+Crumpled Roseleaves.+
SCENE--_The Tombs of the_ SCALIGERS _at Verona. A seedy and voluble
Cicerone, who has insisted upon volunteering his services, is
accompanying_ MISS TROTTER, BOB PRENDERGAST, _and_ CULCHARD. _It is a
warm afternoon, and_ CULCHARD, _who has been intrusted with_ MISS T.'S
_recent purchases--two Italian blankets, and a huge pot of hammered
copper--is not in the most amiable of moods._
THE CICERONE (_in polyglot_). Ecco, Signore (_pointing out the
interlaced ladders in the wrought-iron railings_), l'echelle, la scala,
c'est tout flexible--(_He shakes the trellis_)--molto, molto curioso!
CULCH. (_bitterly, to the other two_). I _warned_ you how it would be!
We shall have this sort of thing all the afternoon _now_!
MISS T. Well, I don't mind; he's real polite and obliging--and that's
something, anyway!
CULCH. Polite and obliging! Now I _ask_ you--has he given us the
slightest atom of valuable information _yet_?
MISS T. I guess he's too full of tact to wish to interfere with your
special department.
THE CIC. (_to_ CULCHARD, _who looks another way_). Ici le tombeau di
Giovanni della Scala, Signore. Verri grazioso, molto magnifique, joli
conserve! (_He skips up on the pedestal, and touches a sarcophagus._)
Non bronzo--verde-antique! [_Nods at_ CULCHARD, _with a beaming smile_.
CULCH. (_with a growl_). Va bene, va bene--_we_ know all about it!
BOB P. _You_ may; but you might give Miss Trotter and me a chance, you
know!
THE CIC. Zees, Marmor di Carrara; _zat_, Marmor di Verona--Verona
marbre. Martino Primo a fait batir. (_Counting on his fingers for_
CULCHARD'S _benefit_.) Quattuor dichieme secolo--_fotteen_!
[Illustration: "BELLISSIMO SCULTORE!"]
CULCH. Will you kindly understand that I am quite capable of estimating
the precise period of this sculpture for myself.
THE CIC. Si-si, Signore. Scultore Bonino da Campiglione. (_With a
wriggle of deferential enthusiasm._) Bellissimo scultore!
MISS T. He's got an idea you find him vurry instructive, Mr. Culchard,
and I guess, if you want to disabuse him, you'd better do it in Italian.
CULCH. I think my Italian is equal to conveying an impression that I can
willingly dispense with his society. (_To the_ CIC.) Andate via--do you
understand? An-da-te _via_!
THE CIC. (_hurt, and surprised_). Ah, Signore!
[_He breaks into a fervent vindication of his value as guide,
philosopher, and friend._
MISS T. I guess he's endeavouring to intimate that his wounded
self-respect isn't going to be healed under haff a dollar. And every red
cent I had went on that old pot! Mr. Culchard, will you give him a
couple of francs for me?
CULCH. I--er--really see no necessity. He's done nothing whatever to
deserve it!
BOB P. (_eagerly_). May _I_, Miss Trotter? (_Producing a ten-lire
note._) This is the smallest change I've got.
MISS T. No, I guess ten francs would start him with more self-respect
than he's got any use for. Mr. Culchard will give him three--that's one
apiece--to punish him for being so real mean!
CULCH. (_indignantly_). Mean? because I----! (_He pays and dismisses
the_ CIC.) Now we can examine these monuments in peace--they are
really--er--unique examples of the sepulchral pomp of Italian
mediaevalism.
MISS T. They're handsome tombs enough--but considerable cramped. I
should have thought these old Scallywags would have looked around for a
roomier burying lot. (_To_ CULCHARD, _who shivers_.) You aren't feeling
sick any?
CULCH. No--only pained by such a travesty of a noble name. "Scallywags"
for Scaligers seems to me, if I may say so, a very cheap form of humour!
MISS T. Well, it's more than cheap--it isn't going to cost you a cent,
so I should think you'd appreciate it!
BOB P. Haw--score for _you_, Miss Trotter!
CULCH. I should have thought myself that mere personality is hardly
enough to give point to any repartee--there is a slight difference
between brilliancy and--er--_brutality_!
BOB P. Hullo! You and I are being sat upon pretty heavily, Miss Trotter.
MISS T. I guess our Schoolmaster's abroad. But why Mr. Culchard should
want to make himself a train out of my coverlets, I don't just see--he
looks majestic enough without that.
[CULCHARD _catches up a blanket which is trailing, and says bad words
under his breath_.
AT THE TOMB OF JULIET.
CULCH. (_who is gradually recovering his equanimity_). Think of it! the
actual spot on which _Romeo_ and _Juliet_--Shakspeare's _Juliet_--drew
their last breath! Does it not realise the tragedy for you?
MISS T. Well, no--it's a disappointing tomb. I reckoned it would look
less like a horse-trough. I should have expected _Juliet's_ Poppa and
Momma would want, considering all the facts of the case, to throw more
style into her monument!
CULCH. (_languidly_). May not its very simplicity--er--attest the
sincerity of their remorse?
MISS T. Do you attach any particular meaning to that observation now?
(CULCHARD _bites his lip_.) I notice this tomb is full of visiting
cards--my! but ain't that curious?
CULCH. (_instructively_). It only shows that this place is not without
its pathos and interest for _most_ visitors, no matter what their
nationality may be. You don't feel inclined yourself to----?
MISS T. To leave a pasteboard? Why I shouldn't sleep any all night, for
fear she'd return my call!
CULCH. (_producing a note-book_). It's fanciful, perhaps--but, if you
don't mind waiting a little, I should like to contribute--not my card,
but a sonnet. I feel one on its way.
BOB P. Better make sure the tomb's _genuine_ first, hadn't you? Some say
it _isn't_.
CULCH. (_exasperated_). I _knew_ you'd make some matter-of-fact remark
of that kind! There--it's no use! Let us go.
MISS T. Why, your sonnets seem as skeery as those lizards there! I hope
Juliet won't ever know what she's missed. But likely you'll mail those
verses on to her later. [_She and_ BOB P. _pass on, laughing_.
CULCH. (_following_). She only affects this vulgar flippancy to torment
me. If I didn't know _that_----There, I've left that infernal pot
behind now! [_Goes back for it, wrathfully._
_In the Amphitheatre_; MISS PRENDERGAST, PODBURY, _and_ VAN BOODELER,
_are seated on an upper tier_.
PODB. (_meditatively_). I suppose they charged highest for the lowest
seats. Wonder whether a lion ever nipped up and helped himself to some
fat old buffer in the Stalls when the martyrs turned out a leaner lot
than usual!
VAN B. There's an ingenuous modernity about our friend's historical
speculations that is highly refreshing.
MISS P. There is, indeed--though he might have spared himself and _us_
the trouble of them if he had only remembered that the _podium_ was
invariably protected by a railing, and occasionally by _euripi_, or
trenches, You surely learnt that at school, Mr. Podbury?
PODB. I--I dare say. Forgotten all I learnt at school, you know!
VAN B. I should infer now, from that statement, that you enjoyed the
advantages of a pretty liberal education?
PODB. If that's meant to be cutting, I should save it up for that novel
of yours; it may seem smart--_there_!
MISS P. Really, Mr. Podbury, if you choose to resent a playful remark in
that manner, you had better go away.
PODB. Perhaps I had. (_Rises, and moves off huffily._) D----his
playfulness! 'Pon my word, poor old Culchard was _nothing_ to that
beggar! And she backs him up! But there--it's all part of my probation!
(_Here_ CULCHARD _suddenly appears, laden with burdens_.) Hullo! are you
_moving_, or what?
CULCH. I am merely carrying a few things for Miss Trotter. (_Drops the
copper pot, which bounds down into the arena._) Dash the thing!...
(_Returning with it._) It's natural that, in my position, I should have
these--er--privileges. (_He trips over a blanket._) Conf----Have you
happened to see Miss Trotter about, by the way?
PODB. Fancy I saw her down below just now--with Bob. I expect they're
walking round under the arches.
CULCH. Just so. Do you know, Podbury, I almost think I'll go down and
find her. I--I'm curious to hear what her impressions of a place like
this are. Such a scene, you know,--so full of associations with--er--the
splendours and cruelties of a corrupt past--must produce a powerful
effect upon the fresh untutored mind of an American girl, eh?
MISS T.'S _voice_ (_distinctly from arena_). I'd like ever so much to
see Buffalo Bill run his Show in here--he'd just make this old circus
hum!
MISS P.'S _voice_ (_indistinctly from topmost tier_). Almost fancy it
all ... Senators--_equites_--_populus_--_pullati_ ... yellow sunlight
striking down through _vellarium_ ... crimsoned sand ... _mirmillo_
fleeing before _secutor_ ... Diocletian himself, perhaps, lolling over
there on _cubiculum_ ... &c. &c. &c.
CULCH. The place appears to excite Miss Prendergast's enthusiasm, at all
events! [_Sighs._
PODB. Rath-er! But then she's no end of a classical swell, you know!
[_Sighs._
CULCH. (_putting his arm through_ PODBURY'S). Ah, well, my dear Podbury,
one mustn't expect too much, must one?
PODB. I _don't_, old chap--only I'm afraid _she_ does. Suppose we toddle
back to the hotel, eh? Getting near _table d'hote_ time. [_They go out
arm-in-arm._