me. Picnics ! Fancy any-
body liking a picnic !
N. I think it seems better if I walk about.
(Walking up and down she murmurs to herself]
He shan't be shut up at home with his dull little
wife ; he shall have all the social pleasures to which
he is accustomed. Harry, dear, were you what they
call an ornament of society ?
H. I don't know. Was I ? Nora !
N. What?
96 LITTLE COMEDIES.
H. Why are we walking up and down like two
tigers at the Zoo 1 ?
N. Is it a riddle, dear ? I will try to guess it
later after "breakfast.
H. Breakfast? Breakfast? Yes, that reminds
me ; it must be nearly breakfast-time.
N. Not quite. Are you ready for breakfast ?
H. Oh yes I think so, if you are.
N. You are sure it's not too early for you ?
H. Not a bit. But you 1 ? "Would you like to
have it now if it's ready 1
N. I really think I should if you are quite sure
that you would not like it later.
H. I don't think so.
N. (heroically). Harry, shall I put it off for half
an hour?
H. As you please, dear. (He sinks into a chair.}
(Here is a pause full of emotion?)
N. If breakfast is ready, it may be spoiled by
A FALSE START. 97
being kept; and then you wouldn't like it. Shall
I go and see if it's ready 1 ?
H. Perhaps you like it spoiled.
N. What an idea ! (At the door) Oh, how
delicious !
H. (as he joins her). Isn't it good ? Let me go
and see if it's ready. (He goes out.)
N. He was an ornament of society. I know it.
Shall I be so wickedly selfish as to deprive society
of its most brilliant ornament? The more I dote
on a quiet life with Harry, and nobody else ; the
more I hate outside people, and dressing up, and
dancing about ; the more I hate those odious picnics
with spiders oh, how afraid I am of a spider !
the more certain I am that it is my duty to pretend
to like them all, to dissemble for Harry's sake, and
for the sake of society. Yes, Harry, you shall go
to a picnic every day, if I die for it. I think I
am dying. I feel thin very, very thin. I think
I am going to faint.
o
98 LITTLE COMEDIES.
(Here Harry appears leaning in the doorway,
pale and faint.)
If. Nora ! the cook wants to speak to you.
A 7 . Oh, Harry, is anything the matter?
H. I don't know.
(She goes out ; he sinks into a chair.]
If I could get something to eat, some breakfast,
I could face this picnic. I would go cheerfully to
a picnic even to a picnic. How I used to long for
rest ! When I chose a little girl in the country,
I fancied a sort of ballet life, all cream and roses,
and jam, and a cigar under a tree, with sheep about,
and and rest. It was like my abominable selfish-
ness. Nora has never had any fun. Of course
Nora would like to have some fun. Of course Nora
shall have some fun; and I'll pretend to like it.
Fun ! Turning round and round in a crowd, and
being kicked on the ankles ! Eating lobster-salad
and ices at three o'clock in the morning ! Talking to
A FALSE START. 99
a girl about another girl's eyes, and staring into
hers ! Fun ! the treadmill's a joke to it. And yet
all this and more will I go through for the sake of
my little Nora all except that eye business. Nora
shall taste the pleasures of society ; and I'll pretend
to enjoy them. By George, I will enjoy them !
(When his voice has sunk to the depth of
tragic gloom, Nora runs in.)
N. Breakfast is ready.
H. Ah!
(They go away lovingly to breakfast. After
a while Lady Roedale is shown in ly tlie
footman.)
Lady Roedale. At breakfast, are they ? Don't tell
them I am here. I can wait. (The footman goes
away.} It is always easy to wait. Perhaps it will
amuse me to take the young couple by surprise.
There really is something funny in young married
100 LITTLE COMEDIES.
people. They are so delightfully important. I
sometimes fancy that I've got what clever people call
a sense of humour. I am sure I smile at all these
flutterings, and billings and cooings, and solemn calcu-
lations about the expense of a nest. The theme's old
as Adam, but the variations are endless. I like to see
little mistress adjusting her fads to young master's
hobbies ; I like this much ado about a brace of noth-
ings; I like young couples.- One must go in for
something. Susan Lorimer breaks her poor head over
cracked china : I should puzzle my brain, if I had
one, over young couples ; they are quite as interest-
ing quite. Certainly I have no reason to like
the married state. Ugh ! but that's all over long
ago. I like to view it from outside. I become
absurdly interested in the marriages of Tom, Dick,
and Harry especially Harry. Harry was a very
nice boy devoted to me. There's nothing so good
for that sort of boy as a devotion to a steady, sensible
woman a good, solid, middle-aged person. There's
no knowing what might have become of Harry if
A FALSE START. 101
Susan Lorimer had got hold of him before I did.
Susan is so theatrical always in the fourth act of
the last French comedy always on the razor's edge.
It's fun for her; but it might have been death to
Harry. Now I studied him. I understood him. 1
saw what he was fit for. I just put him into shape
a little ; and I married him to the best little girl in
the world. I haven't done anything which pleased
me so much since I married Claud Huntley to that
dear little thing in Eome. Nothing could have
turned out better than that. She spoils him; and
lie is not so amusing since his temper improved; but
still it's a great success; and he owes it all to me.
I have half a mind to open an office. It's quite
interesting to make matches. It's so experimental.
There's something quite grand about it : it's patriar-
chal and biblical ; it's like the ark or fancy poultry.
H. (as he comes in). Clara ! Lady Roedale !
Lady R. Harry, as you horrid boys say, how goes it ?
H. As we horrid boys say, it simply walks in.
And what on earth brings you here?
102 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Lady R. Eeasons are tiresome. You ought to say
that you are glad.
If. I'm awfully glad.
Lady R. My doctor recommends the society of
young people. I suppose you know that I am
antediluvian, and ushered the animals into the ark.
//. Jolly for the animals ! How pleased Nora
will be ! Come and have some breakfast.
Lady R. Thank you. I breakfast in the morning'
//. H'm. I don't.
Lady R. You used to be an absurdly early crea-
ture up with the foolish lark.
H. Ah, yes. But you see Nora likes to breakfast
at twelve, and so of course I
Lady R. Of course you ! Oh, Harry, this is pro-
foundly interesting. Do you do just what Nora
likes in everything?
H. Yes. You didn't think it of me, did you?
You thought all men were selfish, didn't you?
Don't you remember telling me that all the men
you ever knew all your admirers, you know
A FALSE START. 103
were all selfish, dark and fair, fat and thin, comic
and gloomy, the whole lot of 'em all alike in being
selfish ?
Lady R. Very likely.
H. Well? Look at me. Whatever turns up, 1
simply look at it in one way. I ask, What will
Nora like ? Then I pretend what she likes is what
I like.
Lady R, H'm. You tell fibs ?
//. One must, you know.
Lady R. Must one 1
H. Little unselfish sort of fibs, you know. I was
in agony for two hours before breakfast, and I en-
joyed it. I remembered where there was a biscuit,
and Nora's infernal little beast of a dog had eaten it
and I enjoyed that ! Now we are off to a picnic
and I mean to enjoy that !
Lady R. My dear Harry, even you must have
passed the picnic age ants and indigestion. But
of course you don't mean to say that you are going
off to a picnic when I have come to see you ?
104 LITTLE COMEDIES.
H. You must come too. You know her. It's
your friend Mrs Lorimer.
Lady R. Susan Lorimer?
H. She is a friend of yours, isn't she 1
Lady R. Oh yes, she's one of my oldest friends.
I've known her for ever. She's a most dangerous
woman. You must throw her over.
H. But Nora 1 Nora's wild about this picnic.
Lady R. She's wilder about me. Call her, and
we'll see.
(Harry calls her, and she presently comes in,]
N. Lady Eoedale I Oh, I am glad. Have you
come to stay with us ?
Lady R. No, dear; only to spend the day.
N. Oh, I am sorry. How unlucky \ Has Harry
told you about our engagement ?
H. Yes, and I want her to come too you'd like
that, wouldn't you, Nora 1 I thought I was sure
you'd like it.
A FALSE STAKT. 105
Lady R, It's impossible. I couldn't go in these
tilings.
H. Why, you look stunning.
N. I am sure that that gown will do perfectly.
Lady R. Thanks, dear. I have passed the age of
gowns that "will do perfectly." Don't you think
you could throw over Susan Lorimer for me ? I am
sure nobody can like her better than me.
N. Lady Roedale !
Lady R. Am I too old to be called Clara ? Your
husband always calls me Clara,
N. Does he?
Lady R. He always was an impertinent boy.
Come, my dear, you need not mind offending Susan
Lorimer; she is sure to abuse you any way. You
can write a line and say that an aged friend has
come unexpectedly, and you can't leave her; and
you can stay at home and give the aged friend some
luncheon.
N. Well, you see, dear, Harry the fact is, I am
so afraid that he should give up going out and
106 LITTLE COMEDIES.
seeing his friends. I should like to stay at home
with you, but Harry
H. Oh, I don't care to go ! I mean if you
really mean, Nora, that you'd like to stay at home,
I shouldn't mind. I should be awfully glad to
stay at home with Clara.
N. Oh, Harry, I thought you were so eager to
go!
H. Oh yes, yes of course, I know I said so,
but but, you see
N. But what, Harry ?
H. Why, you see Clara's coming makes all the
difference. But look here; are you quite sure that
you don't care to go 1 .^ Of course if you care to go
if you care the least bit
N. Oh no. Why should 1 1 Pray don't con-
sider me.
H. K"ot consider you ! Why, Xora
N. (to Lady Roedale}. Won't you come up to
my room and take your things off 1 ?
Lady R. Then it's all settled. You stay Avitli
A FALSE START. 107
me. I am sure I am doing you both a very good
turn by saving you from one of Susan Lorimer's
picnics.
(She goes away with Nora; Harry is left
alone and in perplexity^)
H. What on earth is the matter with Nora 1
" Pray don't consider me." Doesn't she know that
I spend every hour of the day in considering her ;
that the only thing I care for is to do everything
to please her to give up everything to her 1 doesn't
she know no, by George ! of course she doesn't
know. That would spoil it all. I go on the prin-
ciple of doing everything she likes, and making her
think it's what I like : that's my cunning. Perhaps
she really wants to go on this infernal chicken-feed.
(He goes to Nora as she comes in.) Look here,
Nora ! are you sure you'd rather stay at home 1
N. I am quite content. And you? Your con-
version was a little sudden.
H. My conversion !
108 LITTLE COMEDIES.
N. Just before breakfast you were dying to go to
tins picnic.
H. Was I ? Oh yes, but but you see, Clara
N. Yes, I see Clara. Just because she comes, you
oare for nothing but staying at home with her. You
couldn't bear the idea of staying at home with me.
(Here Lady Roedale comes in; but they don't
see her.}
H. Nora ! By George ! Here ! I say ! What
shall I say 1 I didn't want to go. I never wanted
to go on the infernal picnic. I hate 'em.
N. Then you were deceiving me.
H. I pretended to want to go, because you wanted
to go.
N. I didn't think I should be deceived so soon.
H. Nora!
N. How can I tell when you are speaking the
truth ? No : I believe you are deceiving me now.
You did want to go till she came, and now you
pretend you didn't.
A FALSE START. 109
//. Nora, don't; I say, Nora, don't. On my
honour I hate picnics. I was going solely for your
sake.
N. That can't be true ; for I was going solely for
your sake.
H. Well then, by George, you were deceiving me !
N. Oh, it's too much ! Oh that I should be
accused of deceiving my husband ! Stay at home,
since you prefer it ; stay at home with her and
be agreeable to her ; don't stop me ! my heart is
broken : oh ! oh ! oh !
H. Where are you going 1 Nora ! where are you
going ?
N. To the picnic !
(She goes away without seeing Lady Roedale :
but now Harry sees her.}
H. Good heavens ! Clara ! What's this ?
Lady R. Nothing.
H. Nothing?
Lady R. I don't think you understand women.
110 LITTLE COMEDIES.
H. I thought I did.
Lady R, Poor boy ! you never will.
H. What shall I do 1
Lady R. Never tell fibs to your wife.
H. Oh!
Lady R. You have been playing the Jesuit,
H. By George, it's all my fault ! I see it all.
Nora's quite right ; she's the best and sweetest-
tempered but oh, Lady Eoedale, I never thought
I should see her in a rage. It's awful !
Lady R. Awful ! I only wish I could be in a
rage with anybody.
H. What?
Lady R. Let me see. It must be at least ten
years since I lost my temper. There's nothing worth
being angry about nowadays.
H. I suppose I don't understand women.
Lady R. And never will.
H. But what am I to do? I must do some-
thing. Oh, Clara, don't you see that the happiness
of my life is at stake?
A FALSE START. m
Lady R. Oh dear me, you must have been reading
novels. Men ought not to read novels; they take
them too seriously. Sit down like a good boy and
read the paper. Yes, I am going to exert myself
for your sake. I shall be back in a few minutes.
Xow this is almost exciting. This is certainly
better than china or chickens.
(She goes out and leaves Harry alone.)
H. On the next few minutes may depend the
happiness of my life. What an awful thing this
marriage is ! And I went into it as if I were
taking a girl down to supper. It's awful! I
thought I knew all about Nora ; I suppose I knew
nothing at all. Good heavens ! I wonder what she
is ! Good heavens ! Fancy me wondering what sort
of a woman my wife is my own wife ! It's awful !
I wonder if any man ever went through such an
experience before ! I have married a what-d'-ye-
call-it a Phoenix a Pelican ; no those are insur-
112 LITTLE COMEDIES.
ance offices : a sphinx that's it a sphinx. Nora is
a sphinx ! Why did not Clara tell me 1 She knows
all about marriages and such things. She might
have told me it wasn't all cake and satin slippers.
Is that a gown on the stairs'? How my heart
heats ! I must he a man ! I must nerve myself
for a terrible scene.
(He nerves himself; the ladies come in chattiny
and smiling ; but Nora's eyes are red.}
N. Then you really think olive-green would he
best?
Lady R. Much the best.
N. Harry, dear, Clara thinks olive-green for the
dining-room. I told her you thought a Japanesy
sort of blue.
H. Did I, dear? Blue? Yes, dear of course;
you are so fond of blue, and I
Lady R. Harry, did you say blue because it is
Nora's favourite colour 1 No fibs !
A FALSE START. 113
H. Yes.
Lady R. Nora ! Is blue your favourite colour 1
N. I am very fond of a nice blue.
Lady It. Was it your favourite colour before you
married 1
N. Oh yes, really and truly, before that.
Lady R. Before you saw Harry ?
N. I I I don't remember ; I think not.
Lady R. Harry, turn to the light I thought so.
Blue necktie ! A Japanesy sort of blue ! He always
wears blue neckties. Oh, you young people, how
profoundly wicked you both are ! I can't preach
without food. "Won't you give me some luncheon?
N. Oh yes, Clara. Why, you poor dear, I for-
got ; I never thought of it We've only just break-
fasted.
Lady R. Oh dear! And you breakfast at this
preposterous hour to please Harry?
N. I don't mind it; I don't really mind it
much. You see Harry has lived so much abroad,
and
H
114 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Lady R. That is enough. Harry, do you starve
yourself for hours in the morning for bora's sake ?
H. You knoAV ; I told you ; yes. I thought Xora
liked it.
Lady R. Really it's an interesting study. I sup-
pose I ought to print a " royal road to connubial
felicity." I wonder if these young people are very
good or very bad 1 They were making a great mess
of it till I came.
H. N~ora, you are not very angry with me 1
N. Oh, Harry dear, I will never tell you anything
but the whole truth. It was all my fault.
//. No, no ; it was all mine.
Lady R. They are both telling fibs again. May I
ask about that luncheon ?
N. Oh, I beg your pardon ; I am so sorry ! Will
you have it here 1
H. Why, there's the carriage ; I never counter-
manded it. What was I thinking about 1
Lady R. Thinking about 1 You were probably
thinking that the happiness of your life was at stake.
A FALSE STAET. 115
Since the carriage is here, suppose we make Harry
drive us out of the glare. I should like to have
luncheon somewhere in the wood.
N. Oh yes ; that will be nice.
H. A picnic !
Lady R. No, no ; no picnic ! Nora shall send a
little note to Susan Lorimer. No picnic; only
luncheon in the open air.
H. I don't understand women.
Lady R. And never will. But we have had enough
of that little comedy.
H. Comedy ! It wasn't very funny to me.
Lady R. It amused me. But enough is as good
as a feast a great deal better than one of Susan
Lorimer's picnics.
N. What little comedy do you mean, Clara?
Lady R. Never mind, dear; it's finished, and
that's always something. I ring down the curtain
on that little comedy.
THE LATIN LESSON
BOY AND . GIRL
THE LATIN LESSON.
BOY AND GIRL.
Tommy. Isn't this a ripping place? It seems to
me as if the downs were like great green waves, rol-
ling along and swelling bigger and bigger ; and here
we are, you and I, up on the very top of the biggest
wave of all, which hangs here for ever, as if it would
plunge down the next moment and swamp the real
old sea.
Sybil. What nonsense you do talk, Tommy ! Come ;
it's quite time I began my lesson. What's this book,
which you say I can read?
T. The anthology.
& The what?
120 LITTLE COMEDIES.
T. The anthologia Latina.
S. What's that?
T. Oh, I don't know ; it's a sort of collection. It's
good for girls, because it leaves out the bad things.
S. But I want to read what boys read.
T. You can't, you know. We have to read awfully
improper things at school.
S. I don't see why it is good for you to read things
which it isn't good for me to read. I don't see why
girls should be different from boys.
T. I don't see why either. I suppose it's best. I
think I am glad you are different.
S. Do let us begin. You are so idle.
T. It's so awfully jolly doing nothing up here. I
should like to lie here for ever on this nice short grass
and stare at the sea. Isn't the sea dazzling in the
sunlight ? It looks like millions of penknives.
S. Penknives ! It's like diamonds.
T. Should you like to have millions of diamonds 1
I wish I Avere a fellow in the ' Arabian Nights/ and I
would give 'em to you.
THE LATIN LESSON. 121
S. I don't wish for anything so silly. Do sit up,
and let us begin.
T. Oh, very well Here you are; I picked out
this for you to read. It's all correct ; it's about the
death of a sparrow.
S. Well?
T. "Well I say, Sybil, I wish the brim of your
hat was a little wider.
8. Why?
T. Because, as we have got to look over the same
book, it would be jolly to sit in the shade of the same
hat. We should be like Paul and Virginia.
S. Who were they ?
T. They were young people who were in love with
each other in an opera, or something.
S. How silly ! Come now ; do begin.
T. You must begin; see if you can translate it
I've got a stunning translation of it in my pocket ;
my tutor made it.
S. " Lament, o "
T. " Venuses and Cupids **
122 LITTLE COMEDIES.
S. But there was only one Venus.
T. Oh, that don't matter. It's a sort of poetic
licence ; these poets have to make it scan, you know.
I can't make out the next line ; and I can't make out
my tutor's translation of it : but it don't matter ; it's
only a fill-up. Go on at "passer."
S. The sparrow of my girl is dead,
The sparrow " delicise "
T. (reads from his tutor's translation)
The sparrow of my dearest girl is dead,
The sparrow, darling of my dear, is dead ; ,
Whom more than her own eyes she loved so,
For he was honey- voiced ; and he would know
His mistress, as a girl her mother dear;
Nor from her gentle bosom would he go,
But hopping round about, now there, now here,
He piped to her alone most sweet and clear.
S. There's nothing about " sweet and clear " in the
Latin.
THE LATIN LESSON. 123
T. You are so awfully particular, Sybil I wish
it wasn't all about a sparrow. I don't care for spar-
rows. Ah ! look at that lark. He got up quite close
to us. That's what I call a bird. Phew ! doesn't
he jump 1 What great leaps he goes up in ! Mustn't
he be tremendously happy ? Fancy being able to go
like that, and having wind enough to sing all the time !
8. I wish you wouldn't let your eyes wander all
over the country. If you don't keep them on the
book we shall never get on:
T. All right. This other's a jolly one this one
"To Lesbia."
8. Who was Lesbia ?
T. She was the girl who had the sparrow ; he was
in love with her : but you had better not think of her ;
I believe she wasn't at all a good sort.
S. What a pity!
T. She made him awfully unhappy.
8. It was his own fault. I can't think why people
fall in love.
T. Of course it's awfully silly to fall in love.
124 LITTLE COMEDIES.
S. I think it's horrid.
T. People say that a man and a woman can't be
friends, because one of them is sure to fall in love.
S. That must be nonsense. Look at you and me !
We have been friends for ever so long.
T. Yes; and do you knoAV, Sybil, I'd rather you
were my friend than any chap I know.
S. It seems very hard, this " To Lesbia." What's
the meaning of " basiationes " ?
T. I think it means " kisses."
S. Oh!
T. " You ask how many of your kisses, Lesbia, are
enough and more than enough for me. As great as
is the number of Lybian sand in spice-bearing Cyrenee,
between the oracle of something Jove and the
sepulchre of old Battus, or as many as are the stars
that "
S. Oh, we won't go on with that. Poets are always
so silly when they begin to talk about those things.
I do wish you would finish one thing before you begin
another; you
THE LATIN LESSON. 125
T. " It's good to be off with the old love before
you are on with the new
S. Tommy !
T. All right. I'll attend awfully well now. Go
on ; see if you can do it. Go on with Mr Spadger.
S. " Who now goes through the way tenebrico-
sum 1 "
T. " Full of shadows."
S. " Thither, whence they deny anybody to
return."
T. That's right. You really do know a lot of
Latin. I say, do you think that Clara could be
friends with a boy without trying to make him in
love with her ? Clara isn't a bit like you*
S. Clara is very pretty.
T. Do you think she is prettier than Marion ?
S. Clara is prettiest ; but Marion has so much
character.
T. Marion could be friends with a boy.
S. Friends with a boy I What an expression !
What bad English you do talk !
126 LITTLE COMEDIES.
T. I always do when I am happy. One can't be
jolly grammatically. I think Marion doesn't care
about boys.
S. Indeed ? Suppose we go on with our " sparrow."
T. I should like her to like me.
8. Oil ! What is the meaning of " Orci " ?
T. " Orci ! " Let me see the book. Oh, " Orcus "
is at least it isn't really what we mean when we
I'll see how my tutor puts it. Ah !
Ill hap befall ye, shades of grim despair,
Who glut yourselves with all things that are fair !
Ah ! he shirks the difficulty : it's just like him.
S. You surely don't think Marion pretty, do you 1
T. I don't know.
S. You must have very funny taste if you do.
Now, Clara is pretty, if you like.
T. Yes : isn't Clara pretty ? My word ! isn't she
pretty ?
S. Yes ; of course she's pretty.
T. What are you staring out to sea like that for?
Are you looking at that sail 1
THE LATIN LESSON. 127
S. I was thinking that some friend might be on
board that ship. How strange it would be ! Fancy
if Mr Eedgrave were coming home on that ship !
T. Eedgrave ! What on earth makes you think
of that old chappy ?
S. How ridiculous you are, Tommy ! He isn't a
bit old ; and I think he's very handsome.
T. He's a jolly old humbug. When he's playing
tennis with me, he's as lively as possible ; but when
he's with the women, he looks sentimental, and makes
eyes : and as for his not being old, he must be thirty
if he's a day.
S. That I am sure he can't be. I am sure he is
quite young. Of course he isn't a boy.
T. Well, I don't mind being a boy. I wouldn't be a
man for anything ; and if I was, I wouldn't be a flirt.
S. Don't be horrid, Tommy. Poor Mr KedgWfB
has been very unhappy. That is what makes him
look like that. He was in love with the most beauti-
ful lady in. the world; and she was very cruel, and
married a millionaire or something.
128 LITTLE COMEDIES.
T. I don't see anything cruel in marrying a mil-
lionaire or something. He told you all this precious
story, did he 1
S. No ; Aunt Adelaide told me that : but he told
me
T. What did he tell you ?
S. Oh, it was one day when he was laughing with
Aunt Adelaide about women ; and he turned to me
and said with a melancholy smile
T. I know it. Like this !
S. Not a bit like that. He said, with a very
sweet and melancholy smile, that I must take care
not to be a flirt, because some day I might do a great
deal of mischief; and that women ought to try to
do good to people, and not harm.
T 7 . Some day ! That means when you are a young
lady. I know I shan't like you when you are a
young lady. I hate young ladies.
S, Marion is almost a young lady.
T. Ah, but she's different.
S. It's ridiculous of you to say that Marion's pretty.
THE LATIX LESSOX. 129
7'. I never said she was pretty. I said that she
wasn't as pretty as Clara.
S. You are a horrid disagreeable boy, any way.
You have always made such a pretence of
T. Of what 1
S. Of thinking me your very best friend.
T. Then why do you go talking about that old
Eedgrave 1
S. You are very disagreeable ; and I shall go home.
T. Xo, no; don't go. It's so jolly here. Let's
solemnly promise to be each other's very best friend.
S. Till when ?
T. For ever and ever.
S. I should like to show these stupid people that
a man and a woman can be friends without caring
about each other one bit !
T. Ye-es. Only I don't know what you'll be like,
when you are a young lady.
S. I shan't be that for ever so long. I don't think
I shall be old, or begin to think that I am old, till I
am twenty.
i
130 LITTLE COMEDIES.
T. I am afraid you will be awfully pretty when
you are a young lady.
S. Don't be silly, Tommy.
T. Any way, you'll like me better than old Red-
grave ?
S. Of course. And you'll like me better than
Marion ?
T. Yes.
S. And Clara ?
T. Ever so much better than Clara.
S. Very well, then.
T. What do you mean by " Very well, then " ?
S. That is settled ; and now I can go on with my
lesson.
T. But we've almost polished off poor Mr Sparrow.
S. What a way to talk !
T. It don't do for a girl. You have to say
" prunes " and " precision " all day to make your
mouth pretty.
8. Tommy, you are exceedingly silly ; and it's
better to say " prunes " than to chew grass ; and if
THE LATIN LESSON. 131
you ain't going to look at the book instead of staring
out to sea, I shall go home.
T. All right, Sybil. We'll do him up in less
than a jiffy out of my tutor's translation. Here you
are:
111 hap befall ye, shades of grim despair,
Who glut yourselves with all things that are fair !
How fair the little bird ye reft from me !
deed ill done ! Poor little bird, for thee
For thy dear sake my girl's sweet eyes are red,
And swollen all with tears that thou art dead !
By George, it is most awfully touching ! isn't it,
Sybil? Fancy how long ago the poor little beast
died, and here we are still sorry !
8. " Little beast !"
T. Oh, look ! far away across the sea, do you see
that tiny little sail? Fancy if it was my ship
coming in !
S. You are the strangest boy.
T. Shouldn't I just like to have a ship ? I wish
132 LITTLE COMEDIES.
it was ever so long ago ; and that I might sail away
and fight a Spaniard.
S. I should like to know what the Spaniards
have ever done to you, that you should want to
fight them.
T. I don't know ; but I'm sure it would be jolly
good fun to fight a Spaniard.
S. That is so like a boy. Perhaps you would
never come back
T. No more ! Oh yes, I should turn up : and I'd
bring you back a jolly lot of things too a ship full
of apes and
S. Tommy!
T. Oh, apes are a detail : they come in with ivory,
and peacocks, and all sorts of stunning things ; and
diamonds from the diamond-fields ; and silver from
the silver mountains ; and gold dust from the golden
rivers; and parrots and paroquets, and a Red Indian
princess in feathers, and
S. Tommy, how can you be so ridiculous 1
T. You wait till I do it. I'll just go back to
THE LATIN LESSON. 133
school next half to get a little more football, and
then I'm off; and I'll bring you back a hundred
ostrich -tails to put on your head when you go to
Court; and I'll have a beard down to my waist;
and I'll kill sparrows on the wing with a pistol in
either hand you like; and I'll marry you, and the
Indian princess will die of jealousy, and
S. Tommy ! I think you are going mad. It must
be the sun.
T. Xot very mad.
S. Then don't talk any more nonsense. It's quite
time to go home.
T 7 . Home's the word; and I'll carry the book.
Poor Master Sparrow. " Lugete o Veneres Cupidin-
HALF-WAY TO ARCADY
HALF-WAY TO ARCADY.
A Poet dressed in evening clothes, but somew/tat dusty,
meets an Arcadian girl upon the road.
He. Here, child ! Is this the way to Arcady ?
She. Yes, noble lord.
He. No noble lord ain I.
I am a poet, and a weary one.
Give me a drink of water. Child, the sun
Will fleck that dainty skin with golden kisses,
Termed freckles by our milk-of-almond misses.
Turn from the glaring road a little space :
The spreading beech will shade the dimpled face,
138 LITTLE COMEDIES.
The frolic face, a light in shady nook :
K"ay, do not fear ! It has been mine to look
On many million women ; therefore I,
Or partly therefore, go to Arcady.
She. But there are women in Arcadia.
He. Are there 1 ? To lead the yokel hearts
astray,
And mine, perhaps. Ah me ! to lie along
A little brook, a shepherd from a song,
A little babbling brook, and plait the reeds,
To watch the dance young Amaryllis leads,
To hum a catch of Pan and Nymph and Faun
Laughing and leaping on the upland lawn,
To taste pure milk, to sleep before the sun,
Wake with the sheep and with the sheep-dog run,
To plunge in brawling stream, rest on the sod
As free and naked as a woodland god
Ah, to be there ! How far is't 1
She. Let me see.
Fair sir, since sunrise I've walked steadily
He. You come from Arcady?
HALF-WAY TO ARCADY. 139
She. Of course, my lord.
He. Poor child ! and you have left the land
adored
By sheep and poets. Say, what cruel fate
Has sent you thence to wander desolate
In this cramped world of licence, law, and lie ?
She. What sent me ? No one sent me, sir ; but I
Was grown so weary of the silly sheep
And silly shepherds oh, they peer and peep,
And sing their songs all to one lazy tune
Of ribbons and of roses, and warm June ;
And bells are always tinkling, breezes sighing
For nothing, and the leaves so long a-dying
And so, sir, I was tired and ran away.
He. Where do you go ?
She. To Paris, and to day,
To life, to life ! Oh pardon me, fair sir,
I talk too much.
He. I like those lips astir
With funny little fancies, rosebud lips,
A rose of dew ; and now a sunbeam slips
140 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Through frolic beech-leaves for a kiss I ween ;
Now the lips part, and so he slips between.
You sit so meek and pretty in the shade,
Were I not tired of women, I'm afraid
That I should learn of sunbeams nay, don't fear me,
I've seen so many pretty women near me.
Fold little hands, turn great grave eyes on mine,
And I will teach you wisdom, how they shine,
Those solemn eyes ! and are they blue or brown 1
'Tis good to live afar from noisy town,
To live a simple life in woodland wild,
Child in a child's world, evermore a child ;
'Tis good to cut the reed and sound the lay,
To lead the sheep, and watch the lambkins play.
She. Oh, sir, I've watched the lambkins, and the game
Our lambkins play is every day the same ;
I'm weary of their dance.
He. The lark at morn
Leaps, a live song, above the yellow corn ;
The hours go by to music ; when the sun
Slopes to the west, their day-long pleasures done,
HALF-WAY TO ARC AD Y. HI
The simple souls betake themselves to rest
Blest race indeed if they but knew how blest.
She. Ah, sir, but what are days and days like
these
To Paris hours and gaslight in the trees
A glare, a maze, a murmur 1
He. Listen, child !
In that old shell of Paris was I styled
Prince of misrule, mirth, madness, mockery.
Xo lord of laughter half so loud as I ;
No cup so deep as mine, no heart so gay.
Do I look very happy 1
She. Dare I say ?
Dare I speak out my thought 1 Fair sir, your face
Has in it something that did never grace
Our most sweet-smiling shepherd : I can guess
That it is what we long for weariness.
There's no life to grow weary of at home.
He. Each year the apple-orchards break to foam
Of sun-tipped blossom, every leaf is new
On every tree, and all the sky is blue.
14:2 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Slowly the fresh green turns to deep rich shade ;
Slowly gnarled boughs with fruit are overweighed
Swell the fair clusters on the swinging vine ;
The year grows old in beauty. Maiden mine,
No charms in dusty Paris will you see
One half so sweet as your simplicity.
She. My poor simplicity ! My silliness !
I pray you do not mock me, sir; distress
Makes my voice fail ; indeed I don't know why,
But I am very silly : if I cry
You'll laugh again, and I shall cry the more.
I pray you do not mock me.
He. Not for store
Of moments dear as this, of sweet replies,
Of April dawning in those lips and eyes !
I mock you not. I smile because 'tis sweet
To see the fretted sunlight at our feet.
I smile, because your eyes are large and round ;
I smile to think I sit on grassy mound
And prattle with a girl ; while far away
The huddled crowd of Paris wear the day
HALF-WAY TO AKCADY. H3
Uneasy flitting on from sport to sport ;
Stabbing with jest, and winging quick retort ;
Playing and playing, lest they see pass by
Young Pleasure's drear- eyed mate, Satiety.
Fever of life, absinthe, cigarette,
endless theatre where in order set
A dull-eyed people all the long night through
Sit without hope of seeing something new !
dulness smartly uttered ! paradox !
hired applause, bought flowers from the box !
acres of stretched canvas, where with skill
The painter shows new forms of every ill
Historic bloodshed, new-distorted dress,
And unimagined, undraped ugliness !
pleasure without laughter, strange disease
Of mad amusements that can never please I
storm and stress of gold, and fuss, and feather !
hollow Paris, you and I together
Have run the weary round of mirth. But
now !
Now the quick air comes wooing ; on the bough
144 LITTLE COMEDIES.
A squirrel stops to listen ; one small bird
Is talkative, and naught beside is heard,
Save murmur of wise bees amid the bloom.
Far, far away the dim musk-scented room
Is shut from sunlight, and the ear is full
Of clatter, and the restless eye grows dull.
pretty girl of laughter all compact,
Of little fancy, and of simple fact,
Maid o' the milking, queen of holiday,
My brier-rose from the close hedge astray,
My heart can beat again, my eyes can see ;
1 sought Arcadia, and she came to me.
Here will we rest.
She. But, sir, is Paris near?
He. Take me, take Paris ; I have Paris here,
Here in my shrivelled heart, my weary face,
Here in my tailor's artificial grace,
In scorn of joys which can no more delay me,
In arrogance which bids you thus obey me.
I am all Paris, spoiled child of the sun,
And I am at your feet, my little one.
HALF-WAY TO ARC AD Y. 145
Slie. Oh, sir, I dare not sir, I caimot speak.
He. Then kiss for answer, for all words are weak.
Up, little heart ! an altar quick prepare
Of well-trimmed turf entwined with flowers fair
The flowers are tame in Paris : here will I
Dwell with my love half-way to Arcady.
Free from fierce joys and more abiding pain,
Clear to Lord Hymen raise the simple marriage
strain.
SOXG.
Xow together let us sing,
Hymen, Hymen ! Hours take wing,
Hours quick-winged with our delight,
Gone like smoke that's blue and bright
In the happy morning air.
Quick, then, with flowers fair !
Flowers to the altar bring
Simple sweet our offering
And both together sing
Hymen, be propitious, Hymen.
Hymen, Hymenaee.
K
146 LITTLE COMEDIES.
(He sings.}
Where the altar turf is set,
Smoke of perfumed cigarette
Melts to air, and flame springs high
From the liquor fierce that I
Pour from out my silver flask.
(They both sing.)
Thus we end our easy task,
And the happy rite is done.
Now westward slopes the sun ;
All the sky, as he goes down,
Takes the glow of saffron gown,
As far from noisy town
We raise our song of Hymen, Hymen,
Hymen, Hymensee.
Thus sang the two together sweet and low ;
And days went by in order sweet and slow ;
And sweet and low birds chattered 'mid the bloom ;
And sweet and slow was life to bride and groom
HALF-WAY TO ARCADY. H7
Lo ! life was sweet to her and slow to him.
The whimsical had gratified his whim.
Morn brings the cows, at eve they homeward go, x
But no morn brings the far-off Figaro.
And yet 'tis good to sit with lazy feet
Dropped in the stream, and think of dusty street ;
To milk the evening cow, nor care for haste,
Recalling absinthe and less lacteal taste.
gay the chatter of Arcadian lass,
gay the boulevard all aglare with gas,
gay, gay ! Once at that calm abode
Was dropped a last year's paper in the road;
And one wild day a stray Arcadian swain
Grinned through the leaves, and went away again.
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE.
LADY ROEDALE is in London at the height of tlie
season. It is 5.30 P.M., and her tea-table in
beside her. She speaks with an air of melan-
choly.
AND has it come to this 1 That I should ask for aii
invitation to Mrs Pudford's ball, and should not get
it ! I sometimes think that there is nothing too silly
for me to do. Oh dear me ! And at my age too !
That I, who never asked for anything, should plot
absolutely plot for an invitation to a ball for
a ball of a Mrs Pudford and should not get it ! It
seems strange that I should survive such humilia-
152 LITTLE COMEDIES.
tion. After all, one survives everything. And yet
there are people who talk about the survival of the
fittest. I suppose I shall live it down : one lives
down so many things. Why should I care to go to
Mrs Pudford's dance ? It would be exceedingly tire-
some. I am indifferent. But yet I shall have to
punish Pattle Appleby for putting the idea into my
head. Poor dear Pattle !
(Servant announces.} Mr Pattle Appleby.
P. A. My dear lady ! What good fortune to find
you at home !
Lady R. My dear Pattle, don't be extravagant.
You know I don't like extravagance.
P. A. I will be what you like : I will do what you
like : command me.
Lady R. Don't gesticulate ! You know I don't
like gesticulation in hot weather.
P. A. Forgive me ; but I feel so happy : I delight
in this genial warmth. When there is an English
summer, it is better than any summer : it is bounti-
ful ; it seems to make us expand.
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 153
Lady R. You know I don't like expansion. Won't
you compress yourself, and sit down, and amuse me ?
P. A. Forgive me, dear lady : I make a thousand
apologies.
Lady R. One is enough. You know I don't care
about apologies.
P. A. I wish I knew what you do care about. I
should so much like to be able to please you in any
way; to do something in return for these delightful
visits, and this delicious tea. How lucky I am to
find you at home !
Lady R. Which way did you come 1
P. A. Which way? Let me see; let me see. I
came through Half -Moon Street.
Lady R. Then you tried to find Susan Lorimer
first. I ought to be angry.
P. A. No : upon my word. I give you my word :
Lady R. You were quite right. Susan is very
agreeable. I can't be angry : I haven't the energy.
P. A. But I assure you -
154 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Lady R. You know I don't like assurance.
P. A. I am so sorry ! "Well 1 and what's the
news 1
Lady R. How absurd of you to ask me for news.
I never know anything. Besides, there never is any-
thing new in this monotonous world.
P. A. A most delightful world, I think. So gay !
Lady R. Monotonous.
P. A. Monotonous ! No, no, no. Think of the
variety. Think of the hundreds of pleasant houses !
Think of the charming breaks at Easter and Whit-
suntide; the Derby; Ascot; drives on coaches, and
water -parties on the river; delightful Saturday-till-
Mondays ; Henley Regatta ; the Harrow Match ;
Goodwood ; Cowes ; Scotland ; the German waters ;
the most agreeable dinners in town and country.
Lady R. Year after year the same things in the
same order. If people would for once go to Cowes
at Easter, or have Ascot before the Derby, or oh
if somebody would only invent a substitute for iced
coffee !
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 155
P. A. Ascot before the Derby ! What an extra-
ordinary idea ! You might as well reverse the order
of your dinner begin with your strawberries and
end with your soup.
Lady R. And why not ? My dear Pattle, I am
not at all sure that you have not had an inspiration.
Any change is worth trying, if life is to be anything
better than prison discipline.
P. A. How can you know what prison discipline is
like?
Lady R. One knows everything nowadays. Every-
body writes books even the criminals. Don't you
write booksl
P. A. No, no ; I'm not clever enough.
Lady R. It isn't the clever people who write
books. You really might try it this year after
Cowes instead of German waters. I think I
should like you better, if you would do something
different.
P. A. Ah ! That is an inducement indeed.
Lady R. What do you do ? Do you read ?
156 LITTLE COMEDIES.
P. A. Bead 1 Bead ? I read my ' Morning Post '
every morning after breakfast.
Lady R. Every morning at the same hour ! He
might as well be the milkman.
P. A. Upon my word I don't think I've any time
to read. I am so busy at this time of year. I give
you my word I can scarcely find time to answer my
notes.
Lady P. Oh, I know ; I know : little notes !
Little notes dropping in ; and little grooms waiting
for answers ; and little women with big bandboxes ;
and Susan Lorimer at the door in her eternal Victoria,
and " Would you kindly send a verbal answer if you
can go to the French play with her to-night, or to
the opera to-morrow, or dine with her on Sunday
when there will be no party, or " oh dear me !
P. A. "Well you see, my dear lady, the world
couldn't go on without these little notes and arrange-
ments : they make part of the delightful bustle the
movement the
Lady R. The treadmill.
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 157
P. A. Delightful ! You are so admirably amus-
ing.
Lady R. My dear Pattle, you don't think I'm
joking, do you 1 ? I'm sure I don't know why one
goes this weary round. I suppose because it's the
right thing. Oh dear me ! there is nothing in the
world so bad as the right thing.
P. A. Oh come; come now; it's better than the
wrong thing, isn't it 1 ?
Lady R, Don't be funny. You ought to know
that I don't like wit before dinner.
P. A. Ah, my dear lady, be careful ! I thought
you liked everything at the wrong time; that you
were in love with the unexpected.
Lady R. " In love " is a vile phrase. And please
don't argue. Haven't you heard often enough often
enough indeed ! that women are not consistent.
P. A. Women are charming; and that's enougli
for me.
Ludy R. What comical old threadbare things you
say ! Ten years ago you were saying that sort of
158 LITTLE COMEDIES.
thing. Ten years ! Time enough for the taking of
Troy ! I think that the world has ceased moving.
P. A. The world has certainly stood still witli
you.
Lady R. Oh dear no ! Ten years ago I was a
pretty girl; as it was in the dark ages, I may say
that I was a very pretty girl.
P. A. My dear lady, you need not tell me that.
Am I likely to forget it?
Lady R. I believe you have a wonderful memory
for unimportant matters.
P. A. Unimportant !
Lady R. Yes, I once was pretty.
P. A. Once !
Lady R. I was pretty ; and nobody cared
P. A. Oh no ; no, no ; don't say that.
Lady R. I was nice a really nice girl ; and
nobody cared. Now
P. A. Now you have the world at your feet.
Lady JR. And now / don't care. It is such a
ridiculous old world; and my feet have done with
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 159
their dancing. It annoys me to think how charming
I was ten years ago ; and all for nothing. I didn't
even appreciate it myself.
P. A. I did. But may I not say that the charm
is not lost, but rather intensified and elevated ?
Lady R. Don't be contradictory ! I was certainly
much prettier.
P. A. You were very pretty indeed. But you
didn't know how to be a beauty.
Lady R. How to be a beauty ! What a tiresome
idea ! It's like how to grow thin ; or how to grow
fat; or how to dress on 15 a-year. How to be a
beauty ! It's as bad as a column of advertisements.
P. A. But what an art it is ! What a combination
of delightful qualities of hand and eye, of patience,
of nerve
Lady R. Of nerve !
P. A. To be dressed neither too much nor too
little ; to come into the room neither too fast nor too
slow ; to stand at ease before the eyes of women ; to
look round for the eyes of men with certainty and
160 LITTLE COMEDIES.
without eagerness ; cool, confident ; a conqueror with-
out effort ; perfect from the heel of the little shoe to
the diamonds in the hair ; subduer of mankind, and
always mistress of herself charming ! delightful !
Lady R. Are you thinking of poor dear Susan 1
P. A. No, no, no.
Lady It. I thought not.
P. A. And why not 1
Lady R. You spoke of a little shoe.
P. A. Delightful ! You are too wicked and too
charming.
Lady R. You give a receipt for a Beauty as if she
were a pudding ; but you have left out one thing.
P. A. And what is that 1
Lady R. The beauty.
P. A. That is comparatively unimportant.
Lady R. Is it 1 My dear Pattle, you interest me.
P. A. My dear lady, this tea of yours is above
criticism ; but if it were of an inferior quality, made
with boiling water, blended with delicious cream, and
served in this exquisite china, it would delight people
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 161
of the finest taste. So is it with beauty. We have
learned to appreciate beauties more than beauty. Ten
years ago there was no demand for beauties.
Lady R. You speak as if they were something
in the City ; as if they might be supplied in second
quality tea-chests. Oh dear me ! What a world
it is!
P. A. A funny world no doubt.
Lady R. You must have a strange idea of
fun.
P. A. Well, you really must not give up this
unsatisfactory world till after the ball.
Lady R. What ball?
P. A. What ball ! The ball ! The ball of the
week of the season of the generation ; the ball to
which all the world are dying to go, and which so
very very few of the very very nicest people will
see.
Lady R. Do you mean Mrs What's-her-name's
Padford's Pudford's ?
P. A. Of course. What else could I mean ?
L
162 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Lady R. Do tell me, Pattle I am really rather
curious to know. What is the attraction? The
woman is very vulgar, isn't she 1
P. A. Yes; she is vulgar.
Lady R. And there are dreadful stories, ain't
there 1
P. A. Ah, you know me, my dear lady ; I hear a
deal of gossip; but it goes in at one ear and comes
out at the other.
Lady R. no, my dear Pattle ; it goes in at both
ears, and comes out of your mouth. That's why we
like you. And you know perfectly well that there
are stories.
P. A. There were stories. Yes, there were a good
many stories : there was one ha, ha ! I must tell
you
Lady R. No. I don't care. Upon my word it is
a fact that I don't care in the least to hear the story
about Mrs Puddiford : it is very strange ; I think I
must be ill.
P. A. Pudford is her name.
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 163
Lady R. And her house is not a good house for a
ball, is it ?
P. A. The worst in London.
Lady R. And Mr Mr What's-his-name I know
it isn't Mudford the husband
P. A. Pudford.
Lady R. Mr Pudford has done all sorts of horrors
in the City, pushing things up and down, and things,
hasn't he ?
P. A. Yes. Pudford is impossible : you needn't
know Pudford.
Lady R. Thank you. And what is the attraction ?
AVhy are all these notes flying about, and everybody
in a fever 1
P. A. You will never guess.
Lady R. Certainly not. I don't mind your telling
me.
P. A. What do you say to a new dish for supper 1
Lady R. Are people going to the Pudford ball for
food?
P. A. For a new dish ! There is only one man in
164 LITTLE COMEDIES.
the world who can make it. Ambassadors have in-
trigued for the receipt ; Countesses have knelt for it ;
it is even said that a rival artist shot himself after
his fiftieth failure to attain the incomparable flavour.
Lady R. And is it really new ?
P. A. Absolutely new.
Lady R. And what is it like 1
P. A. Nobody in Paris can describe it ; in London
nobody has tasted it.
Lady R. And of course this Pudford bought the
secret. That sort of man buys everything.
P. A. There are things which money cannot buy.
The cook of M. de Samary, the artist, the inventor,
has sworn to bequeath the secret to his son. He
is ambitious to found a family.
Lady R. That interests me. Even artists have
their weaknesses.
P. A. It is really a most thrilling story. M. de
Samary is largely interested in a company which
Mr Pudford started, and which he still controls.
Pudford wrote to de Samary for the receipt. The
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 165
Frenchman delayed his answer, and the next morn-
ing went to the Bourse. To his horror, he found
that his shares had fallen so far that he dared
not sell. He telegraphed to Pudford that he would
get the receipt; and went to his wife. Madame de
Samary belongs, as you know, to one of the oldest
and proudest families of France ; and yet it is
generally believed in Paris that she fell on her
knees in her own kitchen, and wept at the feet of
her own cook.
Lady R. Affecting situation ! And they mingled
their tears 1 And he was no stronger than Merlin ?
He told his secret 1
P. A. No, no, my dear lady. If the artist and
the man were softened, the father was adamant. He
appealed to his family. He stood firm for the sake
of his heir.
Lady R. And then ?
P. A, It was a tremendous situation. Down
went the shares in the company. M. de Samary
tore his hair, and polished his pistols. Madame
166 LITTLE COMEDIES.
appeared in black, and went to the Madeleine. Then
a great idea came to the inventor. He took a
heroic resolve. He determined to come to London.
Lady R. Heroic indeed !
P. A. He suffers agonies at sea. To-night he
is to cross the Channel : to-morrow he will be at
work ; and in the evening we shall taste something,
which has never been tasted in England since the
Conquest.
Lady R. And the next day it will be in every-
body's mouth. That's so tiresome.
P. A. ~No, no, no, my dear lady. The next
day the artist returns to Paris with his secret ; and
Pudford buys all the shares of M. de Samary at
par. Isn't the little history delightfully complete?
Lady R. Oh yes. I am quite sorry I shan't be
there.
P. A. Shan't be where ?
Lady R. At the ball.
P. A. You are not going to the ball 1
Lady R. I am not asked.
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 167
P. A. What ?
Lady R. I am not asked.
P. A. Impossible ! The duchess promised me
Lady R. Ah, Pattle, you have always believed too
much in duchesses !
P. A. What is one to believe in ?
Lady R. Ah !
P. A. There must be some mistake. I will fly
to her at once.
Lady R. No. That you must not do. You have
done more than enough. If you say a word more
on the subject to anybody, you shall never speak
to me again.
P. A. Dear lady ! Will you ever forgive me 1
It's heart-breaking. Ah, what a world it is !
Lady R. Oh ! you think it's a bad world, do you 1
P. A. Indeed, I think it is.
Lady R. Now I think it rather amusing rather.
P. A. So false !
Lady R. Even duchesses are false.
P. A. I never should have believed it of her never !
168 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Lady R. My dear Pattle, you expect too much
of the world. Of course it has no time to think
or to remember. It's always living in the day
after to-morrow. It's a fidgety world ; but it's not
bad fun.
P. A. I never was so hurt never !
Lady R. You are too easily hurt. So many of
you men have nerves nowadays. You are like
women ; and that's so tedious.
P. A. I dare say we are poor creatures.
Lady R. I have often thought it must be cigarettes
and aerated waters. Your fathers drank port ; and
they were never hurt, unless they fell on their heads
in the hunting-field.
P. A. Very likely. I dare say we are poor crea-
tures. / have reason to know that you have never
thought well of me.
Lady R. My dear Pattle, please don't be so ter-
ribly down-hearted. We shall be mingling our tears
like Madame de Samary and her cook. I like you
for your good spirits as I like champagne, or
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 169
P. A. You never liked me.
Lady R. Oh don't !
P. A. Have I not reason to know that you never
liked me 1 You have given me reason often enough.
Lady R. Don't Please don't. You haven't told
me anything yet to make me laugh.
P. A. How can I ?
Lady R. Has nobody said a good thing 1
P. A. Nobody. And if anybody had, I should
spoil it in telling. I am fit for nothing but to tell
you of the last good thing to eat I am fit for
nothing better; and whose fault is it that I am fit
for nothing better?
Lady R. My dear Pattle, you are fit for every-
thing awfully fit, as the boys say.
P. A. When I first saw you, I was a boy.
Lady R. Everybody has been a boy once or a
girl Perhaps you were unlucky in being a boy.
P. A. I was a boy; and you nearly broke my
heart by refusing me.
Lady R. Ah 1 we can laugh at all that now.
170 LITTLE COMEDIES.
P. A. I can't laugh. I feel much more inclined
to tears.
Lady R. My dear Pattle, I am certain that you
indulge too much in cigarettes and lowering waters.
P. A. Lowering waters ! And I spoke of tears.
Have I ever wavered in my allegiance?
Lady R. It has been your only fault. You ac-
quired a habit. You know I hate habits.
P. A. How many times have I asked you
to
Lady R. Upon my word I don't know.
P. A. Ah, how I have suffered !
Lady R. Oh no. I really do think I do hope
that you have liked it a little. People do don't
you think so? like that sort of suffering; and I
always hoped that you, and oh dear me, I really
am so sorry !
P. A. I have no wish to blame you.
Lady R. And why should you ?
. P. A. I have asked you again and again.
Lady R. Yes, it's been your nearest approach to
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 171
a regular occupation. Oh, I beg your pardon. I
really am so sorry.
P. A. And now you laugh at me.
Lady R. No : I think not ; and really you ought
to be so grateful to me. Really you must know
that I should have made you miserable.
P. A. And what have you made me?
Lady R. Dear Pattle ! I never made anything in
my life.
P. A. And I should have made such an excellent
husband.
Lady ft. Would you ? I dare say : I really think
you would.
P. A. I should never have given you a moment's
uneasiness.
Lady R. You never would ; that's true ; oh dear,
how monotonous ! A man who never gave one a
moment's uneasiness ! How have we drifted into
this old channel? Change the subject, please.
P. A. I don't want to. Oh Clara
Lady R. Clara ! My dear Pattle, please don't.
172 LITTLE COMEDIES.
P. A. But I can't help it. You know I can't
help it.
Lady R. It always comes when you are depressed
about something. Please go away, and come back
when you are in good spirits again.
P. A. No, Clara, I feel that I must speak.
Lady If. You have felt it so often.
P. A. Can you give me no hope?
Lady R. Of course not. How can you be so foolish?
P. A. I always told you I would never take No
for an answer.
Lady R. Ah, dear Pattle, you might have taken
what is it ? twelve thirteen yes, thirteen noes
for an answer.
P. A. Fourteen !
Lady R. Fourteen ! Oh, you count that absurd
time at no, I think I don't count that.
P. A. I don't think any woman ever had so
constant a suitor.
Lady R. Yes ; that's what's so tiresome. Why
don't you go away ? I really think you need a change.
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 173
P. A. I have been away so often. I went away
when you married.
Lady R. Ah, don't talk of that.
P. A. And it didn't do any good. And I didn't
come back till you were free. And then you sent
me away again ; and I didn't come back till you had
refused Claud Huntley in Eome.
Lady R. Did I refuse him 1 No ; I don't think I
refused him ; poor dear Claud ! Shan't I give you
another cup of tea 1
P. A. I don't want tea : it isn't that
Lady R. I shall be always so glad to give you a
cup of tea.
P. A. I am to go then ?
Lady R. Good-bye, and do come and tell me all
about the Puddiford ball.
P. A. I never was so hurt about anything : the
name is Pudford.
Lady R. Pudford ; please don't be hurt ; good-bye.
P. A. I shall never give up hope, as long as you
are free.
174 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Lady R. Ah, I am so tired of that. Constancy is
so out of date. Come back the day after to-morrow,
and tell me about the ball. And please notice
very carefully what Susan Lorimer wears. She looks
too shocking in pink. Good-bye.
P. A. Good-bye.
(So Mr Pottle Appleby goes, away ; and she,
left alone, stretches her arms; then sighs;
then laughs ; and at last speaks.)
Lady R. Extraordinary little man ! He never will
learn that he is not the sort of man one marries. I
wonder why one doesn't marry that sort of man. Oh
dear me, I wish I hadn't such a habit of wondering.
He is so good, and so sensible, and so devoted oh,
so devoted. I can't tell him once for all that he is
not the sort of man one marries. He would ask
why; and I'm sure I don't know why. Besides, I
never do say anything once for all. Poor dear Pattle !
It was fourteen; and now it is fifteen. Fifteen
times ! No, I don't think I ought to count that
A CARD FOR LADY ROEDALE. 175
ridiculous third time : I shall say fourteen. What's
that 1 Somebody's running up-stairs : he's coming
back, what for ? his hat 1 No. He's going to do it
again : it will be fifteen after all : well, it's a good
round number. Fifteen.
P. A. (Dancing into the rooin). Victoria ! Victoria !
Lady R. Oh no ; not at all ; really not.
P. A. Victoria ! Ecco I Mrs Pudford At Home
Dancing With the Duchess of Ruffborough's
compts. There !
Lady R. Oh dear me ! how funny !
P. A. Funny ! It's glorious. What shall you
wear ?
Lady R. Anything ; nothing ; I shan't go.
P. A. Not go ! It would be flying in the face
of
Lady R. No, I think not. Oh Pattle, how funny
you are !
P. A. You won't go !
Lady R. What shall I wear ?
P. A. Oh; of course; wear that lovely thing
176 LITTLE COMEDIES.
which you wore at Lady Rickworth's : white and
gold is so becoming to you : is it by Worth or
Worth of course ; au revoir ! I must fly ; I have a
thousand things to do before dinner; I never was
so pleased in my life : adieu till the ball ! au
revoir/ (He hurries out.)
Lad// R. Extraordinary little man ! It isn't fif-
teen after all. Yes ; I shall count that third time.
Fifteen is such a good number. Fifteen ! Oh dear
me ! How funny !
MABEL'S HOLY DAY
MABEL'S HOLY DAY.
In a Garden.
Arthur. He came, saw, and was conquered. Lady
mine,
You cannot choose but conquer j in mere sport
You triumph, and your prize a human heart ;
Where others strive, you take your ease and win,
Win for you must ; and so our friend was won,
Tamed to the rose-chain which I've worn so long.
Was never victory more swift and sure !
Mabel. Never.
A. A week, day, hour nay, not so much ;
He came, he saw, was conquered. Victory !
( ilory to you and me !
180 LITTLE COMEDIES.
M. Take all the glory.
A. 'No though 'twas I that dragged him from his
books,
'Twas you that tamed him. Bent o'er dusty books
There was my friend, my Ralph, my dear sworn
brother,
After some hundred years or so turned poet,
Spoiling his eyes the boy has pleasant eyes
Gnawing a weighty tome, grub, scholar, mole,
Philosopher of dusk and dust and poet.
I found him, and I dragged him forth to light.
M. To gaslight.
A. Yes, to gaslight best of lights.
There he sat blinking 'twas the rarest sport
The innocent had never seen a play,
Never ! He knew his Shakspeare, loved the book,
But not the boards ; they said the modern stage
Was all unworthy ; so he only came
Because I prayed him, and we had been friends.
M. You had been friends !
A. Friends ? Yes, the closest friends.
MABELS HOLY DAY. 181
Oh but to see the change ! There he sat dazed,
Puzzled, disdainful ; and the play began.
What's this 1 The dazed eyes open round and bright.
"What's this 1 Black-letter ? parchment ? manuscript ?
A student's prize 1 Newest old-fashioned verse,
Or old verse new the fashion 1 Yes, by Love,
By the great little master ! Such a scroll
As not all libraries on earth can match,
Parchment of living words, live manuscript,
Most old, most new, the very fount of song,
The world writ small in poetry a woman.
He did not know the kind.
M. And does he know it ?
A. He learns his lesson daily at your feet.
M. What shall you do? Where do you go to-
day 1 ?
A. I am to go 1 I weary you ?
M. Not much.
A. I cannot comprehend you.
M. I hope not.
A. I can but leave you.
182 LITTLE COMEDIES.
M. You are very kind.
A. Sphinx though you be, you make your meaning
clear.
Adieu, most potent lady : Queen, farewell,
Give my respects to Master Ealph ; farewell,
Most arbitrary lady, queen of hearts,
Queen of the stage
M. Don't speak about the stage :
I would forget this is my holiday
Let me forget the actress so good-bye !
A. Good - bye. The gate grates on the gravel-
walk ;
He comes, I go all pass '; he goes, I come ;
We are two buckets at one well. Good-bye.
You'll educate my friend.
M. Your friend ! And mine 1
(ARTHUR goes away. Presently RALPH comes
through the shrubbery ; as MABEL gives
him her hand, he begins to speak quickly.}
MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 183
Ralph. Oh what a day ! Are you at las content ?
My lady, did you ever see such a day ?
M. I have seen many days.
R. But none like this.
Why, all the land to-day is fairyland.
I came by the upland common all ablaze
With gorse from end to end, and met the breeze
Full in the face, and the grey morning clouds
Rolled northward rent, and the great sun shone
through.
But that was nothing : where the road dips down
Steep from rough common to the wide grass-lands,
I found a world of blossom ; by my side
The May-trees stood so thick with bloom, methought
No space was there for song o' the thrush, that shook
The heart o' the bush with rhapsodies of love.
But that was nothing ; for each blade of grass
Had its rain-jewel ; short-lived buttercups
Wealth of the meadow, fairy merchants' gold
Thronged to my feet ; then field and hedgerow, elms
All newly green, and golden youth of oaks,
184 LITTLE COMEDIES.
And great horse-chestnut with imperial plumes ;
Far trees, and farther in the farther fields,
Till I saw dimly the fair silver coils,
Where the full Thames lay dreaming. All the land
Was one broad flood of blossom, all the air
Was scent of blossom. Down the road I came,
Like a winged creature who but walks for whim,
Half stifled by the songs I could not sing :
But that was less than nothing ; for I came
Under your garden- wall, the old red wall,
Rough stained and beautiful ; and there I stood
Delaying my delight, and looking up
I looked close in and through laburnum bloom,
And through the bloom light slanted to my eyes,
Sunshine and blossom dazzling, golden shower,
Quivering, with beauty breathless : but that's
nothing,
For when I pushed your gate, my dusty feet
Were ankle-deep in daisies ; nothing still,
For round the o'erflowing lilac-bush I stole
Breathless, and here are you.
MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 185
M- Yes, here am I ;
And is that something ?
R. Crown o' the day to me,
Music that makes all music's meaning clear,
The master-touch interpreting all lights,
Colour of colours, heart o' the living rose
M. Enough ! enough ! Would you too flatter 1
R. No.
I pray you pardon me. I am mad to-day,
Drunken with spring : this morning on the road
I could not sing, for all the world was poem ;
The world was poet, I was dumb ; but now
Beholding you I speak I know not what,
The pent stream flows, and I am rhapsodist.
I pray you pardon me.
M. You need no pardon :
I think your liking for these things is real.
You really like the country.
R. Keally like it ,
To-day I love it.
M. Arthur loves the town.
186 LITTLE COMEDIES.
E. Arthur 1 Where is he 1 Will he come to-day ?
M. Yes, he is here ; he's somewhere in the house
Helping my maid perhaps to plan a gown
For the next part I play.
R. Don't talk of plays.
Is not this better than the playhouse 1
M. Yes :
Oh so much better ! This is holiday,
My holiday amid the birds and bloom,
My holiday with flowers.
R. You love flowers.
M. I hate them.
R. What !
M. I hate them. So would you
If they were hurled at you, each on its wire,
Falling with a thud on the boards, stirring the
dust,
Formal and scentless, dull, inevitable
As gloves or fans a bouquet !
R. Bloom is bloom.
May I not choose some flowers for my lady ?
MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 137
M. N"o, let them live ; I am so modest, I,
One daisy shall suffice me ; thanks, my poet.
R. Your poet ! If I dared that was my dream
The night when I first saw you. On that night
I was so full of poetry, or verse
Which would be poetry, so full of song,
That, as I walked home through the London
crowd
Crowd that was but a murmur in my ears,
A shadow world, I heard no single word
Of Arthur's talk, who will be critical.
The moon shone fair above base yellow lights,
And my lips babbled song ; the moon shone fair
And touched my lips with madness, till I thought
That I was poet, fit to be your poet.
I broke from Arthur, and ran home ; my brain ,
Was burning ; " It is the god," I cried,
" The god inspires me : " so I seized my pen
And wrote : and by the morning light I read
Page after page of broken scribbled verse,
Poor verse Yes, you may laugh.
188 LITTLE COMEDIES.
M. I do not laugh.
Show me this verse.
R. Then you love poetry ?
M. I hate it. Verses have been flung at me
To fall with a thud like flowers : poetry
Is but cheap flowers, jewellery that's cheap,
Cheap as my life.
R. Why will you talk like that t
M. I talk as I feel. I am not good, you know ;
Not good, and somewhat weary of my life ;
At least I can be honest bad but true,
Show me your verse.
R. My lady, speak no more
These cruel words against yourself. You know
I can't believe them even if I would.
M. You would believe them then ?
R- I wished to once ;
Once ; long ago.
M. We have been friends one week.
R. I was a fool, a prejudiced poor fool,
And I knew nothing.
MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 189
&! A week ago ! Poor boy !
B. I ain a boy no longer. As a boy
I lived with boys, and loved my friends, my dreams,
And did not hate my books ; I worked and played,
Glad both of work and play. Then I saw you :
Xow I see nought but you.
M. Nought but each cloud,
Each summer cloud, each tree, each blade of grass.
JR. I saw all these because I came to you,
Because I came to you, all beautiful;
They had but mocked me else.
M. As they mock me.
"Would I could see their beauty; for this land,
Your dainty land of spring, is laid in flats ;
The carpenters are barely out of sight ;
Smell o' the lamp, glare o' the gas ; and soon
Not without jolt and creak the play's next scene
Will be presented. I foresee the scene.
R. AVhat is that scene ?
M. A dainty scene enough ;
A room, a bijou, boudoir, lady's bower;
190 LITTLE COMEDIES.
A wall of satin, save where Cupids leer
From panels ; two long windows draped in lace
Through which the rose-coloured pale sunlight faints
To die on flowered carpet ; all things there
Which women love, for which Let's hear your
verse.
R. There are tears in your eyes.
M. Ko, no. My eyes are dazed
By too much lime-light. Let me hear your verse.
R. There are tears in your eyes : why do you cry ?
Poor child !
M. Child ! I am laughing now ; are you content 1
Child ? I suppose that I was once a child,
Knowing no harm i' the world, a little child.
I must have been but it was long ago.
R. Tell me about yourself.
M. With pleasure, sir;
The subject interests me : I was born
Some five-and-twenty years ago, or more
I think that I was born before the flood :
I lived in a farm. Xow mark the pretty scene !
MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 191
To Eight a cottage porch o'ergrown with roses ;
Eight Centre pump or pigeon-house on pole ;
Then practicable gate o' the old pasture;
And Left a bit of barn-door. On this scene
Enter a young girl singing ; that was I.
" Dost like the picture ? " as they ask i' the play.
But come, recite ! You did not tear them all,
Xot all your pretty verses 1
R All, I think :
There's something I remember but I will not,
You are so strange to-day.
M. You like me not :
You like me not to-day ; and that is well ;
You must not like me.
R, Stop ; don't tell me that ;
It is too late.
M. Poor boy !
R Not poor but rich,
Eich with a kingdom that I would not yield
To be an Emperor.
M. And that's not much.
192 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Don't talk like a young lover on the stage !
This is my garden, this my holiday ;
Keep the stage lover from me : Be my Siebel,
Cull me fair flowers.
M. Let the flowers live ;
Is not the whole world nosegay for my lady 1
M. Pestilent vapours.
R. No.
M. Disperse them then ;
Come, let me have my hour; come, if you love me;
Sit by my feet and speak your verse to me ;
Here at my feet ! That's right ; and now the
verses !
R. They are so weak.
M. The better ! Who am I
That I should make men poets 1 Quires of verse
Have been discharged at me ; they were all weak.
Begin !
R. I cannot.
M. If you love me, Ealph.
R. I must. I can remember but few lines.
MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 193
Night's flower, child of night and perfumed air
Star o' the night, lone star as pure as pale
Night's bird whose mere discourse is music rare
Bird, star, and flower, lovelorn nightingale
Lightning of wrath, passion fierce and frail
Heart o' the rose, heart of love's own heart
Air, fire, life, death and woman too thou art.
I have obeyed you, lady.
M. Thanks, my poet.
And when I played, you saw all this in me 1
R. You were so much to me.
M. And it was real 1
Was this play real to you ? Did you believe ?
R. The woman that you played was real to me ;
Now shadow of a shade, since you are real,
Since I am by your feet, and this is you.
M. Shadow of a shade, ay, shadow of shade is play
And woman too.
R. Then nought be real to me
But this dear shade.
194 LITTLE COMEDIES.
M. No ; have no faith in me.
7?. I have no choice.
M. Poor boy !
R. Nay, not so poor !
Now, when I felt your hand light on my hair,
A blessing fell on me : Oh to sit here
For ever, that this moment might be time,
Dream with no waking after ! dreamful sleep,
Or death of all thought save that you are near.
M. Yes, dream; you are safe in dreams but
never wake.
R. Dream, and I dream this .day will ne'er be done.
M. The butterfly outlives it, but not love.
R. One night falls dark, dark night on love and
life.
M. Oh this is poetry, folly, player's rant ;
You dream and wake -to-morrow. A week ago
We two were strangers ; let some few days pass
And we are strangers.
R. But a week ago
I had not lived.
MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 195
AT. Stage fever is not life ;
Stage fever's quick.
R. Yes, quick to cure or kill
M. You must not talk like that.
R. What need to talk 1
Let the air talk in the lilac ; you and I
Sit silent breathing spring-time you and I.
M. And are you happy ?
H. I am rich with joy,
And yet not wholly happy.
M. Lover's mood !
lover's luxury of sighs long-drawn !
Immortal dead at sundown ! Is't not sweet
To taste the day's delight, and sorrow too,
Sorrow in the thought that you and I must part 1
R. "Why must we part 1
M. Why ! Wake and see the world.
The world on which I make my player's round,
A star how runs it ? star that's pale and pure,
Star o' the troupe, a comet with faint tail,
With somewhat musty followers not with you.
196 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Child, would you journey round this dusty world
Tied to my apron-string 1
It. Yes, that would I.
M. No, be a man and burst these idle bonds,
These apron-strings.
R. Who tied me here but you 1
You bound me, and I will not loose the bonds.
You bid me be a man; be woman you
To pity me : " I would I were thy bird."
M. Don't quote from plays.
R. 'Tis real enough to me.
M. I've seen so many love-sick Montagues ;
I've stepped from windows with no house behind,
Leaned from, sham balconies to lisp sham love;
The powder's thick on the child Juliet's cheek;
She's dead i' the first scene, dead, stark, analysed,
Dissected N"ow I shock you ! You see now
How dull to feel I am, how cold, how bad,
How tired of life ! A live warm-blooded man
Had better crush his heart against a stone
Than look for love in me. Be warned in time.
MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 197
All is cold here at my heart, all is cold here.
See me, not Juliet in me : push her back,
This Juliet of your fancy, to the tonih ;
To the tomb with her, if you love me, Ralph.
R. If I love !
M. Child, poor child, you must not love,
You shall not love me.
R. I am not a child,
I love you, Mabel.
M. Hush ! you shall not love me.
You will not : do you mark me ? Arthur ! here !
Where is my loving playmate ? Ho, boy, ho !
Come to me, Arthur.
Arthur (coming to them}. I salute you both.
Good morning, Ralph, a happy day to you !
Is it not happy, man 1
M. Oh, much too happy !
I triumph, Arthur !
A. May I kiss your hand ?
M. My lips if you will; I am right royal
to-day.
198 LITTLE COMEDIES.
A. (to her). What are you saying 1 You will
spoil it all.
M. Look how the boy stares, boy who dares not
think
Of woman's lip, who dares not lift his eye
When trembling sore he takes her finger-tips,
Boy ! child ! a woman's wine is made of grapes,
Virtue ! a fig's end ! oh, how runs the stuff?
lago knew us.
A. Good ! Brava ! brava !
Was ever such an actress ! Ealph, applaud !
I'll swear he half believes her. What an actress !
R. (to her}. And is this acting 1
M. No. I tell you, no.
(Be silent, Arthur, do not cross my whim.)
I have been acting, acting for a week,
A long dull week, seven days of sentiment
Heaven bless us all ! of sentiment and song ;
Sighing like furnace, of young grass and lambs,
Young grass, young lambs, young love, love of a boy.
But now good-bye ingenuous charm of youth,
MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 199
Good-bye to love, Good-bye to love and lamb,
And back to town ! I am free, I am true, myself ;
I am myself again. Good-bye, dear boy ;
"We meet in town 1 ' No. Then good-bye again.
R. Good-bye.
(Ralph goes away. Mabel mil not look at
him. When he is out of sight, and
Mabel still stands and looks the other
way, Arthur comes to her doubtfully.}
A. What means this, Mabel 1 "Won't you speak ?
M. Go.
A. What have / done 1 I've done nothing
wrong.
M. Nothing but torture me ! Go !
A. Very well !
I never yet have crossed a lady's whim.
(Arthur goes away.)
M. I am alone. This is my holiday.
HEATHER
HEATHER.
Julius. Hi, good dog ! Here ! Come out of the
sun, you four - legged idiot ! Many years in my
company, and still so little wisdom. Eh? What?
"Dogs and Englishmen walk in the sun." Very
true : but I am an Englishman who likes shade ;
you are my dog, and should like what I like. Sit
here under my left arm. That is better. You
are much to be pitied in that you cannot lean your
back against the smooth trunk of a pine, and stretch
out your legs before you. I too can lie on my
stomach, if it. please me, but you cannot for all your
aspirations lean your back against a tree in comfort.
Nor, though you cock your ear like a critic, do you
204 LITTLE COMEDIES.
care a jot for that faint sighing overhead, which
even on this stillest of summer days is sweet to
hear. NOT do those bright intelligent eyes perceive
the heauty of heather. See how my right arm, half
sunken, lies along this tuft, which is springy as the
very finest smoking - room sofa, and beautiful
yes, by the immortality of humbug 1 more beauti-
ful than the last creation of the last aesthetic
upholsterer ! But heather is healthy, irrepressible,
and vulgar : it rebounds ; it asserts itself ; it is
vulgar, vivid, and healthy as those reapers out
beyond the wood, where the sun smites the wide
field golden. Heather is vulgar, and probably its
colour is voyant to the well-ordered eye. In truth,
this England has become a strange place, Aurelian,
while you and I have been knocking about the
world. Here lie you in the shade of the old
pine-wood, and wag your tail a smiling mongrel
and incurable Philistine. Here lie I happy in the
heather, and wag my jaw a Philistine but per-
chance to be cured and become oblivious of Ascalon.
HEATHER. 205
And the strange thing is that you and I were wont
to value ourselves on our taste. In this very spot
have we reposed side by side, as now, and been well
pleased with ourselves. "Were I as once I was, I
should hug myself with joy of that broad corn-
land, all Danae to the sun, of the blue through
the dark fir-tops : I should turn an idle eye to the
hard whiteness of the road away on the right,
where you delayed in the glare and ran the risk
of madness, and then bless myself that I could
feel the entire charm of a bed of heather spread
in the shade for me. But now I am beset by
doubts. "What if heather be vulgar? It pushes,
it rebounds, it asserts itself; it is decked with
purple bells. It is not a sun-flower; it does not
even wish to be a sun -flower; it is not wasted
by one passionate sweet desire to become a sun-
flower; it seems to be content with itself con-
tent as a thriving grocer. Has Elfrida become
a sun -flower? She used to be great fun. She
was once a little girl, but now a young lady. She
206 LITTLE COMEDIES.
would not agree with the heather. Under the
dark pine-trees her gown of olive hue would be
but a bit of the shadow, and she unseen but for
the sunshine of her hair. sunny hair ! wheat,
out in the happy field, where the reaper is sing-
ing, or ought to be ! Oh but rhapsody is out of
date. Elfrida has changed, my dog, since the
days when she was Elf, and rode the old horse
bare-back, and played cricket with the boys, prin-
cess and witch of the schoolroom, elf of this wood,
and queen of fairies ! She is a beauty now, and
her gowns are as the dead leaves of the forest for
number and colour, and her head is a little bowed
on one side as the head of the lily, and her face
is a comely mystery. These are brave words,
Aurelian. I improve apace. Yet there is none
like her. "What does she think of me? Were I
a lover, thus idle in the sweet shade, I would solve
the question by some pretty test, as thus : She
loves me she loves me not ; she loves no ; she
but I perceive that you do not like me to pluck
HEATHER. 207
hairs from your tail; and yet I have called you
friend these many years. Let the question remain
unanswered. Or let us be wise, and know she loves
us not.
" Sing, little bird in the tree,
But not because my love loves me,
For she does no such thing ;
Therefore, for your good pleasure only sing."
Thank you. And now for luncheon. Now is the
hour, when in eating-houses all the world over,
there is clink of knives and small change, clatter
of plates, and hum of talking and eating. Here
there is no bustling waiter nor scent of roast joint,
but only a crust of bread, an apple, and pure air.
Were this my last crust you should share it. It
is well, however, that you have no taste for apples.
He would have tempted you with tea and a chop.
Steady ! Don't bolt your bread, and I will find
a biscuit in my pocket. Be dignified, as becomes
a traveller, and one who has had losses. Have I
had my losses? Have I lost something rare? I
208 LITTLE COMEDIES.
cannot say. But if I had not so longed to see the
world, I might have gained something, when an
Elf was tenant of this old wood. What ? Enough 1
Why these extravagant demonstrations, this wag-
ging of the tail, and indeed of the entire body?
What do you see 1 ? Who is it? Elfrida ! I did
not think you would come out to-day.
Elfrida. Is it not beautiful?
Jul. Yes.
"The valleys stand so thick with corn that they do laugh and
sing. "
Elf.-
" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean
Tears from the depth of some divine despair,
Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy aiitumn fields. "
Jul. It is scarce autumn yet. Let it be summer
still; and let us laugh with the valleys. Consider
that broad beauty in the sun.
Elf. Is it not exquisite, pathetic?
HEATHER. 209
Jul Is it 1 You like it 1
Elf. Oh yes.
Jul. It's not too bright, too garish ?
Elf. Perhaps it is. I did not think that you
would feel that.
Jul. Oh, not too bright for me. I like to sit
in shadow and stare into the sun. But for you?
I thought that you would resent the shining of the
blue, the gleaming of the yellow corn, the cheerful-
ness of all things.
Elf. Are you laughing at me ? I never know.
Jul. I laugh because you are here. It brings
back other days. Oh, don't sigh. They were
jolly, but none so jolly as this. Jolly ! Let me
say jocund.
Elf. I think it is -all too bright. It hurts the
eyes a little.
Jul. Are they weak, those eyes ?
Elf. I think not.
Jul. I think not.
Elf. But I like soft colours best ; don't you ?
o
210 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Jul. Tender grey skies, tender green grass, and
tone.
Elf. Oh yes. That is good. That is like
Lacave. It is only by studying the French painters
that one can learn to love our grey-green English
landscapes, to comprehend their infinite tenderness.
Jul. It is hard even for a French painter to
comprehend the infinite.
Elf. Is it so hard? I wish you could see his
pictures. I know so little, and I can't explain
myself; but he is so clever, and it is all so true.
I should like you to know him, Julius.
Jul. Let it be so. I don't hate a Frenchman.
What does he paint ?
Elf. Oh, wonderful still things, all rest, and
brooding calm ; a level grey-green sea ; long, level,
level sands all grey with wan sea- water ; and far-off
creeping mist and low grey sky.
Jul. Always that ?
Elf. Yes, I think so ; but with infinite variety
in the monotone.
HEATHER. 211
Jul. He must have a merry heart to keep him
warm, or an endless cold in the head. Is he jocund,
this painter?
Elf. Oh, Julius ! He is always very still
Jul. And grey? But I will learn to like the
right things. Am I too old to learn? Will you
teach me?
Elf. I can't teach anything, as you know, Julius.
You must ask M. Lacava
Jul.
" The owl in the sunlight sat and said,
' I hate your vulgar blue and red ;
Oh, better the grey of a wan twilight,
Or a black nocturne at the dead of night.
O M. Hibou,
A word with you
Pray, how can one gain so keen a sight ? "
But in sober prose, sweet coz, I will to school again,
and learn to love grey weather a taste much to
be desired in this old land of ours. Only let this
day be holiday. Let us be happy to-day happy
as sunburnt reapers in the field. I give the day
212 LITTLE COMEDIES.
to vulgar joy, for I am at home again, and the
hour is fair. Joy is vulgar, is it not ]
Elf. Oh no. Joy is good.
Jul. Good, and sweet, and sad, and so evil.
Elf. You are mocking me again, I think. But
surely it is true that joy and sorrow are very near
together, are one in some sort ; are for us so hlended
and intermingled that we can no more sever one
from another than the tuberose from its scent.
Jul. I knew it. Evil is sad, and sad is sweet,
and sweet is good. But no more gladness, which
is scarce better than jollity. We must be sweetly,
sadly, seriously joyous. It shall be so to-morrow.
To-morrow I will begin to learn. To-morrow to
school; to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow. But to-
day ! To - day I am so deeply, unutterably glad
of the goodly earth, where angels might gather
in the corn. Think of me as one who will do
better, as one who has kept bad company for
years : do you wag your tail at me, sir ? I said
bad company, Aurelian ; nay, pat him not, Elfrida,
HEATHER. 213
for he is a Philistine, and must be chastened. He
is happy with a bone, sorry with a beating. To-
morrow will I give him a bone and a beating at
the same time ; thus complicate his emotions ; thus
begin his education. He, too, shall learn how
subtly pleasure and pain are interwoven. Down,
you fantastic pup ! Elfrida, this grove intoxicates
me. It is not long since an Elf ran wild here,
leaping in the heather, laughing to the air, darting
through the shadows like a truant sunbeam fresh
from heaven.
Elf. Do you remember those old days 1
Jul. That is better. There is the old colour in
your cheeks. Do you ever run now ?
Elf. Sometimes, but not now. M. Lacave is paint-
ing me, and he likes me to be pale.
Jul. "Would he were pale, very pale ! You are too
rare to fade, too
Elf. Julius, what is the matter with the dog t
Jul. He has found a mare's nest I know that air
of preternatural sagacity. Lead on, Aurelian; we
214 LITTLE COMEDIES.
follow thee. Hush ! Look here ! Scarce ten yards
from where we sat ! Is not this a day of enchant-
ment? '
Elf. Hush ! Poor child, how sound he sleeps.
Jul. A little tramp of Italy, and a jolly little
fellow.
Elf. He has crept in here from off the hard road
of life. Don't wake him, Julius.
Jul. Not I. Do you think I would mar such
slumber 1 Look how evenly the breath stirs the torn
shirt on his breast ; and how easily he lies, his knees
a little bent, as if he would curl himself like some
soft -coated animal warm in the heather. Did an
eagle let bim fall?
Elf. How beautiful is the soft olive face lying on
the outstretched arm ! and look at the lashes how
long they are on the cheek ! Poor child ! The path
before him must be rough for those little feet. Poor
child, poor child !
Jul. Not so poor neither. Is sleep like that worth
nothing? See how he smiles, and the humorous
HEATHER. oj-,
wrinkle between the eyebrows, and the warm blood
in the cheek. It is a child's cheek, round and soft ;
but the jaw is firm enough. Such a one moves well
and cheerily among the chances of life. No fear for
him. He was born in a happy hour.
Elf. How beautiful he is, astray from a poet's
Italy, fragrant of the wine-press, and eloquent of most
delicate music !
Jid. Yet should he wake, that rustic bagpipe would
be doubtless discordant. Sleep, little one, in good
sweet Northern heather ; sleep, little Ampelus, out of
the swinging vines. Sleep, vagrant poem not Am-
pelus ; for now I bethink me, Elf rida, this is the very
god of love.
Elf. Poor little child of the South.
Jul. Bad grandchild of the Southern sea lovely
and capricious grandam, with malice in her smiles.
Wake him not or tremble. Elves of the wood a-many
have confessed his power. See how the dog trembles.
Away !
Elf. Can we do nothing for him, Julius ?
216 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Jul. Nothing. But stay. There is a book of
antique lore that says to those who chance to find
Eros asleep, that, be they many or few, one or two,
each must sing the god a song, and cross his palm
with silver. I therefore in this upturned little brown
hand place this half-crown. Do you take this, its
fellow, and do likewise.
Elf. I shall never pay you, Julius.
Jul. I am paid with hope. So half the charm is
done. Now, sit you here upon this tiny knoll. I
will lie here on the other side. So our theme is
between us. Do you begin the song.
Elf. (sings)
Love lies asleep
Deep in the pleasant heather ;
Wake him not lest ye weep
Through the long winter weather ;
And sorrow bud again in spring,
With apple-blossoming,
And bloom in the garden close,
With blooming of the rose,
HEATHER. 217
And ye, ere ye be old,
Die with the brief pale gold,
And when the leaves are shed,
Ye too lie dead.
Jul. No fear of waking this vagrant Love. How-
fast he sleeps !
Elf. What utter weariness !
Jul. What splendid health !
Jul. (sings)
Oh, merry the day in the whispering wood,
Where the boy Love lies sleeping ;
And clad in artistic ladyhood
An Elf her watch is keeping !
Oh, she was a queen of the elfin race.
And flower of fairy land ;
The squirrel stood to look in her face,
And the wild dove came to her hand ;
But her fairies have given a gift more fair
Than any that elves or ladies wear,
218 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Unbought at any mart
A woman's heart.
Boys and maidens passing by,
Be ye wise, and let Love lie !
There's never a word than this more wise
In all the old philosophies.
Hush your song this summer day,
Lest he wake and bid you stay ;
Hush and haste away,
Haste away,
Away !
Elf. And we too must be going, for look how
long the shadows of the reapers lie along the land.
How sad so sweet a day must end !
Jul. And are not others coming better than this 1
Elf. Who can say 1 Ah, yes ! I will believe that
they are coming.
Jul. That is wise, Elfrida. That is bravely said.
Look how the sunlight comes like a conqueror, slant-
ing through the dark firs ! It touches the poor child's
HEATHER. 219
cheek and now you stoop to kiss the place ; that is
well done. Did you see how he smiled and moved in
sleep ? He will wake soon with the evening light
about him, to find wealth in his little brown hand,
and in his heart the dream of a young queen's kiss.
Elf. Come. It is time to go home.
Jul. And after our many journeys by land and
sea, is there still a home for us 1 Arise, Aurelian !
come, good pup, and follow our gracious lady home.
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET.
Dorothy. Pussy, could you ever bear to leave
our own dear little home, and your own little corner,
and the mat, and the basket, and the milk-saucer?
Of course we might take them with us; but how
could you ever bear to have a great rough collie
sprawling on your mat and upsetting your saucer?
They say that dogs grow like their masters. Cer-
tainly that dog is very like Tom. Dear Tom ! He
certainly does make a great noise. He is so big;
and his boots are so big ; and he comes clattering in
to that big hall of his : he always leaves the door
open. Men are so clumsy ; and, of course, a woman
does get a little set in her ways, as she grows
224 LITTLE COMEDIES.
when she is getting to be not so young as she
as she used to be. Then the dog comes jumping
in at the window there is always a window open
somewhere frightening one to death ; and there are
all sorts of draughts, and a great fire fit to roast
an ox. ~No, Pussy, I am quite sure you never
could be happy there. Dear Pussy ! dear Delia !
"What shall I say if he asks what should I say
if he were to He is such an old friend, and I
am so fond I have always been so fond of him
since we were boy and girl together. Pussy, I
do wish you could advise me ! Dear Pussy !
Dear, dear, how silly I am to be considering what
I shall say before anybody when nobody has asked
when there has been no question. I am old
enough to know better 1 yes, old enough. If he
had wished if he had meant anything, he might
have said something years ago ten years ago or
more. I have known him all my life. Dear Tom !
And yet I really do think that he must mean
something. He comes almost every day. We have
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET. 225
been near neighbours and dear friends all these
years, and yet he never used to come nearly so
often. And then he doesn't come for anything
particular; that is, unless He just comes in
and strides about, and begins to say things, and
doesn't finish ; and asks me the same questions
every day about little Lily. Dear Lily !
I don't believe that there is another man in the
world who would have done what he has done for
little Lily. To adopt a child is such a serious
thing. No relation whatever to him. Just because
her father was his friend, and nobody wanted to
take charge of the poor orphan baby ; and he scarcely
more than a boy at the time ; yes, it was good. I
do think, Pussy, that he is the best man in the
world.
But then no guardian, however good he may be,
wants to come every day and talk about a little
girl, and say the same things, and ask the same
questions. And then his wanting me to keep Lily
here when she comes back from her friends ! Doesn't
p
226 LITTLE COMEDIES.
that look as if oh, but I must not think of it. Is
that the front-door bell ? Oh dear ! There, there,
Pussy ; it's nothing ; don't disturb yourself. It's
nothing nothing.
(Miss Dorothy listens anxiously ; she gives
a little jump as Lily comes in.}
D. Lily!
L. Didn't you expect me ? Didn't you get
Teddie's telegram?
D. !N"o, dear. And, my dear, who is Teddie ?
L. I'm very sorry, dear Miss Dorothy, but they
all call him Teddie. He's Teddie Armstrong, Kitty's
brother ; he's an awfully nice boy ; I don't call him
Teddie to his face, you know, dear; but that comes
of trusting a boy; he promised to send you a tele-
gram the very moment he got to London. But how
are you, dear 1 And how's Delia ? Is she in her
basket 1
D. Yes, dear : but please don't touch her ; I think
she's asleep.
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET. 227
L. I think she's always asleep.
D. She does sleep a good deal; but when she
is awake, she is the cleverest, dearest creature, the
best companion But, Lily dear, I don't under-
stand now why you are here. To-day is the day
when you were to have gone on to the Blakes. Of
course I am very glad to see you. Dear child !
L. All the Blakes have got the mumps even old
Mrs Blake ; at least they think she has ; only she's
so fat that they can't be sure; and so I've come
straight to you ; and I am so tired of visiting ; and
I am so glad to be at home almost at home.
D. Dear Lily ! And you must be quite at home
here. You are to make me a nice long visit I
settled it all with Tom.
L. May I stay with you always 1
D. Dear Lily! But what would your guardian
say to that ? Tom would never forgive me. Of
course the Hall is your home till you are old enough
to be married.
L. I shall never marry.
228 LITTLE COMEDIES.
D. Never is a long word. But you are quite
right not to think of such nonsense for a long time.
There is plenty of time for such a child as you.
L. When does one give up being a child 1
D. Why, of course, dear, when you are grown
up. What an odd question ! And why don't you
ask after Tom, dear 1 ? You really ought to ask
after your good kind guardian. He is so good and
kind. Dear Tom !
L. How is he 1
D. What a way to ask ! And why don't you say
" Uncle Tom " ?
L. Because it's silly. He's not my uncle. He's
not the least bit of a relation. Uncle Tom ! It's
as if he was black.
D. You always used to call him " uncle."
L. When I was a little thing, and didn't know
any better. Miss Dorothy, why did he send me
away to make these stupid visits 1 And why does
he want me to stay here with you instead of going
of going home? Tell me, please.
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET. 229
D. It is all because he is so good. You know
how fond he is of you dear Tom ! he always was
so fond of children ! but he thought that you
ought to see some younger society; and so I am
afraid he has been very lonely sometimes, for he
has been over here a good deal lately; and
Lily ! I am really afraid, my dear, that you don't
half know how good your guardian is.
L. Well, you know any way.
D. Lily!
L. And so he sent me away to play with the
other children. He thinks me a child still;
he
D. Why, of course dear you are a child.
L. And when does one become a girl 1
D. Why, of course dear, when you come out, and
are a young lady.
L. I shan't come out. I've seen the world now,
and I think it's silly. You can't think what non-
sense those boys talk.
D. You won't think so always, dear; that is,
230 LITTLE COMEDIES.
when they Yes, dear, I daresay they will
talk nonsense to you some day.
L. They talk nonsense to me now.
D. Lily!
L. They do at least some of them do some-
times. They are so silly. They certainly don't say
much. They only stare when they are with us, and
yawn ; and then one of them says, " Come on,
Charlie," or "Regy," or "Bertie," or whatever it
is, " and have a smoke ; " and then they go away,
and get quite lively, and we hear them laughing.
Boys seem to have most fun by themselves. Boys
ain't like girls.
D. But I thought, dear, you said that they talked
to you.
L. So they did. 0, Miss Dorothy, do you know
Regy Mr Reginald Chalmers ?
D. N"o, dear.
Z,. He is such a dear !
D. LHy!
L. Oh, but he is. He has got a little tiny mous-
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET. 231
tache ; and he waxes the points ; and his man takes
him tea in the morning before he gets up ; and for
two days he didn't seem to know that I was alive ;
and the third day, just after luncheon, he said quite
loud that I wasn't "a half-bad-looking little girl,"
and I could have killed him. And after that he
became quite friendly; and the next evening he
stood staring, and twisting that little moustache;
and at last he said, quite suddenly, " By George, you
are in looks to-night"
D. I think that Mr Chalmers must be a very rude
young man. He ought to know better than to speak
like that to a girl in the school-room.
L. Well, any way he knows that I'm not a child.
That's something.
D. How odd you are to-day, dear. You are quite
defiant. I hope I haven't said anything to hurt you.
Dear Lily !
L. Oh, no, no. You are always kind. 0, dear
Miss Dorothy, you will always love me, won't you 1
Promise !
232 LITTLE COMEDIES.
D. Of course I will, dear. There, there ! You
are over-tired, dear. You must rest here with me.
This is a good place to rest. There, there ! You
mustn't cry.
L. I don't know why I'm such a fool. And may
I live always with you and Delia 1
D. No yes perhaps, dear, if Lily dear,
did it ever occur to you of course you don't think
of such things yet but did it ever occur to you that
your guardian might marry ?
L, Marry !
D. Of course, dear, he seems to you to be very old.
L. No.
D. Well, you know, dear, that men do marry.
L. No.
D. You don't know it, dear ?
L. I mean, yes.
D. I wonder if it would make a great difference
to you.
L. No, of course not. Why should it 1 To me !
That's why he sent me away then away from home.
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET. 233
D. Lily dear ! Don't you care if he is happy, or
no?
L. How could he be happy with that horrid
Bertha Hale?
D. Bertha Hale?
L. It must be one of those horrid Hales no,
dear, of course they ain't horrid it's I who am
horrid ; and they are very good ; and I do hope lie
will be happy and that's the reason why he sent
me away. I'll never forgive him ; never !
D. Bertha Hale !
L. I suppose it's Bertha, unless he likes pale-green
eyes. If he does, it's Caroline.
D. But what makes you think, dear, that Tom
that your guardian thinks of any of the Miss
Hales?
L. They are the only girls within miles ; and
they think of him all of them. Oh, how he must
hate me !
D. Lily!
L. Oh, but he must. I've mimicked Caroline's
234 LITTLE COMEDIES.
intellectual look a thousand times ; you know it
like this ; and I've bridled like Bertha. Bridled !
D. (she is busy, and her face is turned from Lily}.
Don't you think, dear, that if he thought of of
being married, that a man of your guardian's time of
life would be more likely to choose somebody who
was not in fact, not quite a girl.
L. (after a pause]. I don't know.
D. I think I hear a horse.
L. It's him. I mean, it's he.
D. Where are you going to, dear 1 ?
L. (comes softly to kiss her). I'm going to write
to Kitty; and to send messages to Teddie and Eegy,
and
D. Lily!
L. I don't care. I like boys. I do like boys.
There ! (She runs away.)
D. Lily ! My dear ! Come back ! Please ! Lily !
Lily, you must come back to see your guardian.
(Here Tom Raymond comes in.) 0, Mr Eaymond,
oh!
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET. 235
T. Mr Raymond !
D. Tom ! You startled me so.
T. A pretty time to begin calling me Mr Ray-
mond. It has been Tom and Dorothy for the last
thirty years.
D. Not quite thirty ! No. I think not quite
not quite !
T. It's a long time. Have you heard from Lily ?
She hasn't written to me for two days. You don't '
think she is ill 1
D. She is quite well. Dear child ! I never saw
her looking better.
T. Saw her ! What do you mean ?
D. Tom ! please don't look so fierce. I do
hope you are not angry with the dear child for
coming back.
T. Child ! Oh yes, by the by, of course you mean
Lily and she's here then ? Here ? In the house t
D. Yes. She is writing a letter to Katie Arm-
strong. It seems that the Blakes have mumps in
the family, and
236 LITTLE COMEDIES.
T. Mumps ! Good heavens ! Did Lily go
there ?
D. No. She came straight to me instead.
T. Ah ! That's aU right.
D. Shall I send for her ?
T. No. Not yet. I want to speak to you first.
D. To me !
T. I've something on my mind. I want a
woman's advice. I want to talk to you, Dorothy.
It's ahout something of great importance to me.
Can you spare me a few minutes 1 Will you listen
to me, Dorothy ? (He takes her hand.)
D. Yes, Tom.
T. I want your candid opinion. Am I too old to
be married?
D. (after a pause.) No, Tom.
T. Are you sure 1 I never thought of my age
till lately. I know I'm strong and fairly active;
and I've walked and ridden this country day after
day and year after year without stopping to think
how old I was. It's a confounded ridiculous thin"
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET. 237
for a man to sit down and think how old he is ! I
feel like a confounded fool.
D. Tom !
T. I do. I've had plenty to do without sitting
down to pull out my grey hairs. I've been a busy
man, what with being my own bailiff, and farming
a good bit of my own land. I've never had time to
be much of a lady's man. That's what I want to
talk to you about.
D. Yes, Tom ?
T. Some men understand women. I never li. But all the time she seems to be laughing at
them.
T. Ah! Well, look here, Dorothy. You must
keep her here for the present Will you ?
D. Yes, Tom.
T. And you must have in the neighbours. She
must see more people. You might have some tennis ;
and luncheons ; and five o'clock teas ; and things.
There ain't many young men in the neighbourhood,
are there ?
D. Oh yes, there are a few : let me see; there's
246 LITTLE COMEDIES.
T. Oh, don't trouble yourself. You needn't bother
about it at least, yes, you must. Get 'em in in
shoals; have 'em over in squads from Sandhurst;
advertise for young men !
D. Tom!
T. She must see young men. Good-bye, Dorothy,
and thank you very much. "What should I do with-
out you?
D. Oh, it's nothing, Tom ; and thank you.
T. Good-bye ! I'm off.
D. Without seeing Lily ?
T. Yes ; it's better. I won't see her for months.
D. But she'll think it so strange, she'll be hurt ;
she knows you are here.
T. Does she ?
D. Yes. You must see her, Tom.
T. Must ! Oh, well, I suppose I'd better. Just
for a moment. I suppose I had better ? Eh 1 What
do you think 1
D. I'll call her.
T. Stop!
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET. 247
D. What is it 1
T. I don't know. I never felt like this before.
Dorothy, I believe I am frightened.
D. Very likely.
T. What do you think she'll do ?
D. I can't say.
T. Oh, of course it'll be nothing. It'll be just as
usual when we meet. She'll come and kiss me, and
eh?
D. I hope not, Tom.
T. You hope not !
D. Don't you see that if it is just as usual ; that if
she conies to you, as a child to her guardian ; don't
you see Tom, how stupid you are !
T. Dorothy ! what's the matter ? Why, you never
spoke to me like that in all your life before.
D. No, Tom. I beg your pardon, Tom.
T. That beats me. I told you I didn't understand
women ; but I did think I understood you.
D. Of course you do, Tom. Of course you under-
stand me. But never mind me. I am going to call Lily.
248 LITTLE COMEDIES.
T. I think I'd better go. Look here you know ;
you've frightened me. It's your fault.
D. Very well, Tom ; it's my fault. But don't go.
Don't be weak. You must stay and see for yourself
how Lily meets you.
T. Confound it, Dorothy, you order me about as if
I were a baby. You are not like yourself ; you are
like somebody else ; you
D. Never mind me. This is the right time, Tom.
You must be brave now, and I hope and believe that
you will be happy.
T. You are right. (He wrings her hand.} You
always were right. I won't run. Call her !
D. (at the door calls). Lily ! Lily !
(They stand still and listen. Lily runs in
and half across the room towards her
guardian. Feeling the excitement in the
air, she stops. Still looking at tlie man,
she turns away to the woman.}
ROUND DELIA'S BASKET. 249
D. Dear Lily ! how stupid I have been ! I thought
you were a child, dear. I am so glad.
L. Are you glad ? (She looks into her eyes.}
D. Yes, dear. Tom !
(He comes obedient and takes Lily from Dor-
othy's arms.)
T. Ah ! Is it Yes. Dorothy !
D. Are you glad you stayed! You must take
great care of our Lily, Tom. (She stoops to the
bfisket.) No, Delia, dear, don't disturb yourself, dear.
Dear, dear Pussy ! It's nothing, dear, nothing.
T. Nothing ! Yes, nothing for a cat to care about.
D. Tom!
T. I beg your pardon, Dorothy.
FLORIO
F L R I 0.
It is night in Venice. CLELIA is alone in her balcony.
She sings in a low voice lazily :
Death with my heart in a thin cold hand,
dear Death that art dear to me
Love of my heart, the wide waste land,
my lost love, holds nought hut thee !
There is nought in the land, or sea, or sky,
But thou, and the man that once was L
A pretty farrago of love and death ! Whether this
youth be singing to death or to his lady-love;
whether love be death, or death love; whether his
254 LITTLE COMEDIES.
lady be dead, or he be dead, or both ; let my little
Florio say, if he can, for he made the verses and the
music. How these children lisp of love and death !
One would think they cared not a jot which of the
two came to kiss them. It is all a matter of the
minor key. If a round-shot knocked the mandolin
from young master poet's fingers, would he not crouch
behind the chair with his milk-teeth chattering 1 I
have not seen my little poet, my singer of love-lorn
songs, for days. He makes pretty verses, and not
too powerful ; and yet they are not weak. Wonder-
ful is the power of song. I have but to sing this
rhyme of love and death a little louder, only a little
louder ; and at the signal, from the low black arch
opposite creeps noiseless a gondola. So slight a
thread may draw a strong man, one who dare
sing of death and face him too. Three notes of
this poor melody of dear death, forsooth would
bring Duke Angelo from his great black palace. So
one may lure spiders. But I will sing to myself
only softly softly
FLORIO. 255
No perfume is left on the fair broad earth
But the scent of thy raiment passing sweet ;
"No gold of price, no
What man is that ?
Florio (who has ' climbed unseen to her balcony.)
No man.
Clelia. A poet, then. Why have you come ?
Fl. Why!
Cl. Because the night is fair, and craves for song t
Have you some new numbers, little poet? This
exquisite pale night is like a lady faint with passion,
a dumb queen who longs to sing. Find her a voice,
Florio. Sing for her and for me.
Fl. My song of death and love ?
Cl. No. Any song but that. Not that not yet
Where have you been these many idle days t
Fl. Away from you.
Cl. Where?
Fl. I know not. Only I know that I was not
with you. I meant to see you no more.
256 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Cl. 'Twere pity, Florio.
Fl. Only a few days have gone ; only a few nights
like this night, accursed, which burns me like a shirt
of fire ; and I am here again. Yesterday I was far
from this place. I had left you. I thought that I
was free. And now I am here here with you.
Venice breathes flame to-night ; and you are Venice.
How beautiful you are !
Cl. Yes, in the shadows ; beautiful as this night.
Yes, I am Venice. She is a queen in tarnished gold,
is she not ] Venice and I are growing old, and are
most beautiful in the loving shadow of a night that
half conceals. And this night is like fire to you?
Boy, it is full of coolness and softness, bountiful,
tender, sweet. I am young to - night. Sing to
me.
Fl. I have forgotten how to sing since you taught
me to love.
Cl. Song without love is a cup without wine. If
you had ever loved, your heart would be full of
melodies, as the night is full of stars.
FLORIO. 257
Fl. Cut like a gallant's love into a myriad little
fires.
01. Often so not always. There are many stars,
but only one moon.
Fl. I am full of one love, as this night is filled
to overflowing by one moon.
Cl. You are too young to love.
Fl. Why am I here, then 1
Cl. To be with me.
Fl. And is that not love ?
Cl. Or habit. There are many kinds of love.
Listen, Florio. There is the love of a child for
sweetmeats. Is yours such a love? There is the
love of a youth for himself a vanity which needs
feeding by girls' glances ; and this the young do for
the most part mistake for love. Then there is the
love of a man, but that is terrible.
Fl. Is there no love of women 1
Cl. Women are loved. They like to be loved.
They love love. Florio, on such a night as this, I
feel that every girl in Venice dreams that she is
R
258 LITTLE COMEDIES.
loved. Breathless she awaits her lover. There is
a sound of the guitar and mandolin ; the whisper
of a song; the soft lisp of the gondolier's oar; and
the drip of silver drops from the blade that turns in
the moonlight. Then in the black shadow a little
window opens; there is a faint light in the room;
half hidden behind the curtain she stands trembling ;
she wishes him away, and she wishes him anear ; her
lips speak without her will, and she hears his name
in her ears, and her ears grow hot with shame.
" Angelo," she whispers " Angelo ! "
Fl. Angelo !
Cl. Or Beppo or Pippo or Cecco : it matters not
a jot who the man is, so he be man and lover.
There is a girL I have painted her complete from
head to heel a girl of Venice.
Fl. The night is sultry. I am stifled.
Cl. Ah, little one, you cannot feel the passion of this
night. You cannot be a woman, poet though you be.
FL Poet ! I was a bird with one note. You tamed
me to your hand ; and I am dumb.
FLORID. 259
Cl. Then I shall whistle you away. What ! keep
a songless thrush ! Pipe to me, pipe ! Think of all
the maidens dreaming around us, dreaming all of
love : think of them; dream of them; sing. for them.
Sing to me.
Fl. I can think of no girl but one ; and she dreams
of no lover. Or if she dream of a lover, she dreams of
no man, but of some being pure as she and noble
such as men are not or are not here in Venice.
Cl. And who is this girl ? Some convent sparrow 1
FL My little sister.
CL A tall girl too, and a pretty. I have seen her.
And she does not dream of a lover 1 Is there no
brown boy, no
FL No. I have told you. If she have dreamed
of love, it is of some angel-lover, noble and pure
as she thought me. And I shall make her weep '. \
curse fell on me when I saw your face.
CL My Florio !
Fl. My love ! (He falls at her feet, and the hand
ichich she yields him is wet with his tears.)
260 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Cl. And you tried to leave me ? Ungrateful You
will not leave me. This hour is for us. Is not this
hour beautiful ? Beautiful for me and thee 1
Fl. For me and thee.
Cl. Sing to me, my bird with the sweet voice
sing to me.
Fl. I cannot sing. It is so good to be silent
when I am near you.
Cl. Sing; and I will give you this rose from my
breast. See ! it is pale in the moonlight, but the
scent is sweet. Sing to me, Florio ; and as your
song, like this queen rose, fills the night full with
perfume ; so like a rose my heart will open to love,
as my arms open now. (She stretches her arms to
the dark palace opposite.)
FL Drop your arms. They strangle me. They
are great white snakes.
Cl. See how I obey you ! Obey me. Sing to me
sing to me of love ; but not of love and death
not yet.
FLORIO. 261
Fl. (sings).
If face of mine this night
My lady dreaming see,
I pray that kind and bright
With gentle thoughts it be :
That no rude look of mine
Trouble my lady's breast ;
But dreams of me incline
Her soul to sweeter rest.
(As the last note of the music trembles to
silence, she laughs.)
Fl. Ah ! why do you laugh ? It is horrible.
Cl. It is the song of a young monk. A pretty pale
face to look into a dreaming woman's dream, and
make her sleep the sounder. This is a night too
exquisite for sleep. It is a night of all the loves.
Fl. Of all the infamies ! The hot air stifles me.
It is full of the sighs of men, who lie deep in slinie
below these creeping waters. Every breath is heavy
262 LITTLE COMEDIES.
with awful memories ; of secret judgment, and noise-
less murder ; foul love and quick revenge ; blood of a
thousand knives ; fumes of a thousand cups, and in
each cup poison ; poison in the very flowers of God
in this rose poison.
(He sets his foot upon the rose ; she laughs again.)
Cl. Do you think that I would kill you ?
Fl. Have you not killed me? You have killed
hope in me; you have killed my faith in woman.
And here you stand close to me your gown touches
me and smile, as if a smile could warm the dead to
life. You cannot warm me to life. Will that crushed
rose open its heart again, because you smile ? I am
dead in a dead world. The world was all so beautiful
to me a web of colour, a fountain of sweet scent, its
air all music. And then one day you smiled on me,
as you are smiling now; and perfume, song, and colour
rushed together, and were one were you. They
found one exquisite form, and it was yours ; and love
found a language in your eyes.
FLORIO. 263
You held my heart in your hand, and you have
frozen it. And you have killed truth too. I can
believe no more ; and you have made me lie. When
I am away from you, I comfort my soul with lies
and find torture. I prove to myself that you love
me. I have a thousand unmistakable proofs. Oh, I
can argue with a fine subtlety. I explain to myself
your every word, your slightest look. I show myself
why I may be sure that I am loved. These are all
lies. I am never deceived. I know that you are
cold to me, as the grave will be cold. I know that
you would play with me, and crush me, as this rose
under my heel, when you are weary of me. I know
you. I have judged you.
Cl. And condemned ? My Florio, look in my
eyes, and tell me I am condemned. Look at me.
FL I will not. I know your power.
CL Why should I hurt you ?
Fl. For knowledge. Mine is the loving heart,
and yours the surgeon's knife. You are cold and
curious.
264 LITTLE COMEDIES.
01. Cold on this night ! I think it is the beating
of warm hearts that makes this pulse of the air.
And what if it be true 1 what if I cannot love 1
should you not pity me 1 Pity me, my Florio.
Fl. You did not pity me.
Cl. I almost love you for your scorn of me.
Fl. Yes, you can almost love. I pity you.
Cl. I am tired of men's praises. Give me more
blame But no ! Sing to me.
Fl. That you may laugh again.
Cl. There will be no laughter. Sing before you
go
Fl. I am to go, then ?
Cl. All good things go. Sing me your song of
Death and Love.
FL It was the first song I ever sang to you that
spring day on the island.
Cl. I remember. For my sake, Florio ! Sing it to
me now. (He begins to murmur the song, but she
stops him.} Louder and clearer, Florio. Let the
night hear it all.
FLORID. 265
Fl. (sings).
Death with my heart in a thin cold hand,
dear Death that art dear to me
Love of my heart, the wide waste land,
my lost love, holds nought but thee !
There is nought in the land, or sea, or sky,
But thou, and the man that once was I.
No perfume is left on the fair broad earth
But the scent of thy raiment passing sweet ;
No gold of price, no fame of worth,
But only the place where we did meet :
Death ! do I call on Death ? Ah me !
1 thought to call on Death, but I cry sweet love
to thee.
CL Do you know why you sang that song ?
FL To please you.
CL To please me ; yes.
FL What do you mean ?
CL It is my signal to Duke Angelo.
FL What if he find you dead ?
266 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Cl. Put up your dagger. You dare not use
it.
Fl. If I 'struck here, here in my heart, I should
feel no more. You know me you know I dare not
strike. You have killed courage in me, as you killed
faith, and hope, and love. There, take my dagger at
your feet. God pardon you.
(He leaps from the balcony. She leans her
bosom on the edge and looks into the
water below.)
Cl. Will he drown ] No. There he rises ;
he swims. I knew it. They do but sing of
death.
Ah me ! I would there were some other music
than music ; some other men than men. Florio has
sung, and Angelo has heard his song. How sharply
the black gondola severs itself from the darkness of
the low archway ! So death might steal from the
shadows. And now again the music ! (From .the
FLORIO. 267
canal rises the Duke's voice singing the song of
Florio.) Ah me, but I am tired of that song !
(She tosses down to him the rose which Florio's
heel had crushed, and so begins to laugh again.}
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.
"And there were some who held that this fountain must be sought in
no wood nor valley of the world ; but rather in the eyes of children, and
in the strong hearts of men."
(COLIN, a youth who seems most woe -begone, meets
the elderly THEANOR, who almost seems a youth.}
Colin. And have you found it? Did it lie your
way?
No ? And I cannot find it. Seek, I pray ;
The wood's not large, and somewhere in this wood
Wells the enchanted fountain.
Theanor. 'Tis no good.
Col. But the wise woman said
272 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Thea. She lied, methinks.
Col. Mock me not ! Help me ! When this parched
mouth drinks
From the bright fount of youth, I then shall live :
If the \vise woman lied, here let me give
All that is mine to thee, for I am dead.
Here on this moss-grown root I lay my head,
And give my last brief breath to the languid air
That faints on the shadowed fern. Oh sweet and fair
Is youth ! I will not live with wearing age.
Thea. How old are you 1
Col. I'm twenty.
Tliea. Sweet and sage
Is the ripe time of manhood ! Come, get up ;
The moss is damp ; come home with me and sup.
Col. Ah me, most wretched ! I am no more a boy.
The ecstasy of boyhood the quick joy
Of life, free life i' the sun is mine no more.
Xo part have I in fair fields loved of yore ;
In elms, that lay great shadows on smooth grass ;
In the slow-moving water, clouded glass
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 273
For maiden saplings, o'er whose noiseless stream
Hangs low the old red bridge, where I did dream
My dream of youth and friendship. All is gone ;
Lost, lost my friends my friends and I alone !
Thea. The boy is clean distraught.
Col. Give me to learn.
Spirit of the wood, where 'mid the tender fern
Lies the enchanted pool ; give me to sip,
Where yet no weary mortal has set lip,
And put far off the hour of age from him ;
To feel again youth burn in languid limb,
Fire in the failing eye, fire in the breast.
Nay, she lied not ! I see ! Lo, where at rest
Lies the enchanted pool, cool, clear, and dim !
Lush grasses half afloat are at the rim ;
And in the midst bright bubbles, one by one,
Rise from the old world's heart to die i' the sun,
Great Sun, who here and there through listening shade
Speeds a winged shaft for greeting ; all the glade
Is rich with young green fem, clothed all, save where
A great rock, breaking through to woodland air,
274 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Tells of the neighbouring ocean ; in my ear,
Like sad sweet memories of a vanished year,
Stirring my soul with dreams too great for me,
Low croons the voice of the voiceless lonely sea.
Thea. Voice of the voiceless ! Mad !
Col. True it must be,
Or how should these eyes see it 1 For they see
This picture always with them day and night ;
The little glade necked o'er with broken light ;
Fern-glimmer, and rock-shadow ; bubble of the pool.
fountain of the forest, sweet and cool,
Give me to drink ; sweetest, how I thirst !
And I shall drink thy waters I, the first
Of many men whose youth has passed away.
Thea. Come, come, dear boy, you can't stay here
all day ;
Come home with me ; you're flushed and feverish ;
It's a wild fancy, a mere madman's wish
To be a boy again.
Col. Nay, mock me not !
If it be true, if this enchanted spot
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 275
Be here, close to us, here, you too would drink
And be a boy.
Thea. Good heavens ! I ! I think
I'd sooner be a monkey. I hate boys ;
Dumb when they ought to talk, and full of noise
When one is drowsy. Boys are raw and crude ;
Out of proportion ; too polite, too rude ;
Choked with old compliments. I ! I resign
My knowledge of the world, my taste in wine,
My ha ! my tact with women !
Col Wooed, unwed
Ophelia, maid i' the maiden flowers dead,
May rose that couldst not live to life's hot June,
Hear my sad moan. Dead of the lark's glad tune,
That all too soon in the woeful dawn was sung,
Juliet, twice dead, sweet that didst die so young,
Oh hear me ! Age with blighting eyes and dim
Looked not on these bright children. See ! they swim
There there ! beyond the oak-tree ! See there
see!
Cordelia, Desdemona beckons me.
276 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Hush ! Hear their singing. Hush !-
(A voice of a child singing.]
All the field for our delight
Blossoms fair with daisies white :
Angel fresh from Bethlehem,
Swept it with her garment's hem ;
In the morn the field did wake
White with daisies for our sake.
Marigolds in heaven high
Shine by night most gloriously ;
Yet an angel wandered down
Through our field with trailing gown ;
And when morning came anew,
Buttercups were filled with dew.
Praise to angels let us give ;
For they teach the flowers to live,
Teach the little birds to sing ;
And our lambs in early spring
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 277
Keep all warm, when heaven bright
Soft is spread with fleeces white.
Thea. Ah ! sweetly pretty !
Col. Music be my guide !
Bird, girl, or angel, lead me to thy side.
Again the music. Hush !
(The voice is heard again.}
Sunbeam from your heaven astray
Lead a child upon her way ;
Sunbeam from the hidden sky
Show me where the pool doth lie ;
Sunbeam stealing through the tree,
Touch the fount of youth for me.
Thea. Bald!
Col. Silence ! Lo where she comes.
Thea. l **
A little village girl.
Col It seems to me
An angel.
278 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Thea. With a tattered doll, I think.
Col. Angel and child, ah, tell me where to
drink !
Where is this fount of youth? Nay, do not fear.
Tkea. You frighten her. Come here, my little
dear,
And tell me now I do not think I'm wrong
In thinking there was something in your song
About a fountain 1
Child. Yes, sir.
Thea. And you know
Where this thing is ?
Child. It's here ; she told me so ;
She said that I should find it in the wood.
Thea. Who said ?
Child. The witch. She said if I'd
be good,
That I should find the fountain.
Thea. Well, in truth,
Twas droll to send a child in search of youth.
Are you so old 1
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 279
Col. Don't mock her. Speak to me ;
Tell me your tale, my child.
Child. Yes, sir. You see
Dolly and I were playing by the ditch,
Where the plank's put across ; and an old witch
Stood up in the hedge, just like a crooked thorn,
And said that my dear doll was old and worn.
Then I cried ; then she told me to be bold,
For that no people ever need be old
Unless they liked. So I came along the hedge,
Just as she said ; past the big elm to the edge
Of this great wood ; and somewhere on the grass
There is a pool just like a looking-glass ;
And when I see it shining in the light,
I'm to dip dolly in, but hold her tight
Thea. The little dear! I'm really quite dis-
tressed ;
It's too pathetic ; but the truth is best
My dear, that was a bad old woman, who
Deceived my friend, and 's now deceiving you.
Be a brave girl ; don't cry.
280 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Child. Xo ; I'll be good ;
But -please, is there no fountain in the wood ?
Must dolly still be old ?
Thea. She must.
Col Xot so !
Lift up your eyes to mine. Trust me ; I know
How to bring back the rose to dolly's cheek.
Strange flowers in the moonlight must I seek
With moonlight rhymes. Your dolly's little head
Shall laugh in the sun with golden curls ; bright
red
Shall be the lips, which smile when she is gay ;
And garments meet for a queen's marriage-day
Shall fold her soft your darling yours and mine.
Trust her to me. Ere the next sun do shine,
I'll bear your little one to your mother's door ;
And when your blue eyes open, on the floor
Just opposite your little lint-white bed
Those eyes shall see the golden priceless head
Of your old dolly by my art made young.
What have you done to me 1 What bird has sung
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 281
A joy-song in my heart, as caged birds sing 1
I ope the door Up, up with strong glad wing
Beyond the trees, beyond the sailing cloud,
Up, high and free from the dull toiling crowd,
Up to thy home, where angel hands disclose
The inmost heart of the labyrinthine rose !
(The child comes to him; she puts up her lips
to be kissed, and lays her doll in his amu;
then she goes homeward singing.)
Come great mother Night, and spread
Wings for curtains to my bed ;
Closer, mother, till I rest
Safe and happy on thy breast,
Safe and happy all night long.
Angels, keep the world from wrong ;
Angels, guard me in my sleep ;
And when morning light doth peep
At my window, let me see
Dolly safe at home with me.
PICKING UP THE PIECES
PICKING UP THE PIECES.
It is morning in MRS MELTON'S apartment in Flor-
ence. All the furniture its gathered into the
middle of the room, and covered with a sheet.
MRS MELTON is a widow and no longer ynuinj.
LORD DAWLISH, who comes to call, ha* also
forgotten Ms youth.
Dawlish. Good morning, Mrs Melton. I hoj>r
- Holloa! There is nobody hero. What is
all this about?
(After some consideration he proceeds to in-
vestigate the extraordinary erection tcif/i
286 LITTLE COMEDIES.
the point of his stick. After convincing
himself of its nature he lifts a side of
the sheet, pulls out an easy -chair, in-
spects it, and finally sits on it.]
She is an extraordinary woman. I don't know
why I like her. I don't know why she likes me.
I suppose that she does like me. If not, what a bore
I must be ! I come here every day and stay. I
suspect that I am an awful fellow to stay. I sup-
pose I ought to go now. This furniture trophy
don't look like being at home to callers. But per-
haps she is out : and then I can go on sitting here.
I must sit somewhere. May I smoke 1 I daresay :
thank ye, I will Smoke 1 ? Smoke. There is a
proverb about smoke. I wonder how I came to
know so many proverbs. I don't know much.
" There is no smoke without fire." Yes, that's
it. There is uncommon little fire in a cigarette.
Little fire and much smoke. Yes, that's like this
I mean Let me what d'ye call it?
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 287
review my position. Here I sit. Here I sit every
day. That is smoke, I suppose plenty of smoke.
Is there any fire 1 ? That is the question. I wish
people would mind their own business. It's trouble
enough to mind one's own business, I should think.
But yet there are people there's that Flitterly, for
instance damned little snob. Flitterly makes it
the business of his life to go about saying that I
am going to be married; and all because here is a
woman who is not such an intolerable bore as as
other people. Flitterly is the sort of man who
says that there is no smoke without fire. What
is this? That's what I want to know. Is this
business of mine all smoke, all cigarette and soda,
or confound Flitterly! I wonder if I ought to
pull his nose. I am afraid that that sort of thing
is out of date. I don't think I could pull a nose,
unless somebody showed me how. Perhaps if some-
body held him steady, I might. I don't think I
could do it. He has got such a ridiculous little
nose. I wonder if I ought to give up coming
288 LITTLE COMEDIES.
here. I don't know where I should go to. I
wonder if I am bound in honour, and all that.
Perhaps that is out of date too. I sometimes think
that I am out of date myself. (After this he fishes
under the sheet with his stick, and brings to light a
photograph-book, which he studies as he continues to
meditate.)
I wonder if she would take me if I asked her.
I don't believe she would : she's a most extraor-
dinary woman. Who is this, I wonder] I never
saw this book before. I suppose that this is the
sort of man women admire. He would know how
to pull a nose. I daresay he has pulled lots of
noses in his day. Does it for exercise. Suburban
cad. A kind of little Tooting lady-killer. I
wonder she puts such a fellow in her book. Why,
here he is again, twice as big and fiercer. Here's
another and another. Hang him, he's all over
the book.
(He pitches the book under the sheet. Then
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 289
MRS MELTON comes in wearing a large
apron, and armed with duster ami
feather -brush.)
Mrs Melton. Lord Dawlish ! What are you
doing here?
D. Nothing.
Mrs M. How well you do it !
D. Thank you.
Mrs M. But you are doing something : you are
smoking.
D. Am I? I beg you pardon.
Mrs M. And you shall do more : you shall help
me. I have been up to my eyes in work since
seven o'clock.
D. Seven ! Why don't you make somebody
else do it?
Mrs M. Because I do it so well. I have a genius
for dusting, and Italian servants have not In this
old city they have an unfeigned respect for the dust
of ages.
T
290 LITTLE COMEDIES.
D. Have they 1 How funny ! But they might
help you, I should think. Where are they 1 ? There
was nobody to let me in. Where are your servants 1
Mrs M. Gone.
D. Gone!
Mrs M. Gone and left me free. I packed them
all off man and maid, bag and baggage.
D. But who will look after you ?
Mrs M. I. I am fully equal to the task. But
come, be useful. You shall help me to rearrange
the furniture.
D. Help! I!
Mrs M. Yes, help ! You ! I am not quite sure
that you can't.
(As he proceeds to pat the back of a chair
with a feather-Thrush, it occurs to him to
apologise for his intrusion.}
D. I suppose I ought to apologise for coming so
early. Somehow I found myself in the Palazzo
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 291
and the door of your apartments was open, and so
I canie in. I took the liberty of an old friend.
Mrs M. I believe we have been acquainted for
at least a month.
D. Only a month ! It isn't possible. It must
be more than a month.
Mrs M. Apparently our precious friendship has
not made the time pass quickly.
D. No. I mean that it never does pass quickly.
Mrs M. Work, work, work! It's work that
makes the day go quick. I am busy from morn-
ing till night, and time flies with me.
D. Then you shorten your life.
Mrs M. And keep it bright Better one hour
of life than a century of existence! Dear, dear!
how did my best photograph - book get knocked
down here?
D. I am afraid that that was my awkward-
ness. I was looking at it, and it it went down
there.
Mrs M. Don't let it break from you again.
292 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Here, take it, and sit down and be good. Yon
have no genius for dusting.
D. Nobody ever called me a genius. I have
been called all sorts of names; but nobody ever
went so far as to call me a genius.
Mrs M. And yet you ain't stupid. I always
maintain that you are not really stupid.
D. Ain't II Thank you. "Who is this man
this fine-looking man with the frown and whiskers?
Mrs M. He is handsome, isn't he ?
D. I don't know. I am not a judge of male
beauty.
Mrs M. Men never admire each other. They
are too envious and too vain.
D. Are they 1 And women 1 What are women ?
Mrs M. What are women 1 What are they not 1
Oh for one word to comprehend the sex ! Women
are yes, women are womanly.
D. That sounds true. And women are effemi-
nate.
Mrs M. Only females are effeminate.
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 293
D. Oh ! I wonder what that means.
Mrs M. But John is handsome. Ask any woman.
D. John!
Mrs M. Yes, that's John my cousin.
D. I hate cousins. They are so familiar and so
personal.
Mrs M. I like them. They are so so
D. Cousinly.
Mrs M. Precisely.
D. Cousins are cousinly. Does he dye his
whiskers ?
Mrs M. Dye! Never. He has too much to
do. John is a great man a man of will, a man
of force, a man of iron. That's what I call a man.
D. Do you ? I don't call an iron man a man.
Mrs M. He is the first of American engineers.
D. A Yankee stoker.
Mrs M. Dear John ! He is a good fellow. He
gave me that little jar by your hand.
D. Dear John is not a judge of china. I always
hated that little jar. I shall break it some day.
294 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Mrs M. If you do, I'll never speak to you
again.
D. Please do. Tell me some more about John.
Hasn't lie got a fault, not even a little one?
Mrs M. He has the fault of all men vanity.
He knows that he is handsome.
D. I thought he dyed his whiskers.
Mrs M. He does not dye his whiskers.
D. You seem very keen about the whiskers.
Here they are in all sizes, and from all over the
world carte -de- visits whiskers, cabinet whiskers,
Rembrandt -effect whiskers, whiskers from Naples,
from New York, from Baker Street. You must
like them very much.
Mrs M. I like the man. I like self-respect,
bravery, and perseverance. I like honest work. Oh,
Lord Dawlish, what a shame it is that you don't
do something !
D. Do something? I 1 ? I do do something. I
well, I go about.
Mrs M. Oh ! you go about.
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 295
D. Yes with a dog in England; without a dog
abroad.
Mrs M. Oh ! abroad without a dog. I regret that
I shall never have the pleasure of receiving the cur.
D. The cur's a collie.
Mrs M. And so you think that man fulfils his
destiny by going about.
D. Somebody must go about, you know.
Mrs M. Yes, a squirrel in a cage. What you
want is work You ought to take a line.
D. Go fishing?
Mrs M. Be serious, and listen to me. Here you
are in Florence.
D. I believe I am.
Mrs M. You are in the midst of priceless treas-
ures. The finest works of art are all around you.
D. I believe they are.
Mrs M. Take a line: take up something, for
instance the Greek statues.
D. Ain't I rather old to play with marbles?
Mrs M. Not a bit Nobody is old who isn't old
296 LITTLE COMEDIES.
on purpose. Compare, classify, and make a book,
or even a pamphlet.
D. I hate pamphlets. They are always coming
by the post. '
Mrs M. I suppose it's not the thing for a man
in your position to turn author.
D. I don't think I ever did hear of one of our
lot writing books. But that don't much matter.
I should like to take a line, or a course, or a I
took a course of waters once at Homburg, or Kis-
singen, or somewhere ; but they came to an end,
like other things.
Mrs M. Lord Dawlish, are you joking 1
D. No.
Mrs M. Then be serious : take up a subject ; set
to work; produce your pamphlet at least a pamphlet.
It might grow into a book.
D. Heaven forbid ! I could not do it.
Mrs M. Why not 1
D. "Writing a book is so infernally public. I
should be talked about.
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 297
Mrs M. How dreadf id ! The owl, who is modest
withal, and shrinks from notoriety, remains at home
until sunset
D. You called me a squirrel before. Are you
going through all the zoological what-d'ye-call-'em t
Mrs M. Perhaps even I shall be talked about
before long.
D. I shouldn't wonder if you were.
Mrs M. Yes, even I, humble individual as I am,
may perhaps be talked about when I set up my
studio.
D. Your what?
Mrs M. My studio. Yes, I've quite made up
my mind. There are many worse painters in
Florence than myself. I mean to be a real painter,
and no longer play with colour.
D. And sell your pictures ?
Mrs M. For the largest possible prices.
D. Is not that an odd sort of thing for a lady 1
Mrs M. No. We have changed all that Many
women paint nowadays.
298 LITTLE COMEDIES.
D. I have heard so.
Mrs M. I believe that you are making jokes this
morning.
D. I don't think so. I don't like jokes; they
are very fatiguing. It's John's fault.
Mrs M. What's John's fault ?
D. No man likes to have another crammed down
his throat unless he's a confounded cannibal.
Mrs M. Very well. I will refrain from cramming
anybody down your throat. But I won't let you
off. I feel that I have a mission.
D. Good heavens !
Mrs M. I have a mission to reform you.
D. Please don't do it.
Mrs M. I must. Why don't you do your proper
work? Why not go back to England and take
care of your property?
D. Because my agent takes care of it so much
better than I could. I inherited my place, and I
can't get rid of it. But luckily, land can't follow
me about. That's why I come abroad.
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 299
Mrs M. Without the dog.
D. He stays with the land. He likes it He
hates travelling.
Mrs M. So would you if you travelled in a
dog-box.
D. I wish you wouldn't talk about me. I am
so tired of myself.
Mrs M. But you interest me.
D. Thank you. That's gratifying. Don't let
us pursue the subject further.
Mrs M. I must. It's my mission. I picture the
pleasures of an English country life. You build
cottages; you drain fields; you carry flannel to the
old women.
D. No ; I could not do it I don't think I could
carry flannel to an old woman.
Mrs M. So much for duties. Then for amuse-
ment. Are you fond of shooting?
D. Pheasants are all so much alike. I gave up
shooting when my sister took to it
Mrs M. Your sister !
300 LITTLE COMEDIES.
D. She is a keen sportsman awfully keen. I
went out with her once. I feel them still sometimes
in my back when it's cold weather.
Mrs M. You like hunting better. In this country
they shoot the fox.
D. Do they ? That must be curious. I wonder
if I could bring myself to try that. I almost think
that
Mrs M. Go home and hunt.
D. I have given up hunting. Eather rough on
Teddie, don't you think?
Mrs M. Who's Teddie ?
D. Don't you know Teddie ?
Mrs M. Is he the dog 1
D. No; he's my brother. I thought that
everybody knew Teddie. Teddie knows everybody.
Teddie likes me to hunt. He is always bothering
me to buy horses with tricks. Or to go by ex-
cursion trains. Or to shoot lions in Abyssinia.
He is an awfully ambitious fellow, Teddie. Don't
you think we might change the subject?
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 301
Mrs M. Not yet. I have not done my duty yet
Politics ! Oh for political influence ! Oh for power !
Why, you must be of course you are a thingummy
what's-his-name.
D. Very likely, if you say so.
Mrs M. An hereditary legislator. Think of that
Think of your influence in the country ; of the power
you might wield; Go in for politics.
D. Well, you know, I I inherited my politics
with my place, and I can't get rid of them. But
Teddie does them for me. He was always rather a
muff, Teddie was; and so they put him into
politics.
Mrs M. Are there muffs in your family 1 Don't
interrupt me. I must have the last word. Any-
thing else I will give up, but the last word never.
In your position you must sway something. If you
won't sway the country, sway the county; if you
won't sway the county, sway a vestry, a workhouse, a
something, or anything. Only do something. You
would be a great deal happier, and I don't know
302 LITTLE COMEDIES.
why I should be afraid to say a great deal better,
if you would only do something.
D. You forget that I am delicate. The doctors
say I am delicate, and that is why I come abroad.
I do wish you would change the subject. It's a
delicate subject, you know.
Mrs M. Don't be funny ! You have only one
malady idleness.
D. No, no, no ! All the doctors
Mrs M. Quacks !
D. As you please. But I have not the rude health
of some strong-minded women.
Mrs M. Nor I the rude manners of some weak-
minded men. But I beg your pardon; / won't be
rude.
D. Was I rude ? I am awfully sorry. I beg your
pardon. But I am so tired of myself.
Mrs M. Then work work and be cured. Do
something anything. A stitch in time saves nine.
D. Oh, if you come to proverbs Look before
you leap.
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 303
Mrs M. Procrastination is the thief of time.
D. More haste less speed. If one does nothing,
at least one does no harm.
Mrs M. NOT does a stuffed poodle.
D. Another beast ! I have been a squirrel and an
owl And after all, I did not come here to talk about
myself, nor poodles.
Mrs M. Did you come to speak of the weather ?
'D. I wanted to speak about you.
Mrs M. About me! Here's a turning of the
tables.
D. May I ?
Mrs M. If you have energy for so lively a
topic.
D. May I speak plainly, as an old friend t
Mrs M. As a month-old friend. Speak plainly by
all means. I've a passion for plain speaking.
D. It is an uncommonly disagreeable subject
Mrs M. Thank you. You were going to talk
about me.
D. I don't mean that; of course not It doesn't
304 LITTLE COMEDIES.
matter whether I talk about you or not. But there
are other people here who talk about you.
Mrs M. Talk about me ? What do they say ?
D. They say things I don't like ; so I thought that
I
Mrs M. Thank you, Lord Dawlish; but I can
take very good care of myself.
D. Very well.
Mrs M. Why should I care what this Anglo-
Florentine Society say of me 1 It doesn't hurt me ;
I don't care what they say of me ; I am entirely
indifferent ; I am Oh, do not stand there like
a stick, but tell me what these people say about
me.
D. I I It is so awkward for me to tell
you. You know Flitterly ?
Mrs M. Flitterly ! A sparrow !
D. Oh, he is a sparrow ! What is to be done to
the sparrow 1
Mrs M. Nothing. He is beneath punishment
beneath contempt. A little chattering, intrusive,
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 305
cruel I suppose it wouldn't do for me to
horsewhip Flitterly?
D. It would be better for me to do that I
thought of pulling his nose : it's a little one, but I
might do it with time. I think I should enjoy it
Mrs M. It's too bad ! It's too bad that a woman
of my age should not be safe from these wretches
from the tongues of these malicious chatterers. The
cowards, to attack a woman !
D. I was afraid that you would feel it.
Mrs M. I don't feel it Why should I? Why
should I feel it? But, good gracious! is the man
going to stand there all day, and never tell me what
this what that that pha ! what he says of me t
D. I don't like to tell you.
Mrs M. Do you take me for a fool, Lord Dawlish ?
D. No; for a woman. That's a very different
thing.
Mrs M. What does he say ?
D. If you will know, you must He says he
says that you and I are going to be married.
u
306 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Mrs M. Married ! You and I ! Well, at least he
might have invented something less preposterous.
D. Preposterous !
Mrs M. You and I !
D. I don't see anything preposterous in it. Why
should not you and I be married? By George, I
have made an offer !
Mrs M. Are you mad 1 You say
D. Oh, I don't want to hurry you. Don't speak
in a hurry. Think it over ; think it over. Take time.
Mrs M. But do you mean
D. Oh, please, don't hurry. Think it over. Any
time will do.
Mrs M. Will it 1
D. I am not clever, nor interesting; but if you
don't mind me, I will do anything I can. You shall
have any sort of society you like : fast or slow; liter-'
ary or smart ; or anything. Of course there would be
plenty of money, and jewels, and cooks, and all that.
You can have gowns, and cheque - books, and pin-
money, and
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 307
Mrs M. And find my own washing and beer
Lord Dawlish, are you offering me a situation?
D. Yes no I mean that I
Mrs M. A thousand thanks. The wages are most
tempting; but I have no thought of leaving my
present place.
D. I fear that I have been offensive. I beg your
pardon. I had better go. Good morning, Mrs
Melton.
Mrs M. Good-bye, Lord Dawlish.
(So he goes out ; straightway her mood changes,
and she wishes him back again.}
Mrs M. He will never come back. I can't
let him go for ever. I can't afford to lose a friend
who makes me laugh so much. Flitterly may
say what he likes a goose! a sparrow! a grass-
hopper! I shall call him back.
(So she calls to him down the stair; then from
308 LITTLE COMEDIES.
the window ; and as she calls from the
window, he comes in at the door, watches
her awhile, then speaks.)
D. Did you call me, Mrs Melton 1
Mrs M. Is the man deaf ? I have been screaming
like a peacock; and all for your sake all because
I didn't want you to go away angry.
D. I thought it was you who were angry.
Mrs M. No, it was you.
D. Very well.
Mrs M. You must drop the preposterous subject
for ever; and we will be good friends, as we were
before. Sit down and be friendly.
D. Thank you. That's capital. "We will be as
we were before as we were before.
Mrs M. You are sure you can bear the disap-
pointment ]
D. Oh yes. "We will be friends, as we were.
Much better.
Mrs M. Lord Dawlish, you are simply delicious !
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 3Q9
D.Amlt Thank you. And I may come and
sit here sometimes?
Mrs M. In spite of Flitterly.
D. Flitterly be
Mrs M. Yes, by all means.
(Then he meditates, and after due deliberatl,,,,
speaks.)
D. I should like to ask you something, Mrs Mel-
ton something personal.
Mrs M. Ask what you like, and I will answer if
I choose.
D. May I ask as a friend only as a friend, you
know if you are quite determined never to marry
again 1 I know that it is no business of mine ; but
I can't help being curious about you. I don't think
I am curious about anything else. But you are such
an extraordinary woman.
Mrs M. Extraordinary because I have refused to
be Lady Dawlish. It is strange, very. Oh, don
alarmed ; I have refused. But it is strange. I am
310 LITTLE COMEDIES.
a woman, and I refused rank and wealth. "Wealth
means gowns and cooks from Paris, a brougham and
a victoria, a stepper, a tiger, and a pug : rank means
walking out before other women, and the envy of all
my sex. I am a woman, and I refuse these luxuries.
You were rnad when you offered them.
D. I don't think that I could be mad.
Mrs M. Not another word upon the subject.
D. But won't you satisfy my curiosity.
Mrs M. I never knew you so persistent.
D. I never was persistent before.
Mrs M. Such ardent curiosity, such desperate per-
severance, deserve to be rewarded. I have nothing
to do for the moment, and there is one luxury which
no woman can forego the luxury of talking about
herself. You needn't listen if the effort is too great :
I address the chair, or the universe. You will
hardly believe it of me ; but I cherish a sentiment.
There ! Years and years ago how many I am
woman enough not to specify I lived with an aunt
in Paris. You hate cousins : I am not in love with
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 311
aunts : however, she was my only relation ; there
was no choice, and there I lived with her in Paris,
and was finished; there was nothing to finish, for
I knew nothing. Well, it was there, in Paris I
was quite a child it was there that I one day
met a boy scarcely older than myself. I am in
love with him still. Quite idyllic, isn't it?
D. Very likely. In Paris? Paris.
Mrs M. There never was any one in the world
like him so brave, so good, so boyish : he rejoiced
in life, certain of pleasure and purposing noble work.
D. (aside). Cousin John ! Cousin John, of
course. Confound Cousin John!
Mrs M. He fell in love with me at once, almost
before I had fallen in love with him. \Ve were both
so absurdly shy, so silly and so young. I can see him
blush now, and I could blush then. But I shall be
sentimental in a minute; this is egregious folly; of
course it is folly, and it was folly; of course it was
merely childish fancy, boy-and-girl sentiment, calf-
love; of course a week's absence would put an end
312 LITTLE COMEDIES.
to it; and of course I love him still But forgive
me, Lord Dawlish. Why should I bother you with
this worn-out commonplace romance 1
D. I like it. It interests me. Go on, if it doesn't
bore you. It reminds me of something of some-
thing which I had better forget.
Mrs M. You shall hear the rest : there isn't much.
He was taken away, and I suppose forgot me. I
came out in Paris, went everywhere, was vastly gay,
and terribly unhappy. My aunt was youngish, and
good-looking in a way; she was dying to be rid
of me, and I knew it ; and so things were very un-
comfortable at home, until until I married. Oh, I
told him the truth, the whole truth : I told him that
the love of my life had gone by. I am glad I told
him the truth.
D. American, wasn't he 1
Mrs M. Yes. I was grateful to him, and proud
of him. He was good as man can be. But he made
light of my story. He thought, like the rest, that it
was a mere girlish fancy ; that I should soon forget ;
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 313
that There, you have my story ! Touching,
isn't it?
D. It is most extraordinary.
Mrs M. "What is most extraordinary 1
D. Your story is like my story.
Mrs M. It's everybody's story. It's common as
the whooping-cough, and dull as as the mumps.
But come, give me the details of your case.
D. The details ! If I can remember them.
Mrs M. If you can remember ! Who would be a
man?
D. It was in Paris
Mrs M. In Paris ?
D. It's just like your story. Suppose that we
take it as told.
Mrs M. Go on. I must hear it.
D. I was sent to Paris when I was a boy with a
bear-leader. There I saw a girl a little bread-and-
butter miss, and and I got fond of her awfully
fond of her. She was the dearest little girl tin-
beat little thing. She was like like
314 LITTLE COMEDIES.
Mrs M. Go on. What happened 1
D. Nothing.
Mrs M. Nothing ! Nonsense ! Something always
happens.
D. Nothing came of it. They said boy and girl,
and calf-love, and all that, like the people in your
story : and they packed me off to England.
Mrs M. Why did you go ?
D. I always was a fool. They said that it would
try the strength of her feelings; that, if we were
both of the same mind when I had got my degree,
the thing should be.
Mrs M. And you never wrote ?
D. No.
Mrs M. Nor did he never one line.
D. They said she wished me not to write.
Mrs M. How likely ! These men, these men !
They never know what letters are to women. What
was the end ?
D. The usual thing. As soon as my degree was
all right, I made for Paris. She was gone.
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 315
Mrs M. My poor friend ! She was dead.
D. Married.
Mrs M. Married ! how could she be so
D. It's very like your story, ain't it ? Only in my
story neither of 'em were American.
Mrs M. American ! What do you mean ? I
wasn't an American till I married one, and Tom
D. Then it wasn't cousin John ?
Mrs M. John! No, no, no! Lord Dawlish!
Lord Dawlish, what is your family name 1
D. My family name? What on earth, my dear
Mrs Melton
Mrs M. Quick, quick ! What is it ?
j) Why er why Dashleigh, of course.
Mrs M. And you are Tom Dashleigh ?
(As she looks at him, the truth dawns on him.}
D. And you are little Kitty Gray 1
Mrs M. Oh my bright boy-lover, you are lost now
indeed.
316 LITTLE COMEDIES.
D. I think I have got a chill.
(When they have sat a little while in silence,
she jumps up.}
Mrs M. No more sentiment, no more folly ! Away
with sentiment for ever ! The boy and girl lovers
are dead long ago ; and we old folk who know the
world may strew flowers on their grave and be gone.
Look up, old friend, look up.
D. Yet you are you, and I I suppose that I am I.
Mrs M. Young fools ! young fools ! why should
we pity them, we wise old folk who know the world?
Love is but is but
(She resumes her dusting with vigour ; yet she
can scarcely see for tears ; thus it hap-
pens that she knocks over the little jar
which was cousin John's gift. He would
pick it up, but she stops him.}
No, no : let it lie there.
PICKING UP THE PIECES. 317
D. Shan't I pick up the pieces ?
Mrs M. Let them lie there. One can never pick
up the pieces.
Z>. Why not ? I don't think I understand. But
I can't bear to see you cry. I thought that you
couldn't cry : that you were too clever and strong-
minded to cry. Look here ! You might have made
something of me once. Is it too late, Mrs Melton ?
Mrs M. The jar is broken.
D. Is it too late, Kitty 1
Mrs M. Let us pick up the pieces together.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.