GIOCONDA. From him?
HILDA. From him.
GIOCONDA. What could have happened better?
HILDA. Ah! naturally you think that Harry writes
Of longing, suicide, and sleepless nights.
Did he, I'd read his letters ten times over--
But you don't know the Twentieth-Century lover.
Oh, for a man who'd write through tears, all swimmily,
And woo me with grand metaphor and simile!
I couldn't bear the slang that Harry used
In asking for my hand.
GIOCONDA. So you refused!
HILDA. Yes, and came here to seek a braver time.
GIOCONDA. How odd! _I_ had a letter, all in rhyme,
Brought by a lackey to my father's gate
Just when dawn broke. As if I couldn't wait!
He dashed up, panting; and his horse's mouth
Was flecked with blood and foam....
HILDA (_clasping her hands_). The passionate South!
GIOCONDA. The fellow gave the letter, gasped, went red,
And straightway horse and lackey fell down dead.
I scanned the note, observed the flowery phrases
In which the writer smothered me with praises;
Compared them with the style of Bernard Shaw,
And told him straightway that he might withdraw.
HILDA. If I could see that letter!
GIOCONDA. So you shall,
Sweet friend--or, rather, right you are, old pal.
I'll read it. (_She produces a letter tied with rose-coloured
ribbon._)
HILDA. Do!... I see his passion's flood
Demands red ink.
GIOCONDA. Oh dear no--that's his blood.
Now, listen. Did you ever hear a style
Quite so absurd? I call it simply vile. (_Reading._)
'Adored Gioconda--glittering star
Unsullied by the dusty world,
Rich rose with leaves but half uncurled,
New Venus in thy dove-drawn car--
Have pity: drive thy wrath afar.
Let Cupid's war-flag be upfurled,
Lest by thy gentle hand be hurled
The mortal bolt that leaves no scar.
'So prays upon his aching knee
Thy humble vassal, once the fear
Of Christendom, but now--woe's me!--
One whose wild prayers Love will not hear,
Who treads the earth and has no home--
Giulio Pandolfo, Duke of Rome.'
HILDA. Gioconda, what a lover!
GIOCONDA. So _I_ think--
His brain a dictionary, his blood mere ink.
HILDA. _I_ mean how rare a lover! Would that mine
Had brains to pen a letter half so fine!
GIOCONDA. How does he write?
HILDA. Write! Would you deign to call
_This_ 'writing'--this illiterate blotted scrawl? (_Reading._)
'Dear Hilda, if you buy _The Star_
To-night, you mustn't for the world
Suppose he got my hair uncurled--
That blighter who kyboshed the car.
He had the worst of it by far
Because the hood on mine was furled.
Good Lord! what steep abuse he hurled!
Yours, Harry--with a nasty scar.
'P.S.--The cut's above the knee,
And won't be right just yet, I fear,
Oh, and what price you marrying me?
Anything doing? Let me hear.
Ring up to-morrow, if you're home.
Where shall we do our bunk? To Rome?'
Now, wasn't that enough to make me mad?
It is a shame! It really is too bad!
'Dear Hilda'--plain 'dear!' And what girl could marry
A man who, when proposing, ends 'yours, Harry?'
GIOCONDA. I love his downright manner. In my mind
I see him, a tall figure; and behind,
His old two-seater. Yes, I see him plainly--
Close-cropped----
HILDA. Half bald.