SCENE--_The Wiertz Museum at Brussels, a large and
well-lighted gallery containing the works of the celebrated
Belgian, which are reducing a limited number of spectators to
the usual degree of stupefaction. Enter CULCHARD, who seats
himself on a central ottoman._
_Culchard_ (_to himself_). If PODBURY won't come down to breakfast
at a decent hour, he can't complain if I--I wonder if he heard Miss
TROTTER say she was thinking of coming here this morning. Somehow,
I _should_ like that girl to have a more correct comprehension of
my character. I don't so much mind her thinking me fastidious and
exclusive. I daresay I _am_--but I _do_ object to being made out a
hopeless melancholiac! (_He looks round the walls._) So these are
WIERTZ's masterpieces, eh? h'm. Strenuous, vigorous,--a trifle
crude, perhaps. Didn't he refuse all offers for his pictures during
his lifetime? Hardly think he could have been overwhelmed with
applications for the one opposite. (_He regards an enormous canvas,
representing a brawny and gigantic Achilles perforating a brown Trojan
with a small mast._) Not a dining-room picture. Still, I like his
independence--work up rather well in a sonnet. Let me see. (_He takes
out note-book and scribbles._) "He scorned to ply his sombre brush
for hire." Now if I read that to PODBURY, he'd pretend to think I was
treating of a Shoe-black on strike! PODBURY is utterly deficient in
reverence.
[Illustration: "I presume, though, he slept bad, nights."]
[_Close by is a party of three Tourists--a Father and Mother,
and a Daughter; who is reading to them aloud from the somewhat
effusive Official Catalogue; the Education of all three
appears to have been elementary._
_The Daughter_ (_spelling out the words laboriously_). "I could
not 'elp fancying this was the artist's por-portrait? portent? no,
_protest_ against des-des (_recklessly_) despoticism, and tyranny,
but I see it is only--Por-Porliffymus fasting upon the companions of
Ulyces."
_Her Male Parent._ Do it tell yer what that there big arm and leg be
a' doin' of in the middle of 'em?
_Daughter_ (_stolidly_). Don't you be in a nurry, Father
(_continuing_) "in the midst of some colonial? _That_ ain't
it--_colossial_ animiles fanatically--fan-tasty-cally--" why, this
catalogue is 'alf foreign!
_Female P._ Never mind, say Peterborough at the 'ard words--_we_
shan't be none the wiser!
_Daughter_. "The sime-boalic ram the 'ero is to Peterborough and leave
'is Peterborough grotter--"
_Male P._ That'll do--read what it says about the next one.
_Daughter_ (_reading_). "The Forge of Vulkin. Words are useless 'ere.
Before sech a picture one can but look, and think, and enjoy it."
_Both Parents_ (_impressed_). Lor!
[_They smack their lips reverently; Miss TROTTER enters the
Gallery._
_Culch._ (_rising and going to meet her_). Good morning, Miss TROTTER.
We--ah--meet again.
_Miss T._ That's an undeniable fact. I've left Poppa outside. Poppa
restricts himself to exteriors wherever he can--says he doesn't seem
to mix up his impressions so much that way. But you're alone, too.
Where've you hitched your friend up?
_Culch._ My friend did not rise sufficiently early to accompany me.
And, by the way, Miss TROTTER, I should like to take this opportunity
of disabusing your mind of the--er--totally false impression--
_Miss T._ Oh, _that's_ all right. I told him he needn't try to give me
away, for I could see you weren't _that_ kind of man!
_Culch._ (_gratefully_). Your instinct was correct--perfectly
correct. When you say "that kind of man," I presume you refer to the
description my--er--friend considered it humorous to give of me as an
unsociable hypochondriac?
_Miss T._ Well, no; he didn't say just that. He represented you as
one of the fonniest persons alive; said you told stories which tickled
folks to death almost.
_Culch._ (_annoyed_). Really, this is _most_ unpardonable of Mr.
PODBURY! To have such odious calumnies circulated about one behind
one's back is simply too--I do _not_ aspire to--ah--to tickle folks to
death!
_Miss T._ (_soothingly_). Well, I guess there's no harm done. I didn't
feel like being in any imminent danger of perishing that way in your
society. You're real high-toned and ever so improving, and that's
better than tickling; every time. And I want you to show me round
this collection and give me a few notions. Seems to me there was
considerable sand in WIERTZ; sort of spread himself around a good
deal, didn't he? I presume, though, he slept bad, nights.
(_She makes the tour of the Gallery, accompanied by CULCHARD, who
admires her, against his better judgment, more and more._) ... I
declare if that isn't your friend Mr. PODBURY just come in! I believe
I'll have to give you up to him.
_Culch._ (_eagerly_). I beg you will not think it necessary. He--he
has a guide already. _He_ does not require my services. And, to
be plain, my poor friend--though, an excellent fellow according to
his--ah--lights--is a companion whose society occasionally amounts to
a positive infliction.
_Miss T._ Well, I find him too chinny myself, times. Likely he won't
notice us if we don't seem to be aware of him.
[_They continue to inspect the canvases._
_A Belgian Guide_ (_who has made an easy capture of PODBURY at the
Hotel entrance_). Hier now is a shdrainch beecture. "De toughts and
veesions of a saivered haid." Fairsst meenut afder degapitation; de
zagonde; de tirt. Hier de haid tink dey vant to poot him in a goffin.
Dere are _two_ haids--von goes op, de udder down. Haf you got de two?
Nod yet? No?
_Podbury_ (_shaking his head sagaciously_). Oh, ah, yes. Capital! Rum
subject, though.
_Guide._ Yais, vary magnifique, vary grandt, and--and rom also! Dees
von rebresents Napoleon in hail. De modders show him de laigs and
ahums of dair sons keeled in de vars, and invide him to drink a cop of
bloodt.
_Podb._ Ha, cheery picture that!
_Guide._ Cheery, oh, yais! Now com and beep troo dis 'ole. (_PODBURY
obeys with docility._) You see? A Mad Voman cooking her shildt in a
gettle. Hier again, dey haf puried a man viz de golera pefore he is
daid, he dries to purst de goffin, you see only de handt shdicking
oudt.
_Podb._ The old Johnny seems full of pretty fancies. (_He looks
through another peephole._) Girl looking at skeleton. Any other
domestic subjects on view? (_He suddenly sees Miss TROTTER and
CULCHARD with their backs to him._) Hal--lo, this _is_ luck! I must
go to the rescue, or that beggar CULCHARD will bore her to death in
no time. (_To Guide._) Here, hold on a minute. (_Crosses to CULCHARD,
followed by Guide._) How d'ye do, Miss TROTTER? Doing the Wild
Wiertz Show, I see. Ah, CULCHARD, why didn't you tell me you were
going--might have gone together. I say, I've got a guide here.
_Culch._ (_drily_). So we perceive--a very sensible plan, no doubt, in
some cases, my dear fellow.
_Podb._ (_to Miss T._). Do come and listen to him, most intelligent
chap--great fun. Mr. CULCHARD is above that sort of thing, I dare say.
_Guide._ Your vriendts laike to choin, yais? Same for tree as for von.
I exblain all de beecture.
_Miss T._ You're vurry obliging, Mr. PODBURY, but your friend is
explaining it all just splendidly.
_Podb._ (_piqued_). Perhaps I had better dismiss my chap, and take on
CULCHARD, too?
_Miss T._ No, I'd just hate to have you do that. Keep on going round.
You mustn't mind us, indeed!
_Podb._ Oh, if you'd rather! (_Gloomily, to Guide._) They can do
without _us_. Just show me something more in the blood-and-thunder
line--no, at the other end of the room. [_They withdraw._
_Guide._ Hier is von dat is vary amusant. You know de schtory of de
Tree Vishes, eh?
_Podb._ _Macbeth_, eh? oh, I see--_Wishes!_ No, what was that?
_Guide_. I dell it you. (_He tells it; PODBURY falls into gloomy
abstraction._) ... And inschdantly she vind a grade pig soasage at de
end of her noâse. So de ole voman--
_Podb._ (_wearily_). Oh, I've heard all _that_. What's this one about?
_Guide_. Dis is galled "De lasht Gannon." You see de vigure of
Ceevilization flodderin op viz de vings, vile Brogress preaks asonder
de lasht gon, and in a gorner a Genius purns de vrontier bost.
_Podb._ (_captiously_). What's he doing _that_ for?
_Guide_. I tont know. I subbose begause dey are bosts, or
(_dubiously_) begause he is a Genius.
_Culch._ (_touching PODBURY's arm as he goes out_). Oh--er--PODBURY,
I'm off. Going to lunch somewhere with the--ah--TROTTERS. See you at
_table d'hôte_ this evening, I suppose? Good-bye.
_Podb._ (_savagely_). Oh, ta-ta! (_To himself_.). And that's the
fellow who said he wanted to keep out of making friends! How the
dickens am I going to get through the time by myself? (_To Guide_.)
Here, that's enough for one day. When I want you again, I'll let you
know.
[_He dismisses him, and stands forlornly in the Gallery, while
the Imperfectly Educated Daughter goes on spelling out the
Catalogue for her Parents' edification._
* * * * *