hide his shyness from visitors. Time, a week later. KATE, in a
print dress, cap and apron, is on her knees before the fire-place
cleaning up the hearth._
CHARLES.
[_Entering the room unperceived, stealing up behind her and giving her
a sounding kiss._] Still stooping, Kate!
KATE.
Charles! [_Rising._]
CHARLES.
[_Kissing her again._] Ah, Kate, Kate, what a charming little creature
you are, and how much I love you!
KATE.
But how long will you go on loving me?
CHARLES.
Always, dearest--in a cap and apron. [_Embraces her._]
KATE.
It's rather hard that I should have to remain a housemaid permanently
in order to retain my husband's affection.
CHARLES.
[_Seriously._] It is, dear. I see that.
KATE.
However, there's nothing to be done, so I may as well accustom myself
to the idea as soon as possible. [_Takes a broom and begins to sweep
the floor._] You don't think your absurd shyness is likely to diminish
with time?
CHARLES.
It may, dear. But I think it would be unwise to count upon it. No, as
far as I can see, the only thing to be done is for you to continue in
your present occupation--you sweep charmingly--for the rest of your
natural life.
KATE.
[_Sweeping industriously._] What would my father say if he saw me!
CHARLES.
[_Easily._] He won't see you. He hasn't been over since we were married.
[_A ring is heard._
KATE.
[_Starting._] Who's that?
CHARLES.
What does it matter? No one will be shown in here. Jenkins has orders
never to bring visitors into my room.
KATE.
That's true. [_Returns to her sweeping._]
[_Suddenly the door opens and MR. HARDCASTLE enters, with
elaborate heartiness, thrusting aside JENKINS,
who vainly tries to keep him out._
HARDCASTLE.
Zounds, man, out of the way! Don't talk to me about the parlour. Can't
I come and see my son-in-law in any room I choose?
[_CHARLES mutters an oath; KATE stands, clutching her
broom convulsively, facing her father._
HARDCASTLE.
[_Boisterously._] How d'ye do, son-in-law? Kate, my dear, give me a
kiss. Heavens, child, don't stand there clinging to a broomstick as
though you were going to fly away with it. Come and kiss your old
father.
[_KATE drops the broom nervously and kisses him
obediently._
CHARLES.
[_Endeavouring by the warmth of his welcome to divert attention from
his wife._] How d'ye do, Sir--How d'ye do? [_Wringing his hand._]
HARDCASTLE.
[_Noticing a small heap of dust on the carpet, which has been collected
by KATE'S exertions._] Eh, what's this? Why, I believe you were
actually sweeping the room, Kate!
KATE.
[_Shamefacedly._] I am sorry, father, that you should have found me so
unsuitably employed.
HARDCASTLE.
Unsuitably? On the contrary, nothing could be more suitable.
KATE.
[_Annoyed._] Come, Papa, don't _you_ begin to be eccentric too!
HARDCASTLE.
[_Stiffly._] I am not aware that there is anything eccentric about me.
CHARLES.
[_Intervening nervously._] No, no, Sir. Of course not.
HARDCASTLE.
But when I find my daughter laying aside her finery and looking after
her house, I cannot conceal my satisfaction. Ah, Charles, you have
improved her greatly. When she lived at home, you remember, I had
hard enough work to persuade her to lay aside fine clothes and wear
her housewife's dress in the evenings. As for sweeping, I never even
ventured to suggest it.
KATE.
[_Indignantly._] I should think not!
HARDCASTLE.
And yet, Kate, if you knew how charming you look in a print frock, a
cap and apron----
KATE.
[_Laughing in spite of herself._] You, too! Really, papa, I'm ashamed
of you. However, you seem both of you determined that I should pass the
remainder of my days as a housemaid, so I suppose you must have your
way. This is what comes of "stooping to conquer." Now go away, both of
you, and leave me to finish sweeping.
[_Takes up broom again resolutely._
HARDCASTLE.
We will, Kate. Come, Charles.
[_Exit._
CHARLES.
Coming, Sir [_darting across to his wife and kissing her._] Darling!
KATE.
Goose!
[_He goes out hurriedly after HARDCASTLE._
_Curtain._
The Lady of Lyons.
_When Lord Lytton provided the conventional "happy ending" for "The
Lady of Lyons" by reuniting Pauline, née Deschappelles, to the
devoted Claude Melnotte, promoting the latter to the rank of Colonel
in the French army, he seems not to have troubled his head as to the
divergent social ideas of the happy pair, nor as to how the vulgar and
purse-proud family of Deschappelles and the humbler Melnottes would
get on together. The sequel throws a lurid light on these points.
In writing it, great pains have been taken to make the blank verse,
wherever possible, as bad as Lord Lytton's._
IN THE LYONS DEN.
SCENE.--_The drawing-room of CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S house. PAULINE is
sitting by the fire, CLAUDE leaning with his back against the
mantelpiece. JAMES, a man-servant in livery, enters with a card on
a salver._
PAULINE.
[_Reading card._] Mrs. Smith! Not at home, James.
CLAUDE.
[_Who can never quite get out of his habit of speaking in blank verse._]
Why are you not at home to Mrs. Smith?
PAULINE.
My dear Claude, that woman! Mr. Smith kept a greengrocer's shop. 'Tis
true he made a great deal of money by his contracts to supply the
armies of the Republic with vegetables, but they are not gentlepeople!
CLAUDE.
[_In his most Byronic manner._] What is it makes a gentleman, Pauline?
Is it to have a cousin in the Peerage----
PAULINE.
Partly that, dear.
CLAUDE.
[_Refusing to be interrupted._] Or is it to be honest,
simple, kind----
PAULINE.
But I have no reason for believing Mr. Smith to have been more honest
than the general run of army contractors.
CLAUDE.
[_Continuing._] Gentle in speech and action as in name?
Oh, it is this that makes a gentleman!
And Mr. Smith, although he kept a shop,
May very properly be so described.
PAULINE.
Yes, I know, dear. Everybody calls himself a gentleman nowadays, even
the boy who cleans the boots. But I am not going to give in to these
unhealthy modern ideas, and I am not going to visit Mrs. Smith. She is
not in Society.
CLAUDE.
[_Off again on his high horse._] What is Society? All noble men----
PAULINE.
[_Objecting._] But Mr. Smith isn't a _nobleman_, Claude.
CLAUDE.
... And women, in whatever station born,
These, only these, make up "Society."
PAULINE.
[_Patiently._] But that's such a dreadful misuse of words, dear. When
one talks of "Society," one does not mean good people, or unselfish
people, or high-minded people, but people who keep a carriage and give
dinner parties. Those are the only things which really matter socially.
CLAUDE.
Pauline, Pauline, what dreadful sentiments!
They show a worldly and perverted mind.
I grieve to think my wife should utter them!
PAULINE.
[_Very sweetly._] I wish, Claude, you'd try and give up talking in
blank verse. It's very bad form. And it's very bad verse, too. Try and
break yourself of it.
CLAUDE.
[_Off again._] All noble thoughts, Pauline----
PAULINE.
No, no, no, Claude. I really can't have this ranting. Byronics are
quite out of fashion.
CLAUDE.
[_Relapsing gloomily into prose._] You may laugh at me, Pauline, but
you know I'm right.
PAULINE.
Of course you're right, dear. Much too right for this wicked world.
That's why I never can take your advice on any subject. You're so
unpractical.
CLAUDE.
[_Breaking out again._]
The world, the world, oh, how I hate this world!
PAULINE.
Now that's silly of you, dear. There's nothing like making the best
of a bad thing. By the way, Claude, didn't you say Mrs. Melnotte was
coming to call this afternoon?
CLAUDE.
Yes. Dear mother, how nice it will be to see her again!
PAULINE.
It will be charming, of course.... I do hope no one else will call at
the same time. Perhaps I'd better tell James we are not at home to
anyone except Mrs. Melnotte.
CLAUDE.
Oh, no, don't do that. My mother will enjoy meeting our friends.
PAULINE.
No doubt, dear. But will our friends enjoy meeting your mother?
[_Seeing him about to burst forth again._] Oh, yes, Claude, I know what
you are going to say. But, after all, Lyons is a very purse-proud,
vulgar place. You know, how _my_ mother can behave on occasions! And if
Mrs. Melnotte happens to be here when any other people call it may be
very unpleasant. I really think I had better say we are not at home to
anyone else.
[_Rises to ring the bell._
CLAUDE.
Pauline, I forbid you! Sit down at once. If my family are not good
enough for your friends, let them drop us and be hanged to them.
PAULINE.
Claude, don't storm. It's so vulgar. And there's not the least occasion
for it either. I only thought it would be pleasanter for all our
visitors--your dear mother among the number--if we avoided all chance
of disagreeable scenes. But there, dear, you've no _savoir faire_, and
I'm afraid we shall never get into Society. It's very sad.
CLAUDE.
[_Touched by her patience._] I am sorry, my dear. I ought to have kept
my temper. But I wish you weren't so set upon getting into Society.
Isn't it a little snobbish?
PAULINE.
[_Wilfully misunderstanding him._] It's dreadfully snobbish, dear; the
most snobbish sort of Society I know. All provincial towns are like
that. But it's the only Society there is here, you know, and we must
make the best of it.
CLAUDE.
My poor Pauline.
[_Kissing her._
PAULINE.
[_Gently._] But you know, Claude, social distinctions do exist. Why not
recognize them? And the late Mr. Melnotte _was_ a gardener!
CLAUDE.
He was--an excellent gardener.
PAULINE.
One of the Lower Classes.
CLAUDE.
In a Republic there are no Lower Classes.
PAULINE.
[_Correcting him._] In a Republic there are no Higher Classes. And
class distinctions are more sharply drawn than ever in consequence.
CLAUDE.
So much the worse for the Republic.
PAULINE.
[_Shocked._] Claude, I begin to think you are an anarchist.
CLAUDE.
I? [_Proudly._] I am a colonel in the French army.
PAULINE.
But not a _real_ colonel, Claude. Only a Republican colonel.
CLAUDE.
[_Sternly._] I rose from the ranks in two years by merit.
PAULINE.
I know, dear. Real colonels only rise by interest.
[_CLAUDE gasps._
JAMES.
[_Opening the door and showing in a wizened old lady in rusty black
garments and a bonnet slightly awry._] Mrs. Melnotte.
[_PAULINE goes forward to greet her._
MRS. MELNOTTE.
[_Not seeing her._] Ah, my dear son [_runs across the room to CLAUDE
before the eyes of the deeply scandalised JAMES, and kisses him
repeatedly_], how glad I am to see you again! And your grand house! And
your fine servants! In livery, too!
[_PAULINE shudders, and so does JAMES. The latter
goes out._
CLAUDE.
My dearest mother!
[_Kisses her._
MRS. MELNOTTE.
[_Beaming on Pauline._] How do you do, my dear? Let me give my Claude's
wife a kiss.
[_Does so in resounding fashion._
[Illustration: E. J. Wheeler.
"Let me give my Claude's wife a kiss."]
PAULINE.
[_As soon as she has recovered from the warmth of this embrace._] How
do you do, Mrs. Melnotte? Won't you sit down?
MRS. MELNOTTE.
Thank you kindly, my dear. I don't mind if I do.
[_A ring is heard outside, followed by the sound of someone
being admitted. PAULINE looks anxiously towards
the door._
PAULINE.
[_To herself._] A visitor! How unlucky! I wonder who it is?
JAMES.
[_Throwing open the door._] Mrs. Deschappelles.
PAULINE.
Great Heavens, my mother!
[_Falls back, overwhelmed, into her chair._
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
[_In her most elaborate manner._] My dear child, you are unwell. My
coming has been a shock to you. But there, a daughter's affection,
Claude--[_shaking hands with him_]--how wonderful it is!
PAULINE.
Dear mother, we are delighted to see you.
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
Of course I ought to have called before. I have been meaning to come
ever since you returned from your honeymoon. But I have so many visits
to pay; and you have only been back ten weeks!
PAULINE.
I quite understand, mother dear.
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
And, as I always say to your poor father, "When one is a leader of
Society, one has so many engagements." I am sure _you_ find that.
PAULINE.
I have hardly begun to receive visits yet.
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
No, dear? But then it's different with _you_. When you married Colonel
Melnotte, of course you gave up all _social_ ambitions.
MRS. MELNOTTE.
I am sure no one could wish for a better, braver husband than my Claude.
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
[_Turning sharply round and observing MRS. MELNOTTE for the first
time._] I beg your pardon?
[_Icily._
MRS. MELNOTTE.
[_Bravely._] I said no one could have a better husband than Claude.
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
[_Dumbfounded, appealing to PAULINE._] Who--who is this _person_?
PAULINE.
[_Nervously._] I think you have met before, mother. This is Mrs.
Melnotte.
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
[_Insolently._] Oh! the gardener's wife.
CLAUDE.
[_Melodramatic at once._] Yes. The gardener's wife and my mother!
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
[_Impatiently._] Of course, I know the unfortunate relationship between
you, Claude. You need not thrust it down my throat. You know how
unpleasant it is to me.
PAULINE.
[_Shocked at this bad taste._] Mother!
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
Oh, yes, it is. As I was saying to your poor father only yesterday. "Of
course, Claude is all right. He is an officer now, and all officers
are supposed to be gentlemen. But his relatives are impossible, quite
impossible!"
CLAUDE.
[_Furiously._] This insolence is intolerable. Madame Deschappelles....
MRS. MELNOTTE.
[_Intervening._] Claude, Claude, don't be angry! Remember who she is.
CLAUDE.
[_Savagely._] I remember well enough. She is Madame Deschappelles, and
her husband is a successful tradesman. He was an English shop-boy,
and his proper name was Chapel. He came over to France, grew rich,
put a "de" before his name, and now gives himself airs like the other
_parvenus_.
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
Monster!
PAULINE.
My dear Claude, how wonderfully interesting!
MRS. MELNOTTE.
[_Rising._] My son, you must not forget your manners. Mrs.
Deschappelles is Pauline's mother. I will go away now, and leave you
to make your apologies to her. [_CLAUDE tries to prevent her going._]
No, no, I will go, really. Good-bye, my son; good-bye, dear Pauline.
[_Kisses her and goes out._
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
If that woman imagines that I am going to stay here after being
insulted by you as I have been, she is much mistaken. Please ring for
my carriage. [_CLAUDE rings._] As for you, Pauline, I always told you
what would happen if you insisted on marrying beneath you, and now you
see I'm right.
PAULINE.
[_Quietly._] You seem to forget, mamma, that papa was practically a
bankrupt when I married, and that Claude paid his debts.
MRS. DESCHAPPELLES.
I forget nothing. And I do not see that it makes the smallest
difference. I am not blaming your poor father for having his debts paid
by Colonel Melnotte; I am blaming you for marrying him. Good-bye.
[_She sweeps out in a towering passion._
PAULINE.
Sit down, Claude, and don't glower at me like that. It's not my fault
if mamma does not know how to behave.
CLAUDE.
[_Struggling with his rage._] That's true, that's true.
PAULINE.
Poor mamma, her want of breeding is terrible! I have always noticed it.
But that story about Mr. Chapel explains it all. Why didn't you tell it
to me before?
CLAUDE.
I thought it would pain you.
PAULINE.
Pain me? I am delighted with it! Why, it explains everything. It
explains _me_. It explains _you_, even. A Miss Chapel might marry
_anyone_. Don't frown, Claude; laugh. We shall never get into Society
in Lyons, but, at least, we shall never have another visit from mamma.
The worst has happened. We can now live happily ever afterwards.
_Curtain._
Caste.
_Most people, in their day, have wept tears of relief at the ending of
T. W. Robertson's comedy "Caste," when the Hon. George D'Alroy--not
dead, poor chap!--falls into the arms of his wife, Esther, while
his father-in-law, Eccles, bestows a drunken benediction upon him
before starting for Jersey, and his sister-in-law, Polly, and her
adored plumber, Gerridge, embrace sympathetically in the background.
In these circumstances it seems hardly kind to add a further act to
this harrowing drama. But the writer of Sequels, like Nemesis, is
inexorable. If the perusal of the following scene prevents any young
subaltern from emulating D'Alroy and marrying a ballet-dancer with a
drunken father, it will not have been written in vain._
THE VENGEANCE OF CASTE.
SCENE.--_The dining-room of the D'ALROYS' house in the suburbs.
Dinner is just over, and GEORGE D'ALROY, in a seedy coat and carpet
slippers, is sitting by the fire smoking a pipe. On the other side
of the fire sits ESTHER, his wife, darning a sock._
ESTHER.
Tired, George?
GEORGE.
Yes.
ESTHER.
Had a bad day in the City?
GEORGE.
Beastly! I believe I'm the unluckiest beggar in the world. Every stock
I touch goes down.
ESTHER.
Why don't you give up speculating if you're so unlucky?
GEORGE.
[_Hurt._] I don't speculate, dear. I invest.
ESTHER.
Why don't you give up investing then? It makes a dreadful hole in our
income.
GEORGE.
One must do _something_ for one's living.
ESTHER.
[_Sighing._] What a pity it is you left the Army!
GEORGE.
I had to. The regiment wouldn't stand your father. He was always coming
to the mess-room when he was drunk, and asking for me. So the Colonel
said I'd better send in my papers.
ESTHER.
[_Gently._] Not _drunk_, George.
GEORGE.
The Colonel said so. And he was rather a judge.
ESTHER.
[_Unable to improve upon her old phrase._] Father is a very eccentric
man, but a very good man, when you know him.
GEORGE.
[_Grimly._] If you mean by "eccentric" a man who is always drunk and
won't die, he is--most eccentric!
ESTHER.
Hush, dear! After all, he's my father.
GEORGE.
That's my objection to him.
ESTHER.
I'm afraid you must have lost a _great_ deal of money to-day!
GEORGE.
Pretty well. But I've noticed that retired military men who go into the
City invariably do lose money.
ESTHER.
Why do they go into the City, then?
GEORGE.
[_Gloomily._] Why, indeed?
[_There is a short pause. GEORGE stares moodily at
the fire._
ESTHER.
I had a visit from your mother to-day.
GEORGE.
How was she?
ESTHER.
Not very well. She has aged sadly in the last few years. Her hair is
quite white now.
GEORGE.
[_Half to himself._] Poor mother, poor mother!
ESTHER.
She was very kind. She asked particularly after you, and she saw little
George. [_Gently._] I think she is getting more reconciled to our
marriage.
GEORGE.
Do you really, dear? [_Looks at her curiously._]
ESTHER.
Yes; and I think it's such a good thing. How strange it is that people
should attach such importance to class distinctions!
GEORGE.
Forgive me, dear, but if you think it strange that the Marquise de St.
Maur does not consider Mr. Eccles and the Gerridges wholly desirable
connections, I am afraid I cannot agree with you.
[Illustration: E. J. Wheeler.
Mr. Eccles makes his hundred and fifty-sixth appearance at the
police court.]
ESTHER.
Of course, Papa is a very eccentric man----
GEORGE.
My dear Esther, Mr. Eccles made his hundred and fifty-sixth appearance
in the police-court last week. The fact was made the subject of jocular
comment in the cheaper evening papers. The sentence was five shillings
or seven days.
ESTHER.
Poor Papa felt his position acutely.
GEORGE.
Not half so acutely as I did. I paid the five shillings. If he had only
consented to remain in Jersey!
ESTHER.
But you know Jersey didn't suit him. He was never well there.
GEORGE.
He was never sober there. That was the only thing that was the matter
with him. No, my love, let us look facts in the face. You are a dear
little woman, but your father is detestable, and there is not the
smallest ground for hope that my mother will ever be "reconciled" to
our marriage as long as she retains her reason.
ESTHER.
I suppose father _is_ rather a difficulty.
GEORGE.
Yes. He and the Gerridges, between them, have made us impossible
socially.
ESTHER.
What's the matter with the Gerridges?
GEORGE.
Nothing, except that you always ask them to all our dinner parties.
And as gentlepeople have a curious prejudice against sitting down to
dinner with a plumber and glazier, it somewhat narrows our circle of
acquaintance.
ESTHER.
But Sam isn't a working plumber now. He has a shop of his own--quite
a large shop. And their house is just as good as ours. The furniture
is better. Sam bought Polly a new carpet for the drawing-room only
last week. It cost fourteen pounds. And _our_ drawing-room carpet is
dreadfully shabby.
GEORGE.
I'm glad they're getting on so well. [_With a flicker of hope._] Do
you think there's any chance, as they grow more prosperous, of their
"dropping" us?
ESTHER.
[_Indignantly._] How can you think of such a thing!
GEORGE.
[_Sighing._] I was afraid not.
ESTHER.
[_Enthusiastically._] Why, Sam is as kind as can be, and so is Polly.
And you know how fond they are of little George.
GEORGE.
Poor child, yes. He has played with their children ever since he could
toddle. And what is the result? A Cockney accent that is indescribable.
ESTHER.
What does it matter about his accent so long as he is a good boy, and
grows up to be a good man?
GEORGE.
Ethically, my dear, not at all. But practically, it matters a great
deal. It causes me intense physical discomfort. And I think it is
killing my mother.
ESTHER.
George!
GEORGE.
Moreover, when the time comes for him to go to a Public school he will
probably be very unhappy in consequence.
ESTHER.
Why?
GEORGE.
Merely irrational prejudice. Public school boys dislike all deviations
from the normal. And to them--happily--a pronounced Cockney accent
represents the height of abnormality.
ESTHER.
[_Sadly._] In spite of our marriage, I'm afraid you're still a
worshipper of caste. I thought you turned your back on all that when
you married me.
GEORGE.
So I did, dear, so I did. But I don't want to commit my son to the same
hazardous experiment.
ESTHER.
Ah, George, you don't really love me, or you wouldn't talk like that.
GEORGE.
My dear, I love you to distraction. That's exactly the difficulty. I am
torn between my devotion to you and my abhorrence of your relations.
When your father returned from Jersey, and took a lodging close by us,
nothing but the warmth of my affection prevented me from leaving you
for ever. He is still here, and so am I. What greater proof could you
have of the strength of my attachment?
ESTHER.
Poor father! he could not bear to be away from us. And he has grown so
fond of little George! [_GEORGE shudders._] Father has a good heart.
GEORGE.
I wish he had a stronger head.
[_This remark is prompted by the sound of MR. ECCLES
entering the front door, and having a tipsy
altercation with the maid._
MAID.
[_Announcing._] Mr. Eccles.
ECCLES.
[_Joyously._] Evening--hic--me children. Bless you, bless you!
ESTHER.
Good evening, father.
ECCLES.
Won't you--hic--speak to yer old father-in-law, Georgie? [_GEORGE says
nothing._] Ah, pride, pride, cruel pride! You come before a fall, _you_
do! [_Lurches heavily against the table, and subsides into a chair._]
Funny, that! Almost--hic--seemed as if the proverb was a-coming true
that time!
GEORGE.
[_Sternly._] How often have I told you, Mr. Eccles, not to come to this
house except when you're sober!
ECCLES.
[_Raising his voice in indignant protest._] Shober--hic--perfectly
shober! shober as a--hic--judge!
GEORGE.
I'm afraid I can't argue with you as to the precise stage of
intoxication in which you find yourself. You had better go home at once.
ECCLES.
Do you hear that Esh--ter? Do you hear that--hic--me child?
ESTHER.
Yes, father. I think you had better go home. You're not very well
to-night.
ECCLES.
[_Rising unsteadily from his chair._] Allri--Esh--ter. I'm goin'. Good
ni--Georgie.
GEORGE.
[_With the greatest politeness._] Good night, Mr. Eccles. If you could
possibly manage to fall down and damage yourself seriously on the way
home, I should be infinitely obliged.
ECCLES.
[_Beginning to weep._] There's words to address to a
loving--hic--farrer-in-law. There's words----[_lurches out_].
ESTHER.
I think, George, you had better see him home. It's not safe for him to
be alone in that state.
GEORGE.
[_Savagely._] Safe! I don't want him to be safe. Nothing would give me
greater satisfaction than to hear he had broken his neck.
ESTHER.
[_Gently._] But he might meet a policeman, George.
GEORGE.
Ah! that's another matter. Perhaps I'd better see the beast into a cab.
ESTHER.
[_Sighing._] Ah, you never understood poor father!
[_A crash is heard from the hall as ECCLES lurches
heavily and upsets the hat-stand. GEORGE
throws up his hands in despair at the
wreck of the hall furniture--or, perhaps,
at the obtuseness of his wife's last
remark--and goes out to call a cab._
_Curtain._
Patience, or Bunthorne's Bride.
_At the end of "Patience," it will be remembered, the twenty love-sick
maidens gave up æstheticism and decided to marry officers of Dragoons.
But a taste for intellectual gimcrackery is not so easily eradicated,
and it is probable that the poor ladies neither liked nor were liked at
Aldershot. That is certainly the impression conveyed by the following
sequel._
OUT OF PATIENCE; OR, BUNTHORNE AVENGED.
SCENE.--_Drawing-room of COLONEL CALVERLEY'S house at Aldershot.
His wife, SAPHIR, is entertaining ANGELA, ELLA, and the rest
of the love-sick maidens--now married to stalwart officers of
Dragoons--at afternoon tea. Each lady dandles a baby, which squalls
intermittently._
CHORUS.
Twenty heart-sick ladies we,
Living down at Aldershot,
Every morning fervently
Wishing, wishing we were not.
Twenty married ladies we,
And our fate we may not alter;
If we dare to mutiny
They will send us to Gibraltar!
[_The babies, appalled at this prospect, howl
unanimously._
SAPHIR.
[_As soon as she can make herself heard._] Our mornings
go in stilling baby's squalls.
ALL.
Ah, miserie!
SAPHIR.
Our afternoons in paying tiresome calls,
ALL.
And drinking tea!
SAPHIR.
And then those long, long, regimental balls!
ALL.
Ennuie, ennuie!
SAPHIR.
After a time that sort of pleasure palls,
ALL.
As you may see.
[_All yawn, including the babies._
CHORUS.
Twenty heart-sick ladies we, etc.
ANGELA.
[_Sighs._] It's a dreadful thing that we should _all_ have married
officers in the Army.
SAPHIR.
And _all_ have to live at Aldershot.
ELLA.
All except Lady Jane.
SAPHIR.
But she married a Duke.
ELLA.
I don't see why that should make any difference.
ANGELA.
You wouldn't expect a Duchess to live in the provinces. She couldn't be
spared.
ELLA.
What do you mean?
ANGELA.
No Duchess is allowed to be out of London during the season. There are
hardly enough of them to go round as it is.
SAPHIR.
I never imagined that when we were married we should find ourselves so
completely "out of it."
ALL.
[_Indignantly._] Out of it!
SAPHIR.
Yes, out of it. Out of the world, the fashion, what you please.
Æstheticism is out of vogue now, of course, but there have been lots
of fascinating "movements" since then. There's been Ibsen and the
Revolt of the Daughters, and Aubrey Beardsley and the Decadence, and
Maeterlinck. The world has been through all these wonderfully thrilling
phases since 1880, and where are WE?
ANGELA.
[_Remonstrating._] We read about them in the ladies' papers.
SAPHIR.
_Read_ about them! What's the good of _reading_ about them? I want to
be _in_ them. I want to LIVE MY LIFE.
[_Shakes her baby fiercely. It raises a howl._
ELLA.
[_Rushing to the rescue._] Take care, take care! Poor darling! it'll
have a fit.
SAPHIR.
Take it, then. [_Throws it to Ella._] I'm tired of it. What's the good
of buying a complete set of back numbers of the _Yellow Book_, and
_reading_ them, too--[_general astonishment at this feat_]--if you
can't even shake your baby without making it squall? I'd never have
married Colonel Calverley if I had thought of that!
[Illustration: E. J. Wheeler.
"I want to live my life."]
ANGELA.
Nor I Major Murgatroyd.
[_Sings._]
When first I consented to wed,
I said, "I shall never come down
To passing my life
As an officer's wife,
In a second-rate garrison town."
I said, "I shall live in Mayfair,
With plenty of money to spare,
Have admirers in flocks,
Wear adorable frocks,
And diamonds everywhere."
Yes, that's what I certainly said
When first I consented to wed.
I thought, on the day I was wed,
I could reckon with perfect propriety
On filling a place
With conspicuous grace
In the smartest of London Society.
I said, "It is easy to see
I shall be at the top of the tree,
And none of the millions
Of vulgar civilians
Will venture to patronise me!"
Yes, that's what I foolishly said
When first I consented to wed.
[_As the song ends, enter Colonel CALVERLEY, Major
MURGATROYD, and the other officers in
uniform as from parade. The ladies groan.
So do the babies._
COLONEL.
Hullo! Groans! What's all this about?
SAPHIR.
If you only knew how it pains us to see you in those preposterous
clothes!
OFFICERS.
Preposterous!
ANGELA.
Perfectly preposterous. You know they are.
MAJOR.
If by preposterous you mean not conspicuously well adapted for active
service, we cannot deny it.
ANGELA.
Of course you can't. Your uniforms are useless and pretentious. To the
educated eye they are not even beautiful.
OFFICERS.
[_Horrified._] Not beautiful!
SAPHIR.
Certainly not. If they were, you would not be so unwilling to be seen
about in them.
COLONEL.
[_Haughtily._] It is not etiquette in the British Army for an officer
_ever_ to be seen in his uniform. It isn't done!
SAPHIR.
And why not? Because he is ashamed of it. He wants to be dressed like a
soldier, not like a mountebank. How can anyone respect a uniform that's
only meant for show?
MAJOR.
That's true. But the ladies? If it wasn't for our gorgeous frippery
they wouldn't fall in love with us.
ANGELA.
[_Crossly._] Nonsense! Women like soldiers because they are brave, not
because they wear red coats. Any Tommy could tell you that.
COLONEL.
[_Sarcastically._] Indeed?
ANGELA.
Yes. Saphir, tell Colonel Calverley the story of William Stokes.
SAPHIR.
[_Sings._]Once William Stokes went forth to woo,
A corporal, he, of the Horse Guards (Blue),
He thought all housemaid hearts to storm
With his truly magnificent uniform.
But the housemaids all cried "No, no, no,
Your uniform's only meant for show,
Your gorgeous trappings are wicked waste,
And your whole get-up's in the worst of taste."
ALL.
The worst of taste?
SAPHIR.
The worst of taste!
These quite unfeeling,
Very plain-dealing
Ladies cried in haste--
"Your uniform, Billy,
Is simply silly
And quite in the worst of taste!"
Poor William took these cries amiss,
Being quite unaccustomed to snubs like this.
At last he explained, by way of excuse,
His gorgeous clothes weren't made for use.
His elaborate tunic was much too tight
To eat his dinner in, far less fight;
It was only meant to attract the eye
Of the less intelligent passer-by.
ALL.
The passer-by?
SAPHIR.
The passer-by!
And so poor Billy,
Feeling quite silly,
Threw up the Horse Guards (Blue),
And now in the Park he
Appears in khaki,
And greatly prefers it too!
COLONEL.
That's all very well, and I daresay you're right in what you say, but
you'll never get the War Office to see it.
MAJOR.
They're too stupid.
SAPHIR.
Was it the War Office who sent us to Aldershot?
MAJOR.
Yes.
SAPHIR.
You're quite right. They _are_ stupid!
COLONEL.
What's the matter with Aldershot?
ANGELA.
It's dull, it's philistine, it's conventional. And to think that we
were once Æsthetic!
OFFICERS.
[_Mockingly._] Oh, South Kensington!
ANGELA.
[_Angrily._] _Not_ South Kensington! Chelsea. If you knew anything at
all, you'd know that South Kensington is quite over now. People of
culture have all moved to Chelsea.
SAPHIR.
Why on earth don't you all get promoted to snug berths at the Horse
Guards? Then we could live in London.
COLONEL.
[_Sadly._] Do you know how promotion is got in the British Army?
SAPHIR.
No.
COLONEL.
Listen, and I will tell you--
[_Sings._]
When you once have your commission, if you want a
high position in the Army of the King,
You must tout for the affections of the influential
sections of the Inner Social Ring.
If you're anxious for promotion, you must early get a
notion of the qualities commanders prize;
You must learn to play at polo, strum a banjo, sing a
solo, and you're simply bound to rise!
For every one will say,
In the usual fatuous way:
"If this young fellow's such a popular figure in High
Society,
Why, what a very competent commander of a troop
this fine young man must be!"
You must buy expensive suits, wear the shiniest of
boots, and a glossy hat and tall,
For if you're really clever you need practically never
wear your uniform at all.
You probably will then see as little of your men as you
decently can do,
And you'll launch a thousand sneers at those foolish
Volunteers, who are not a bit like you!
And those Volunteers will say,
When you go on in that way:
"If this young man's such an unconcealed contempt for
the likes of such as we,
What a genius at strategy and tactics too this fine
young man must be!"
When, your blunders never noted, you are rapidly
promoted to the snuggest berth you know,
Till we see you at Pall Mall with the Army gone to--well,
where the Army should not go--
When your country goes to war your abilities will awe
all the foemen that beset her,
And if you make a mess of it, of course we're told the
less of it the country hears the better!
And you'll hear civilians say,
In their usual humble way:
"If this old buffer is a General of Division, and also a
G.C.B.,
Why, what a past master of the art of war this fine old
boy must be!"
SAPHIR.
Do you mean that you'll never get berths at the Horse Guards, any of
you?
COLONEL.
[_Sadly._] It's most unlikely.
SAPHIR.
Then my patience is exhausted. I shall apply for a judicial separation.
ANGELA.
So shall I.
LADIES.
We shall all apply for judicial separations.
OFFICERS.
Impossible!
ANGELA.
Oh, yes, we shall; we cannot consent to remain at Aldershot any longer.
At any moment a new movement in the world of Art or Letters may begin
in London, and we shall not be in it. The thought is unendurable. We
must go and pack at once.
[_Exeunt._
_Curtain._
The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.
_After the second Mrs. Tanqueray killed herself at the end of the play
which bears her name, it might be supposed that her husband would be
content with his two successive failures in matrimony, and not tempt
a third. But Aubrey, as his second marriage shows, was nothing if not
courageous in matrimonial affairs, and we have therefore every reason
to believe that he did marry again, while we have small ground for
hoping that he chose his third wife with any greater wisdom than he
chose the other two. That is the impression conveyed by the following
pathetic scene._
THE THIRD MRS. TANQUERAY.
SCENE.--_The dining-room of AUBREY TANQUERAY'S country house,
Highercombe, in Surrey. A lean butler is standing at the sideboard.
AUBREY and CAYLEY DRUMMLE enter and go up to warm themselves at the
fire, which burns feebly. The time is an evening in March, five
years after the events of Mr. Pinero's play, and CAYLEY looks quite
five years stouter. AUBREY does not._
CAYLEY.
It's quite shocking, Aubrey, that you should have been married nearly
a year, and that I should not yet have had the pleasure of making Mrs.
Tanqueray's acquaintance. I am dying to know her.
AUBREY.
My fault, my dear Cayley.
CAYLEY.
Entirely. Your weddings are always so furtive.
[_Pokes the fire resolutely, in the hope of producing
something approaching a cheerful blaze._
AUBREY.
Well, you'll see her to-night. I hoped she would be able to dine at
home, but she had promised to address a Temperance meeting in the
village. [_CAYLEY looks dubious._] However, she'll be back at ten.
Meanwhile, you'll have to be contented with a bachelor dinner.
[_They go to the table and sit down._
CAYLEY.
[_Unfolding serviette._] Experience has taught me, my dear Aubrey, that
bachelor dinners are apt to be particularly well worth eating. No doubt
it is to make up for the absence of more charming society.
AUBREY.
[_Doubtfully._] I hope it will prove so in this case.
CAYLEY.
I feel sure of it. I remember your cook of old.
AUBREY.
I'm afraid it won't be _that_ cook.
CAYLEY.
[_In horror._] You haven't parted with him?
AUBREY.
Yes. He left soon after my marriage. There was some small error in his
accounts, which Mrs. Tanqueray discovered. So, of course, we had to
dismiss him.
CAYLEY.
[_Eagerly._] Do you happen to have his address?
AUBREY.
I dare say Mrs. Tanqueray has, if you wish to know it.
[_Footman hands soup._
CAYLEY.
I shall be eternally indebted to her.
AUBREY.
Why?
CAYLEY.
I shall engage him at once. [_Begins to eat his soup, frowns, and then
puts down his spoon._] But I'm afraid you'll want him back yourself.
AUBREY.
No. My wife is most particular about the character of her servants.
CAYLEY.
Ah! I'm more particular about the character of my soup.
[_His hand goes out instinctively towards his
sherry-glass. As he is about to raise
it he sees that it is empty, and
refrains._
AUBREY.
Cayley, you ought to marry. Then you'd realise that there are more
important things in the world than soup.
CAYLEY.
Of course there are, my dear fellow. There's the fish and the joint.
[_Fish of an unattractive kind is handed to him.
He takes some._
AUBREY.
Sybarite!
[_CAYLEY looks at his fish dubiously, then
leaves it untasted._
CAYLEY.
You are quite wrong. A simple cut of beef or mutton, well-cooked, is
quite enough for me.
BUTLER.
[_To CAYLEY._] Lemonade, Sir?
CAYLEY.
Eh, what? No, thank you.
AUBREY.
Ah, Cayley. What will you drink? [_CAYLEY'S face brightens visibly._]
I'm afraid I can't offer you any wine. [_It falls again._] My wife
never allows alcohol at her table. But there are various sorts of
mineral waters. You don't mind?
CAYLEY.
[_Grimly._] Not at all, my dear fellow, not at all. Which brand of
mineral water do you consider most--ah--stimulating?
AUBREY.
[_Laughing mirthlessly._] I'm afraid, Cayley, you're not a convert to
Temperance principles yet. That shows you have never heard my wife
speak.
CAYLEY.
[_Emphatically._] Never! Temperance meetings are not in my line.
[_Footman removes his plate._
AUBREY.
Perhaps some of the other movements in which she is interested would
appeal to you more. [_With a touch of happy pride._] As you may know,
my wife is a vice-president of the Anti-Vaccination Society, and of the
Woman's Home Rule Union. Indeed, she is in great request on all public
platforms.
CAYLEY.
[_With simulated enthusiasm._] I feel sure of that, my dear Aubrey.
[_Footman hands CAYLEY some rice-pudding. CAYLEY puts up his eye-glass,
and eyes it curiously._] What is this?
FOOTMAN.
Rice-pudding, Sir.
[_CAYLEY drops spoon hastily._
AUBREY.
[_Politely._] You're eating nothing, Cayley.
CAYLEY.
[_With some concern._] Aubrey, have I _slept_ through the joint? I have
no recollection of eating it. If, in a moment of abstraction, I refused
it, may I change my mind?
AUBREY.
[_Sternly._] My wife never has _meat_ at her table on Fridays.
CAYLEY.
[_Peevishly._] My dear fellow, I wish you'd thought of mentioning it
before I came down. Then I might have had a more substantial luncheon.
Where's that rice-pudding?
[_Helps himself. There is a rather constrained silence._
AUBREY.
It's really very good of you to have come down to see us, Cayley.
CAYLEY.
[_Pulling himself together._] Very good of you to say so, my dear chap.
[_Tackles his rice-pudding manfully._
AUBREY.
My wife and I can so seldom get any man to drop in to dinner nowadays.
CAYLEY.
[_Giving up his struggle with rice-pudding in despair._] I suppose so.
AUBREY.
In fact, we see very little society now.
CAYLEY.
[_Sententiously._] Society only likes people who feed it, my dear
Aubrey. You ought to have kept that cook.
AUBREY.
[_Meditatively._] So my daughter said.
CAYLEY.
Ellean? Is she with you now?
AUBREY.
No. She is in Ireland. After making that remark she went back to her
convent.
CAYLEY.
[_Heartily._] Sensible girl! I like Ellean.
AUBREY.
She and my wife did not get on, somehow. It was very unfortunate, as it
was mainly on Ellean's account that I thought it right to marry again.
CAYLEY.
[_With polite incredulity._] Indeed?
AUBREY.
Yes. You see, it is so difficult for a girl of Ellean's retiring
disposition to meet people and make friends when she has no mother
to chaperon her. And if she meets no one, how is she to get married?
Dessert, Cayley?
CAYLEY.
[_After surveying a rather unattractive assortment of apples and
walnuts._] No, thanks. As you were saying----?
AUBREY.
So I thought if I could meet with a really suitable person, someone
with whom she would be in sympathy, someone she would look upon as a
sort of second mother----
CAYLEY.
[_Correcting him._] Third, Aubrey.
AUBREY.
[_Ignoring the interruption_] ----it would make home more comfortable
for her.
CAYLEY.
[_Laughing._] I like your idea of _comfort_, Aubrey! But I should have
thought you could have adopted some less extreme measure for providing
Ellean with a chaperon? You have neighbours. Mrs. Cortelyon, for
instance?
AUBREY.
[_Stiffly._] Mrs. Cortelyon's chaperonage was not very successful on
the last occasion.
CAYLEY.
No, no; to be sure. Young Ardale. I was forgetting.
AUBREY.
Unhappily the whole scheme was a failure. Ellean conceived a violent
aversion for Mrs. Tanqueray almost directly we came home, and a week
later--I remember it was directly after dinner--she announced her
intention of leaving the house for ever.
CAYLEY.
[_The thought of his dinner still rankling._] Poor girl! No doubt she's
happier in her convent.
[_Butler enters with coffee. CAYLEY takes some._
AUBREY.
I am sorry I can't ask you to smoke, Cayley, but my wife has a
particular objection to tobacco. She is a member of the Anti-tobacco
League, and often speaks at its meetings.
CAYLEY.
[_Annoyed._] Really, my dear fellow, if I may neither eat, drink, nor
smoke, I don't quite see why you asked me down.
AUBREY.
[_Penitently._] I suppose I ought to have thought of that. The fact
is, I have got so used to these little deprivations that now I hardly
notice them. Of course, it's different with you.
CAYLEY.
I should think it was!
[Illustration: E. J. Wheeler.
"She announced her intention of leaving the house for ever."]
AUBREY.
[_Relenting._] If you _very_ much want to smoke, I dare say it might
be managed. If we have this window wide open, and you sit by it, a
cigarette might not be noticed.
CAYLEY.
[_Shortly._] Thanks.
[_Takes out cigarette, and lights it, as soon as AUBREY
has made the elaborate arrangements indicated
above._
AUBREY.
[_Politely._] I hope you won't find it cold.
CAYLEY.
[_Grimly._] England in March is always cold. [_Sneezes violently._]
But, perhaps, if you ring for my overcoat, I may manage to survive the
evening.
AUBREY.
Certainly. What is it like?
CAYLEY.
I've no idea. It's an ordinary sort of coat. Your man will know it if
you ring for him.
AUBREY.
[_Hesitating._] I'd rather fetch it for you myself, if you don't mind.
I should not like Parkes to see that you were smoking. It would set
such a bad example.
CAYLEY.
[_Throwing his cigarette on to the lawn in a rage, and closing the
window with a shiver._] Don't trouble. I'll smoke in the train.
By-the-way, what time _is_ my train?
AUBREY.
Your train?
CAYLEY.
Yes. I must get back to town, my dear fellow.
AUBREY.
Nonsense! You said you'd stay a week.
CAYLEY.
Did I? Then I didn't know what I was saying. I must get back to-night.
AUBREY.
But you brought a bag.
CAYLEY.
Only to dress, Aubrey. By the way, will you tell your man to pack it?
AUBREY.
You can't go to-night. The last train leaves at 9.30. It's 9.15 now.
CAYLEY.
[_Jumping up._] Then I must start at once. Send my bag after me.
AUBREY.
You've not a chance of catching it.
CAYLEY.
[_Solemnly._] My dear old friend, I shall return to town to-night if I
have to walk!
AUBREY.
[_Detaining him._] But my wife? You haven't even made her acquaintance
yet. She'll think it so strange.
CAYLEY.
Not half so strange as I have thought her dinner. [_Shaking himself
free._] No, Aubrey, this is really good-bye. I like you very much, and
it cuts me to the heart to have to drop your acquaintance; but nothing
in the world would induce me to face another dinner such as I have had
to-night!
AUBREY.
Cayley!
CAYLEY.
[_Making for the door._] And nothing in the world would induce me to be
introduced to the third Mrs. Tanqueray.
[_Exit hurriedly._
_Curtain._
The Lady from the Sea.
_When Ibsen ended "The Lady from the Sea" by making Mrs. Wangel give
up her idea of eloping with "The Stranger" and decide to remain with
her husband and her step-children, many people must have felt that
there was a want of finality about the arrangement. Having discussed
so exhaustively with Dr. Wangel the advisability of leaving him, she
could hardly be expected to give up the project permanently. The play
is therefore one which emphatically calls for a sequel._
THE LADY ON THE SEA.