a 'umbuggin' lot, them doctors, all together. I know it. Yer take my
word for that--yer'll git all right again. Yer'll be as well as I am,
afore yer've done--Oh, Lord!--it's jest awful--I feel that upset--I'd
like to cut my tongue out, for 'avin' told yer--but I jest couldn't 'elp
myself." She was retreating towards the door, wiping her eyes, and
snorting out loud sobs--"An', don't you offer me that half quid--I
couldn't take it of yer--that I couldn't."
* * * * *
She shivered, sat up, and dragged the cloak tight round her shoulders.
In her desire to get warm she forgot what had happened. She extended the
palms of her hands towards the grate: the grate was delicious. A smoking
lump of coal clattered on to the fender: she lifted the tongs, but the
sickening remembrance arrested her. The things in the room were
receding, dancing round: the fire was growing taller and taller. The
woollen scarf chafed her skin: she wrenched it off. Then hope, keen and
bitter, shot up, hurting her. "How could he know? Of course he couldn't
know. She'd been a lot better this last fortnight--the other doctor said
so--she didn't believe it--she didn't care----Anyway, it would be over
before the end of February!"
Suddenly the crooning wail started again: next, spasms of weeping, harsh
and gasping.
By-and-by she understood that she was crying noisily, and that she was
alone in the room; like a light in a wind, the sobbing fit ceased.
"Let me live--let me live--I'll be straight--I'll go to church--I'll do
anything! Take it away--it hurts--I can't bear it!"
Once more the sound of her own voice in the empty room calmed her. But
the tension of emotion slackened, only to tighten again: immediately she
was jeering at herself. What was she wasting her breath for? What had
Jesus ever done for her? She'd had her fling, and it was no thanks to
Him.
"'Dy-sy--Dy-sy----'"
From the street below, boisterous and loud, the refrain came up. And, as
the footsteps tramped away, the words reached her once more, indistinct
in the distance:
"'I'm jest cryzy, all for the love o' you.'"
She felt frightened. It was like a thing in a play. It was as if some
one was there, in the room--hiding--watching her.
Then a coughing fit started, racking her. In the middle, she struggled
to cry for help; she thought she was going to suffocate.
Afterwards she sank back, limp, tired, and sleepy.
The end of February--she was going to die--it was important,
exciting--what would it be like? Everybody else died. Midge had died in
the summer--but that was worry and going the pace. And they said that
Annie Evans was going off too. Damn it! she wasn't going to be
chicken-hearted. She'd face it. She'd had a jolly time. She'd be game
till the end. Hell-fire--that was all stuff and nonsense--she knew that.
It would be just nothing--like a sleep. Not even painful: she'd be just
shut down in a coffin, and she wouldn't know that they were doing it.
Ah! but they might do it before she was quite dead! It had happened
sometimes. And she wouldn't be able to get out. The lid would be nailed,
and there would be earth on the top. And if she called, no one would
hear.
Ugh! what a fit of the blues she was getting! It was beastly, being
alone. Why the devil didn't Dick come back?
That noise, what was that?
Bah! only some one in the street. What a fool she was!
She winced again as the fierce feeling of revolt swept through her, the
wild longing to fight. It was damned rough--four months! A year, six
months even, was a long time. The pain grew acute, different from
anything she had felt before.
"Good Lord! what am I maundering on about? Four months--I'll go out with
a fizzle like a firework. Why the devil doesn't Dick come?--or Liz--or
somebody? What do they leave me alone like this for?"
She dragged at the bell-rope.
* * * * *
He came in, white and blear-eyed.
"Whatever have you been doing all this time?" she began angrily.
"I've been chatting with the doctor." He was pretending to read a
newspaper: there was something funny about his voice.
"It's ripping. He says you'll soon be fit again, as long as you don't
get colds, or that sort of thing. Yes, he says you'll soon be fit
again"--a quick, crackling noise--he had gripped the newspaper in his
fist.
She looked at him, surprised, in spite of herself. She would never have
thought he'd have done it like that. He was a good sort, after all.
But--she didn't know why--she broke out furiously:
"You infernal liar!--I know. I shall be done for by the end of
February--ha! ha!"
Seizing a vase of flowers, she flung it into the grate. The crash and
the shrivelling of the leaves in the flames brought her an instant's
relief. Then she said quietly:
"There--I've made an idiot of myself; but" (weakly) "I didn't know--I
didn't know--I thought it was different."
He hesitated, embarrassed by his own emotion. Presently he went up to
her and put his hands round her cheeks.
"No," she said, "that's no good, I don't want that. Get me something to
drink. I feel bad."
He hurried to the cupboard and fumbled with the cork of a champagne
bottle. It flew out with a bang. She started violently.
"You clumsy fool!" she exclaimed.
She drank off the wine at a gulp.
"Daisy," he began.
She was staring stonily at the empty glass.
"Daisy," he repeated.
She tapped her toe against the fender-rail.
At this sign, he went on:
"How did you know?"
"I sent Liz to listen," she answered mechanically.
He looked about him, helpless.
"I think I'll smoke," he said feebly.
She made no answer.
"Here, put the glass down," she said.
He obeyed.
He lit a cigarette over the lamp, sat down opposite her, puffing dense
clouds of smoke.
And, for a long while, neither spoke.
"Is that doctor a good man?"
"I don't know. People say so," he answered.
Two Songs
By John Davidson
I--London
Athwart the sky a lowly sigh
From west to east the sweet wind carried;
The sun stood still on Primrose Hill;
His light in all the city tarried:
The clouds on viewless columns bloomed
Like smouldering lilies unconsumed.
"Oh, sweetheart, see, how shadowy,
Of some occult magician's rearing,
Or swung in space of Heaven's grace,
Dissolving, dimly reappearing,
Afloat upon ethereal tides
St. Paul above the city rides!"
A rumour broke through the thin smoke
Enwreathing Abbey, Tower, and Palace,
The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares,
The million-peopled lanes and alleys,
An ever-muttering prisoned storm,
The heart of London beating warm.
II-Down-a-down
Foxes peeped from out their dens,
Day grew pale and olden;
Blackbirds, willow-warblers, wrens,
Staunched their voices golden.
High, oh high, from the opal sky,
Shouting against the dark,
"Why, why, why must the day go by?"
Fell a passionate lark.
But the cuckoos beat their brazen gongs,
Sounding, sounding so;
And the nightingales poured in starry songs
A galaxy below.
Slowly tolling the vesper bell
Ushered the stately night.
Down-a-down in a hawthorn dell
A boy and a girl and love's delight.
The Love-Story of Luigi Tansillo
By Richard Garnett
Now that my wings are spread to my desire,
The more vast height withdraws the dwindling land,
Wider to wind these pinions I expand,
And earth disdain, and higher mount and higher
Nor of the fate of Icarus inquire,
Or cautious droop, or sway to either hand;
Dead I shall fall, full well I understand;
But who lives gloriously as I expire?
Yet hear I my own heart that pleading cries,
Stay, madman! Whither art thou bound? Descend!
Ruin is ready Rashness to chastise.
But I, Fear not, though this indeed the end;
Cleave we the clouds, and praise our destinies,
If noble fall on noble flight attend.
The above sonnet, one of the finest in Italian literature, is already
known to many English readers in another translation by the late Mr. J.
Addington Symonds, which originally appeared in the _Cornhill Magazine_,
and is prefixed to his translation of the sonnets of Michael Angelo and
Campanella (London, 1878), under the title of "The Philosopher's
Flight." In his preface Mr. Symonds says: "The sonnet prefixed as a
proem to the whole book is generally attributed to Giordano Bruno, in
whose Dialogue in the 'Eroici Furori' it occurs. There seems, however,
good reason to suppose that it was really written by Tansillo, who
recites it in that dialogue. Whoever may have been its author, it
expresses in noble and impassioned verse the sense of danger, the
audacity, and the exultation of those pioneers of modern thought, for
whom philosophy was a voyage of discovery into untravelled regions." Mr.
Symonds's knowledge of Italian literature was so extensive that he must
have had ground for stating that the sonnet is generally attributed to
Giordano Bruno; as it certainly is by De Sanctis, though it is printed
as Tansillo's in all editions of his works, imperfect as these were
before the appearance of Signor Fiorentino's in 1882. It is,
nevertheless, remarkable that he should add: "_There seems good reason
to suppose_ that it was really written by Tansillo," as if there could
be a shadow of doubt on the matter. "Eroici Furori" is professedly a
series of dialogues between Luigi Tansillo the Neapolitan poet, who had
died about twenty years before their composition, and Cicero, but is in
reality little more than a monologue, for Tansillo does nearly all the
talking, and Cicero receives his instructions with singular docility.
The reason of Tansillo's selection for so great an honour was
undoubtedly that, although born at Venosa, he belonged by descent to
Nola, Bruno's own city. In making such free use of Tansillo's poetry as
he has done throughout these dialogues, Bruno was far from the least
idea of pillaging his distinguished countryman. In introducing the four
sonnets he has borrowed (for there are three besides that already
quoted) he is always careful to make Tansillo speak of them as his own
compositions, which he never does when Bruno's own verses are put into
his mouth. If a particle of doubt could remain, it would be dispelled by
the fact that this sonnet, with other poems by Tansillo, including the
three other sonnets introduced into Bruno's dialogue, is published under
his name in the "Rime di diversi illustri Signori Napoletani," edited by
Lodovico Dolce at Venice, in 1555, when Bruno was about seven years old!
Mr. Symonds's interpretation of the sonnet also is erroneous--in so far,
at least, as that the meaning assigned by him never entered into the
head of the author. It is certainly fully susceptible of such an
exposition. But Tansillo, no philosopher, but a cavalier, the active
part of whose life was mainly spent in naval expeditions against the
Turks, no more thought with Mr. Symonds of "the pioneers of modern
philosophy," than he thought with Bruno of "arising and freeing himself
from the body and sensual cognition." On the contrary, the sonnet is a
love-sonnet, and depicts with extraordinary grandeur the elation of
spirit, combined with a sense of peril, consequent upon the poet having
conceived a passion for a lady greatly his superior in rank. The proof
of this is to be found in the fact that the sonnet is one of a series,
unequivocally celebrating an earthly passion; and especially in the
sonnet immediately preceding it in Dolce's collection, manifestly
written at the same time and referring to the same circumstance, in
which the poet ascribes his Icarian flight, not to the influence of
Philosophy, but of Love:
Love fits me forth with wings, which so dilate,
Sped skyward at the call of daring thought,
I high and higher soar, with purpose fraught
Soon to lay smiting hand on Heaven's gate.
Yet altitude so vast might well abate
My confidence, if Love not succour brought,
Pledging my fame not jeopardised in aught,
And promising renown as ruin great.
If he whom like audacity inspired,
Falling gave name immortal to the flood,
As sunny flame his waxen pinion fired;
Then of thee too it shall be understood,
No meaner prize than Heaven thy soul required,
And firmer than thy life thy courage stood.
The meaning of the two sonnets is fully recognised by Muratori, who
prints them together in his treatise, "Della perfetta poesia," and adds:
"_volea dire costui che s'era imbarcato in un'amor troppo alto, e
s'andava facendo coraggio_."
This is surely one of the most remarkable instances possible to adduce
of the infinite significance of true poetry, and its capacity for
inspiring ideas and suggesting interpretations of which the poet never
dreamed, but which are nevertheless fairly deducible from his
expressions.
It is now a matter of considerable interest to ascertain the identity of
this lady of rank, who could inspire a passion at once so exalted and so
perilous. The point has been investigated by Tansillo's editor, Signor
F. Fiorentino, who has done so much to rescue his unpublished
compositions from oblivion, and his view must be pronounced perfectly
satisfactory. She was Maria d'Aragona, Marchioness del Vasto, whose
husband, the Marquis del Vasto, a celebrated general of Spanish descent,
famous as Charles the Fifth's right hand in his successful expedition
against Tunis, and at one time governor of the Milanese, was as
remarkable for his jealousy as the lady, grand-daughter of a King of
Naples, was for her pride and haughtiness. Fiorentino proves his case by
showing how well all personal allusions in Tansillo's poems, so far as
they can be traced, agree with the circumstances of the Marchioness, and
in particular that the latter is represented as at one time residing on
the island of Ischia, where del Vasto was accustomed to deposit his
wife for security, when absent on his campaigns. He is apparently not
aware that the object of Tansillo's affection had already been
identified with a member of the house of Aragon by Faria e Sousa, the
Portuguese editor of Camoëns, who, in his commentary on Camoëns's
sixty-ninth sonnet, gives an interminable catalogue of ladies celebrated
by enamoured poets, and says, "Tansillo sang Donna Isabel de Aragon."
This lady, however, the niece of the Marchioness del Vasto, was a little
girl in Tansillo's time, and is only mentioned by him as inconsolable
for the death of a favourite dwarf.
The sentiment, therefore, of the two sonnets of Tansillo which we have
quoted, is sufficiently justified by the exalted station of the lady who
had inspired his passion, and the risk he ran from the power and
jealousy of her husband. It seems certain, however, that the Marquis had
on his part no ground for apprehension. Maria d'Aragona does not seem to
have had much heart to bestow upon anyone, and would, in any case, have
disdained to bestow what heart she had upon a poor gentleman and
retainer of Don Garcia de Toledo, son of the Viceroy of Naples. She
would think that she honoured him beyond his deserts by accepting his
poetical homage. Tansillo, on his part, says in one of his sonnets that
his devotion is purely platonic; it might have been more ardent, he
hints, but he is dazzled by the splendour of the light he contemplates,
and intimidated by the richness of the band by which he is led. So it
may have been at first, but as time wore on the poet naturally craved
some proof that his lady was not entirely indifferent to him, and did
not tolerate him merely for the sake of his verses. This, in the nature
of things, could not be given; and the poet's raptures pass into doubt
and suspicion, thence into despairing resignation; thence into
resentment and open hostility, terminating in a cold reconciliation,
leaving him free to marry a much humbler but probably a more
affectionate person, to whom he addresses no impassioned sonnets, but
whom he instructs in a very elegant poem ("La Balia") how to bring up
her infant children. These varying affections are depicted with extreme
liveliness in a series of sonnets, of which we propose to offer some
translated specimens. The order will not be that of the editions of
Tansillo, where the pieces are distributed at random, but the probable
order of composition, as indicated by the nature of the feeling
expressed. It is, of course, impossible to give more than a few
examples, though most deserve to be reproduced. Tansillo had the
advantage over most Italian poets of his time of being in love with a
real woman; hence, though possibly inferior in style and diction to such
artists in rhyme as Bembo or Molza, he greatly surpasses them in all the
qualities that discriminate poetry from the accomplishment of verse.
The first sonnet which we shall give is still all fire and rapture:--
I
Lady, the heart that entered through your eyes
Returneth not. Well may he make delay,
For if the very windows that display
Your spirit, sparkle in such wondrous wise,
Of her enthroned within this Paradise
What shall be deemed? If heart for ever stay,
Small wonder, dazzled by more radiant day
Than gazers from without can recognise.
Glory of sun and moon and silver star
In firmament above, are these not sign
Of things within more excellent by far?
Rejoice then in thy kingdom, heart of mine,
While Love and Fortune favourable are,
Nor thou yet exiled for default of thine.
Although, however, Tansillo's heart might well remain with its lady,
Tansillo's person was necessitated to join the frequent maritime
expeditions of the great nobleman to whom he was attached, Don Garcia de
Toledo, against the Turks. The constant free-booting of the Turkish and
Barbary rovers kept the Mediterranean in a state of commotion comparable
to that of the Spanish Main in the succeeding age, and these
expeditions, whose picturesque history remains to be written, were no
doubt very interesting; though from a philosophical point of view it is
impossible not to sympathise with the humane and generous poet when he
inquires:--
Che il Turco nasca turco, e 'l Moro moro,
È giusta causa questa, ond'altri ed io
Dobbiam incrudelir nel sangue loro?
With such feelings it may well be believed that in his enforced absence
he was thinking at least as much of love as of war, and that the
following sonnet is as truthful as it is an animated picture of his
feelings:--
II
No length of banishment did e'er remove
My heart from you, nor if by Fortune sped
I roam the azure waters, or the Red,
E'er with the body shall the spirit rove:
If by each drop of every wave we clove,
Or by Sun's light or Moon's encompassèd,
Another Venus were engenderèd,
And each were pregnant with another Love:
And thus new shapes of Love where'er we went
Started to life at every stroke of oar,
And each were cradled in an amorous thought;
Not more than now this spirit should adore;
That none the less doth constantly lament
It cannot worship as it would and ought.
Before long, however, the pangs of separation overcome this elation of
spirit, while he is not yet afraid of being forgotten:--
III
Like lightning shining forth from east to west,
Hurled are the happy hours from morn to night,
And leave the spirit steeped in undelight
In like proportion as themselves were blest.
Slow move sad hours, by thousand curbs opprest,
Wherewith the churlish Fates delay their flight;
Those, impulses of Mercury incite,
These lag at the Saturnian star's behest.
While thou wert near, ere separation's grief
Smote me, like steeds contending in the race,
My days and nights with equal speed did run:
Now broken either wheel, not swift the pace
Of summer's night though summer's moon be brief;
Or wintry days for brevity of sun.
IV
Now that the Sun hath borne with him the day,
And haled dark Night from prison subterrene,
Come forth, fair Moon, and, robed in light serene,
With thy own loveliness the world array.
Heaven's spheres, slow wheeled on their majestic way,
Invoke as they revolve thy orb unseen,
And all the pageant of the starry scene,
Wronged by thy absence, chides at thy delay.
Shades even as splendours, earth and heaven both
Smile at the apparition of thy face,
And my own gloom no longer seems so loth;
Yet, while my eye regards thee, thought doth trace
Another's image; if in vows be troth,
I am not yet estranged from Love's embrace.
Continual separation, however, and the absence of any marked token that
he is borne in memory, necessarily prey more and more on the sensitive
spirit of the poet. During the first part, her husband's tenure of
office as Governor of the Milanese, the Marchioness, as already
mentioned, took up her residence in the island of Ischia, where she
received her adorer's eloquent aspirations for her welfare--heartfelt,
but so worded as to convey a reproach:
V
That this fair isle with all delight abound,
Clad be it ever in sky's smile serene,
No thundering billow boom from deeps marine,
And calm with Neptune and his folk be found.
Fast may all winds by Æolus be bound,
Save faintest breath of lispings Zephyrene;
And be the odorous earth with glowing green
Of gladsome herbs, bright flowers, quaint foliage crowned.
All ire, all tempest, all misfortune be
Heaped on my head, lest aught thy pleasure stain,
Nor this disturbed by any thought of me,
So scourged with ills' innumerable train,
New grief new tear begetteth not, as sea
Chafes not the more for deluge of the rain.
The "quaint foliage" is in the original "Arab leaves," _arabe frondi_,
an interesting proof of the cultivation of exotic plants at the period.
The lady rejoins her husband at Milan, and Tansillo, landing on the
Campanian coast, lately devastated by earthquakes and eruptions, finds
everywhere the image of his own bosom, and rejoices at the opportunity
which yawning rifts and chasms of earth afford for an appeal to the
infernal powers:--
VI
Wild precipice and earthquake-riven wall;
Bare jagged lava naked to the sky;
Whence densely struggles up and slow floats by
Heaven's murky shroud of smoke funereal;
Horror whereby the silent groves enthral;
Black weedy pit and rifted cavity;
Bleak loneliness whose drear sterility
Doth prowling creatures of the wild appal:
Like one distraught who doth his woe deplore,
Bereft of sense by thousand miseries,
As passion prompts, companioned or alone;
Your desert so I rove; if as before
Heaven deaf continue, through these crevices,
My cry shall pierce to the Avernian throne.
The poet's melancholy deepens, and he enters upon the stage of dismal
and hopeless resignation to the inevitable:
VII
As one who on uneasy couch bewails
Besetting sickness and Time's tardy course,
Proving if drug, or gem, or charm have force
To conquer the dire evil that assails:
But when at last no remedy prevails,
And bankrupt Art stands empty of resource,
Beholds Death in the face, and scorns recourse
To skill whose impotence in nought avails.
So I, who long have borne in trust unspent
That distance, indignation, reason, strife
With Fate would heal my malady, repent,
Frustrate all hopes wherewith my soul was rife,
And yield unto my destiny, content
To languish for the little left of life.
A lower depth still has to be reached ere the period of salutary and
defiant reaction:--
VIII
So mightily abound the hosts of Pain,
Whom sentries of my bosom Love hath made,
No space is left to enter or evade,
And inwardly expire sighs born in vain,
If any pleasure mingle with the train,
By the first glimpse of my poor heart dismayed,
Instant he dies, or else, in bondage stayed,
Pines languishing, or flies that drear domain.
Pale semblances of terror keep the keys,
Of frowning portals they for none displace
Save messengers of novel miseries:
All thoughts they scare that wear a gladsome face;
And, were they anything but Miseries,
Themselves would hasten from the gloomy place.
Slighted love easily passes from rejection into rebellion, and we shall
see that such was the case with Tansillo. The following sonnet denotes
an intermediate stage, when resignation is almost renunciation, but has
not yet become revolt:--
IX
Cease thy accustomed strain, my mournful lute;
New music find, fit for my lot forlorn;
Henceforth be Wrath and Grief resounded, torn
The strings that anciently did Love salute,
Not on my own weak wing irresolute
But on Love's plumes I trusted to be borne,
Chanting him far as that remotest bourne
Whence strength Herculean reft Hesperian fruit.
To such ambition was my spirit wrought
By gracious guerdon Love came offering
When free in air my thought was bold to range:
But otherwhere now dwells another's thought,
And Wrath has plucked Love's feather from my wing,
And hope, style, theme, I all alike must change.
This, however, is not a point at which continuance is possible, the mind
must go either backward or forward. The lover for a time persuades
himself that he has broken his mistress's yoke, and that his infatuation
is entirely a thing of the past. But the poet, like the lady, protests
too much:--
X
If Love was miser of my liberty,
Lo, Scorn is bounteous and benevolent,
Such scope permitting, that, my fetter rent,
Not lengthened by my hand, I wander free.
The eyes that yielded tears continually
Have now with Lethe's drops my fire besprent,
And more behold, Illusion's glamour spent,
Than fabled Argus with his century.
The tyrant of my spirit, left forlorn
As vassal thoughts forsake him, doth remove,
And back unto her throne is Reason borne,
And I my metamorphosis approve,
And, old strains tuning to new keys, of Scorn
Will sing as anciently I sang of Love.
Several solutions of this situation are conceivable. Tansillo's is that
which was perhaps that most likely in the case of an emotional nature,
where the feelings are more powerful than the will. He simply surrenders
at discretion, retracts everything disparaging that he has said of the
lady (taking care, however, not to burn the peccant verses, which are
much too good to be lightly parted with), and professes himself her
humble slave upon her own terms:--
XI
All bitter words I spoke of you while yet
My heart was sore, and every virgin scroll
Blackened with ire, now past from my control,
These would I now recall; for 'tis most fit
My style should change, now Reason doth reknit,
Ties Passion sundered, and again make whole;
Be then Oblivion's prey whate'er my soul
Hath wrongly of thee thought, spoke, sung, or writ.
Not, Lady, that impeachment of thy fame
With tongue or pen I ever did design;
But that, if unto these shall reach my name,
Ages to come may study in my line
How year by year more streamed and towered my flame,
And how I living was and dying thine.
There is no reason to doubt the perfect sincerity of these lines at the
period of their composition; but Tansillo's mistress had apparently
resolved that his attachment should not henceforth have the diet even of
a chameleon; and it is small wonder to find him shortly afterwards a
tender husband and father, lamenting the death of an infant son in
strains of extreme pathos, and instructing his wife on certain details
of domestic economy in which she might have been supposed to be better
versed than himself. His marriage took place in 1550, and in one of his
sonnets he says that his unhappy attachment had endured sixteen years,
which, allowing for a decent interval between the Romeo and the
Benedict, would date its commencement at 1532 or 1533.
Maria d'Aragona died on November 9, 1568, and Tansillo, whose services
had been rewarded by a judicial appointment in the kingdom of Naples,
followed her to the tomb on December 1. If her death is really the
subject of the two poems in terza rima which appear to deplore it, he
certainly lost no time in bewailing her, but the interval is so brief,
and the poems are so weak, that they may have been composed on some
other occasion. With respect to the latter consideration, however, it
must be remembered that he was himself, in all probability, suffering
from disabling sickness, having made his will on November 29. It is also
worthy of note that the first sonnets composed by Petrarch upon the
death of Laura are in general much inferior in depth of tenderness to
those written years after the event. "In Memoriam" is another proof that
the adequate poetical expression of grief, unlike that of life, requires
time and study. Tansillo, then, may not have been so completely
disillusioned as his editor thinks. If the poems do not relate to Maria
d'Aragona, we have no clue to the ultimate nature of his feelings
towards her.
A generally fair estimate of Tansillo's rank as a poet is given in
Ginguéné's "History of Italian Literature," vol. ix., pp. 340-343. It
can scarcely be admitted that his boldness and fertility of imagination
transported him beyond the limits of lyric poetry--for this is hardly
possible--but it is true that they sometimes transcended the limits of
good taste, and that the germs may be found in him of the extravagance
which so disfigured Italian poetry in the seventeenth century. On the
other hand, he has the inestimable advantage over most Italian poets of
his day of writing of genuine passion from genuine experience. Hence a
truth and vigour preferable even to the exquisite elegance of his
countryman, Angelo di Costanzo, and much more so to the mere amatory
exercises of other contemporaries. After Michael Angelo he stands
farther aloof than any contemporary from Petrarch, a merit in an age
when the study of Petrarch had degenerated into slavish imitation. His
faults as a lyrist are absent from his didactic poems, which are models
of taste and elegance. His one unpardonable sin is want of patriotism;
he is the dependant and panegyrist of the foreign conqueror, and seems
equally unconscious of the past glories, the actual degradation, or the
prospective regeneration of Italy. Born a Spanish subject, his ideal of
loyalty was entirely misplaced, and he must not be severely censured for
what he could hardly avoid. But Italy lost a Tyrtæus in him.
A Book Plate for
J. L. Propert, Esq.
By Aubrey Beardsley
A Book Plate for
Major-General Gosset
By R. Anning Bell
_Reproduced by Messrs. Carl Hentschel & Co._
[Illustration: Book Plate for J. L. Propert]
[Illustration: Book Plate for Major-General Gosset]
The Fool's Hour
The First Act of a Comedy
By John Oliver Hobbes
and George Moore
CHARACTERS OF THE COMEDY
Lord Doldrummond
Cyril, _his Son_ (Viscount Aprile)
Sir Digby Soame
Charles Mandeville, _a tenor_
Mr. Banish, _a banker_
The Hon. Arthur Featherleigh
Mr. Samuel Benjamin, _a money-lender_
Lady Doldrummond
Julia, _an heiress_
The Hon. Mrs. Howard de Trappe, _her mother, a widow_
Sarah Sparrow, _an American prima donna_
Act I
Scene--_The Library in_ Lord Doldrummond's _house at Brighton. The scene
represents a richly-furnished but somewhat oppressive room. The chairs
and tables are all narrow, the lamp-shades stiff, the windows have
double glasses._ Lord Doldrummond, _a man of middle-age, handsome, but
with a dejected, browbeaten air, sits with a rug over his knees, reading
"The Church Times." The_ Butler _announces_ "Sir Digby Soame." Sir Digby
_is thin and elderly; has an easy smile and a sharp eye; dresses well;
has two manners--the abrupt with men, the suave with women; smiles into
his beard over his own witticisms._
_Lord Dol._ Ah, Soame, so you are here at last?
_Soame._ [_Looking at his watch._] I am pretty punctual, only a few
minutes late.
_Lord Dol._ I am worried, anxious, irritable, and that has made the time
seem long.
_Soame._ Worried, anxious? And what about? Are you not well? Have you
found that regularity of life ruins the constitution?
_Lord Dol._ No, my dear Soame, no. But I am willing to own that the
existence which my wife enjoys, and which I have learnt to endure, would
not suit everyone.
_Soame._ I am glad to find you more tolerant. You used to hold the very
harshest and most crude opinions. I remember when we were boys, I could
never persuade you to accept the admirable doctrine that a reformed rake
makes the best husband!
_Lord Dol._ [_Timidly._] Repentance does not require so large an income
as folly! This may explain that paradox. You know, in my way, I, too,
am something of a philosopher! I married very young, whereas you entered
the Diplomatic Service and resolved to remain single: you wished to
study women. I have lived with one for five-and-twenty years. [_Sighs._]
_Soame._ Oh, I admit at once that yours is the greater achievement and
was the more daring ambition.
_Lord Dol._ I know all I wish to know about women, but men puzzle me
extremely. So I have sent for you. I want your advice. It is Cyril who
is the cause of my uneasiness. I am afraid that he is not happy.
_Soame._ Cyril not happy? What is he unhappy about? You have never
refused him anything?
_Lord Dol._ Never! No man has had a kinder father! When he is
unreasonable I merely say "You are a fool, but please yourself!" No man
has had a kinder father!
_Soame._ Does he complain?
_Lord Dol._ He has hinted that his home is uncongenial--yet we have an
excellent cook! Ah, thank heaven every night and morning, my dear Digby,
that you are a bachelor. Praying for sinners and breeding them would
seem the whole duty of man. I was no sooner born than my parents were
filled with uneasiness lest I should not live to marry and beget an heir
of my own. Now I have an heir, his mother will never know peace until
she has found him a wife!
_Soame._ And will you permit Lady Doldrummond to use the same method
with Cyril which your mother adopted with such appalling results in your
own case?
_Lord Dol._ It does not seem my place to interfere, and love-affairs are
not a fit subject of conversation between father and son!
_Soame._ But what does Cyril say to the matrimonial prospect?
_Lord Dol._ He seems melancholy and eats nothing but oranges. Yes, Cyril
is a source of great uneasiness.
_Soame._ Does Lady Doldrummond share this uneasiness?
_Lord Dol._ My wife would regard a second thought on any subject as a
most dangerous form of temptation. She insists that Cyril has everything
which a young man could desire, and when he complains that the house is
dull, she takes him for a drive!
_Soame._ But _you_ understand him?
_Lord Dol._ I think I do. If I were young again----
_Soame._ Ah, you regret! I always said you would regret it if you did
not take your fling! The pleasures we imagine are so much more alluring,
so much more dangerous, than those we experience. I suppose you
recognise in Cyril the rascal you might have been, and feel that you
have missed your vocation?
_Lord Dol._ [_Meekly._] I was never unruly, my dear Soame. We all have
our moments, I own, yet--well, perhaps Cyril has inherited the tastes
which I possessed at his age, but lacked the courage to obey.
_Soame._ And so you wish me to advise you how to deal with him! Is he in
love? I have constantly observed that when young men find their homes
unsympathetic, it is because some particular lady does not form a member
of the household. It is usually a lady, too, who would not be considered
a convenient addition to any mother's visiting-list!
_Lord Dol._ Lady Doldrummond has taught him that women are the scourges
of creation. You, perhaps, do not share that view!
_Soame._ Certainly not. I would teach him to regard them as the reward,
the compensation, the sole delight of this dreariest of all possible
worlds.
_Lord Dol._ [_Uneasily._] Reward! Compensation! Delight! I beg you will
not go so far as that. What notion would be more upsetting? Pray do not
use such extreme terms!
_Soame._ Ha! ha! But tell me, Doldrummond, is it true that your wife
insists on his retiring at eleven and rising at eight? I hear that she
allows him nothing stronger than ginger ale and lemon; that she selects
his friends, makes his engagements, and superintends his amusements?
Should he marry, I am told she will even undertake the office of best
man!
_Lord Dol._ Poor soul! she means well; and if devotion could make the
boy a saint he would have been in heaven before he was out of his long
clothes. As it is, I fear that nothing can save him.
_Soame._ Save him? You speak as though you suspected that he was not
such a saint as his mother thinks him.
_Lord Dol._ I suspect nothing. I only know that my boy is unhappy. You
might speak to him, and draw him out if occasion should offer--but do
not say a word about this to Lady Doldrummond.
[_Enter_ Lady Doldrummond.--_She is a tall, slight, but not angular
woman. Her hair is brown, and brushed back from her temples in the
simplest possible fashion. Self-satisfaction (of a gentle and ladylike
sort) and eminent contentment with her lot are the only writings on her
smooth, almost girlish countenance. She has a prim tenderness and charm
of manner which soften her rather cutting voice._]
_Lady Dol._ What! Cyril not here? How do you do, Sir Digby? I am looking
for my tiresome boy. I promised to take him to pay some calls this
afternoon, and as he may have to talk I must tell him what to say. He
has no idea of making himself pleasant to women, and is the shyest
creature in the world!
_Soame._ You have always been so careful to shield him from all
responsibility, Lady Doldrummond. Who knows what eloquence, what
decision, what energy he might display, if you did not possess these
gifts in so pre-eminent a degree as to make any exertion on his part
unnecessary, and perhaps disrespectful.
_Lady Dol._ Ah! mothers are going out of fashion. Even Cyril
occasionally shows a certain impatience when I venture to correct him.
As if I would hurt anyone's feelings unless from a sense of duty! And
pray, where is the pleasure of having a son if you may not direct his
life?
_Lord Dol._ Cyril might ask, where is the pleasure of having parents if
you may not disobey them.
_Lady Dol._ [_To_ Soame.] When Herbert is alone with me he never makes
flippant remarks of this kind. [_To_ Lord Doldrummond.] I wonder that
you like to give your friends such a wrong impression of your character.
[_Turning to_ Sir Digby.] But I think I see your drift, Sir Digby. You
wish to remind me that Cyril is now at an age when I must naturally
desire to see him established in a home of his own.
_Soame._ You have caught my meaning. As he is now two-and-twenty, I
think he should be allowed more freedom than may have been expedient
when he was--say, six months old.
_Lady Dol._ I quite agree with you, and I trust you will convince
Herbert that women understand young men far better than their fathers
ever could. I have found the very wife for Cyril, and I hope I may soon
have the pleasure of welcoming her as a daughter.
_Soame._ A wife! Good heavens! I was suggesting that the boy had more
liberty. Marriage is the prison of all emotions, and I should be very
sorry to ask any young girl to be a man's gaol-keeper.
_Lord Dol._ Sir Digby is right.
_Lady Dol._ The presence of a third person has the strangest effect on
Herbert's moral vision. As I have trained my son with a care and
tenderness rarely bestowed nowadays even on a girl, I think I may show
some resentment when I am asked to believe him a being with the
instincts of a ruffian and the philosophy of a middle-aged bachelor. No,
Sir Digby, Cyril is not _my_ child if he does not make his home and his
family the happiest in the world!
_Soame._ Yes?
_Lady Dol._ He has no taste for cards, horses, brandy, or actresses. We
read together, walk together, and drive together. In the evening, if he
is too tired to engage in conversation, I play the piano while he dozes.
Lately he has taken a particular interest in Mozart's classic light
opera. Any interest of that kind is so elevating, and I know of nothing
more agreeable than a musical husband.
_Lord Dol._ You see she is resolved on his marriage, and she has had
Julia de Trappe on a visit with us for the last five weeks in the hope
of bringing matters to a crisis.
_Lady Dol._ And why not? Our marriage was arranged for us, and what idle
fancies of our own could have led to such perfect contentment?
[Lord Doldrummund _avoids her eyes_.]
_Soame._ Julia de Trappe? She must be the daughter of that Mrs. Howard
de Trappe who gives large At Homes in a small house, and who spends her
time hunting for old lovers and new servants.
_Lady Dol._ I own that dear Julia has been allowed to meet men and women
who are not fit companions for a young girl, no matter how interesting
they may be to the general public. Only yesterday she told me she was
well acquainted with Mr. Mandeville, the tenor. Mrs. de Trappe, it
seems, frequently invites him to dinner. Still, Julia herself is very
sensible, and the family is of extraordinary antiquity.
_Soame._ But the mother? If she has not been in the divorce court, it is
through no fault of her own.
_Lady Dol._ [_Biting her lip._] Mrs. de Trappe is vain and silly, I
admit; but as she has at last decided to marry Mr. Banish, the banker, I
am hoping she will live in his house at Hampstead, and think a little
more about her immortal soul.
_Soame._ Does Cyril seem at all interested in Miss Julia?
_Lady Dol._ Cyril has great elegance of mind, and is not very strong in
the expression of his feelings one way or the other. But I may say that
a deep attachment exists between them.
_Soame._ A man must have sound wisdom before he can appreciate
innocence. But I have no desire to be discouraging, and I hope I may
soon have the pleasure of congratulating you all on the wedding.
Good-bye.
_Lord Dol._ What! Must you go?
_Soame._ Yes. But [_aside to_ Lord Dol.] I shall bear in mind what you
say. I will do my best. I have an engagement in town to-night.
[_Chuckles._] An amusing one.
_Lord Dol._ [_With envy._] Where?
_Soame._ At the Parnassus.
_Lady Dol._ [_With a supercilious smile._] And what is the Parnassus?
_Soame._ A theatre much favoured by young men who wish to be thought
wicked, and by young ladies who _are._ Good-bye, good-bye. [_Shakes
hands with_ Lord _and_ Lady Doldrummond _and goes out_.]
_Lady Dol._ Thank goodness, he is gone! What a terrible example for
Cyril. I was on thorns every second lest he should come in. Soame has
just those meretricious attractions which appeal to youth and
inexperience. That you should encourage such an acquaintance, and even
discuss before him such an intimate matter as my hope with regard to
Julia, is, perhaps, more painful than astonishing.
_Lord Dol._ They are both too young to marry. Let them enjoy life while
they may.
_Lady Dol._ _Enjoy_ life? What a degrading suggestion! I have often
observed that there is a lurking taste for the vicious in every
Doldrummond. [_Picking up_ Cyril's _miniature from the table_.] Cyril is
pure Bedingfield: my second self!
[_The Butler announces_ Mrs. De Trappe, Mr. Arthur Featherleigh, Mr.
Banish. Mrs. de Trappe _is a pretty woman with big eyes and a small
waist; she has a trick of biting her under-lip, and looking shocked, as
it were, at her own audacity. Her manner is a little effusive, but
always well-bred. She does not seem affected, and has something artless,
confiding, and pathetic._ Mr. Featherleigh _has a nervous laugh and a
gentlemanly appearance; otherwise inscrutable_. Mr. Banish _is old,
well-preserved, rather pompous, and evidently mistakes deportment for
dignity_.]
_Mrs. de Trappe._ [_Kissing_ Lady Dol. _on each cheek_.] Dear Edith, I
knew we should surprise you. But Mr. Banish and I are house-hunting, and
I thought I must run in and see you and Julia, if only for a second. I
felt sure you would not mind my bringing Arthur [_indicating_
Featherleigh.] He is so lonely at the prospect of my marriage that Mr.
Banish and I have promised to keep him always with us. We have known
each other so long. How should we spend our evenings without him? James
admits they would be tedious, don't you, James? [_Indicating_ Banish.]
_Banish._ Certainly, my dear.
_Lady Dol._ [_Stiffly._] I can well understand that you have learned to
regard Mr. Featherleigh as your own son. And as we advance in years, it
is so pleasant to have young people about us.
_Mrs. de Trappe._ [_After a slight pause._] How odd that it should never
have struck me in that light before! I have always thought of Arthur as
the trustee, as it were, of my poor fatherless Julia [_To_ Banish.] Have
I not often said so, James?
_Banish._ [_Dryly._] Often. In fact I have always thought that Julia
would never lack a father whilst Arthur was alive. But I admit that he
is a little young for the responsibility.
_Feather._ [_Unmoved._] Do not forget, Violet, that our train leaves in
fifty-five minutes.
_Lord Dol._ [_Catching a desperate glance from_ Lady Doldrummond.] Then
I shall have time to show you the Russian poodles which the Duke of
Camdem brought me from Japan.
_Mrs. de Trappe._ [_Peevishly._] Yes, please take them away. [_Waving
her hand in the direction of_ Banish _and_ Featherleigh.] Edith and I
have many secrets to discuss. Of course she will tell you [_to_ Lord
Dol.] everything I have said when we are gone, and I shall tell Arthur
and James all she has said as we go home. But it is so amusing to think
ourselves mysterious for twenty minutes. [_As the men go out laughing,
she turns to_ Lady Doldrummond _with a sigh_.] Ah, Edith, when I pause
in all these gaieties and say to myself, Violet, you are about to marry
a second husband, I cannot feel sufficiently thankful that it is not the
third.
_Lady Dol._ The third?
_Mrs. de Trappe._ To face the possibility of a third honeymoon, a third
disappointment, and a third funeral would tax my courage to the utmost!
And I am not strong.
_Lady Dol._ I am shocked to see you so despondent. Surely you anticipate
every happiness with Mr. Banish?
_Mrs. de Trappe._ Oh, yes. He has money, and Arthur thinks him a very
worthy sort of person. He is a little dull, but then middle-class people
are always so gross in their air when they attempt to be lively or
amusing; so long as they are grave I can bear them well enough, but I
know of nothing so unpleasant as the sight of a banker laughing. As
Arthur says, City men and butlers should always be serious.
_Lady Dol._ Do you think that the world will quite understand--Arthur?
_Mrs. de Trappe._ What do you mean, Edith? A woman must have an adviser.
Arthur was my late husband's friend, and he is my future husband's
friend. Surely that should be enough to satisfy the most exacting.
_Lady Dol._ But why marry at all? why not remain as you are?
_Mrs. de Trappe._ How unreasonable you are, Edith! How often have you
urged me to marry Mr. Banish, and now that it is all arranged and Arthur
is satisfied, you begin to object.
_Lady Dol._ I thought that you liked Mr. Banish better.
_Mrs. de Trappe._ Better than Arthur? No, I am not so unkind as that,
nor would James wish it. I am marrying because I am poor. My husband, as
you know, left nearly all his money to Julia, and I feel the injustice
so acutely that the absurd settlement he made on me is spent upon
doctor's bills alone. If it were not for Arthur and one or two other
kind friends who send me game and other little things from time to time,
I could not exist at all. [_Draws off her gloves, displays a diamond
ring on each finger, and wipes her eyes with a point-lace
pocket-handkerchief._] And when I think of all that I endured with De
Trappe! How often have I been roused from a sound sleep to see the room
illuminated and De Trappe, rolled up in flannel, sitting by the fire
reading "Lead, kindly Light." What an existence! But now tell me about
Julia. I hope she does not give you much trouble.
_Lady Dol._ I only hope that I may keep her always with me.
_Mrs. de Trappe._ How she must have improved! When she is at home I find
her so depressing. And she does not appeal to men in the least.
_Lady Dol._ I could wish that all young girls were as modest.
_Mrs. de Trappe._ Oh, I daresay Julia has all the qualities we like to
see in some other woman's daughter. But if you were her mother and had
to find her a husband, you would regard her virtues in another light.
Fortunately she has eight thousand a year, so she may be able to find
somebody. Still, even money does not tempt men as it once did. A girl
must have an extraordinary charm. She is so jealous of me. I cannot keep
her out of the drawing-room when I have got callers, especially when Mr.
Mandeville is there.
_Lady Dol._ I have heard of Mr. Mandeville. He is an actor, a singer.
_Mrs. de Trappe._ A lovely tenor voice. All the women are in love with
him, except me. I would not listen to him. And now they say he is going
to marry Sarah Sparrow--a great mistake. I should like to know who would
care about him or his singing, once he is married.
_Lady Dol._ And who is Sarah Sparrow?
_Mrs. de Trappe._ Don't you know? She is the last great success. She has
two notes: B flat and the lower G--the orchestra plays the rest. You
must go to the Parnassus and hear her. To-night is the dress rehearsal
of the new piece.
_Lady Dol._ And do you receive Miss Sparrow?
_Mrs. de Trappe._ No, women take up too much time. They say, too, that
she is frantically jealous because Mandeville used to come and practise
in my boudoir. He says no one can accompany him as I do!
_Lady Dol._ I hope Cyril does not meet Mr. Mandeville when he goes to
your house.
_Mrs. de Trappe._ Let me see. I believe I introduced them. At any rate,
I know I saw them at luncheon together last week.
_Lady Dol._ At luncheon together! Cyril and this person who sings? What
could my boy and Mr. Mandeville have in common?
_Mrs. de Trappe._ They both appear to admire Sarah Sparrow very much.
And I cannot find what men see in her. She is not tall and her figure is
most innocent; you would say she was still in pinafores. As for her
prettiness, I admit she has fine eyes, but of course she blackens them.
I think the great attraction is her atrocious temper. One never knows
whom she will stab next.
_Lady Dol._ [_Half to herself._] Last week Cyril came in after midnight.
He refused to answer my questions.
_Mrs. de Trappe._ You seem absent-minded, my dear Edith. [_Pause._] I
must be going now. Where are Arthur and James? We have not a moment to
lose. We are going to choose wedding presents. James is going to choose
Arthur's and Arthur is going to choose James's, so there can be no
jealousy. It was I who thought of that way out of the difficulty. One
does one's best to be nice to them, and then something happens and
upsets all one's plans. Where is Cyril?
_Lady Dol._ I am afraid Cyril is not at home.
_Mrs. de Trappe._ Then I shall not see him. Tell him I am angry, and
give my love to Julia. I hope she does not disturb you when you are in
the drawing-room and have visitors. So difficult to keep a grown-up girl
out of the drawing-room. Where can those men be? [_Enter_ Lord
Doldrummond, Mr. Featherleigh, _and_ Mr. Banish.] Ah! here they are.
Now, come along; we haven't a moment to lose. Good-bye, Edith.
[_Exeunt_ (_after wishing their adieux_) Mrs. de Trappe, Mr.
Featherleigh, _and_ Mr. Banish, Lord Doldrummond _following them_.]
_Lady Dol._ [_Stands alone in the middle of the room, repeating._] Cyril
and--Sarah Sparrow! My son and Sarah Sparrow! And he has met her through
the one woman for whom I have been wrong enough to forget my prejudices.
What a punishment!
[Julia _enters cautiously. She is so unusually beautiful that she barely
escapes the terrible charge of sublimity. But there is a certain
peevishness in her expression which adds a comfortable smack of human
nature to her classic features._]
_Julia._ I thought mamma would never go. I have been hiding in your
boudoir ever since I heard she was here.
_Lady Dol._ Was Cyril with you?
_Julia._ Oh, no; he has gone out for a walk.
_Lady Dol._ Tell me, dearest, have you and Cyril had any disagreement
lately? Is there any misunderstanding?
_Julia._ Oh, no. [_Sighs._]
_Lady Dol._ I remember quite well that before I married Herbert he often
suffered from the oddest moods of depression. Several times he entreated
me to break off the engagement. His affection was so reverential that he
feared he was not worthy of me. I assure you I had the greatest
difficulty in overcoming his scruples, and persuading him that whatever
his faults were I could help him to subdue them.
_Julia._ But Cyril and I are not engaged. It is all so uncertain, so
humiliating.
_Lady Dol._ Men take these things for granted. If the truth were known,
I daresay he already regards you as his wife.
_Julia._ [_With an inspired air._] Perhaps that is why he treats me so
unkindly. I have often thought that if he were my husband he could not
be more disagreeable! He has not a word for me when I speak to him. He
does not hear. Oh, Lady Doldrummond, I know what is the matter. He is in
love, but I am not the one. You are all wrong.
_Lady Dol._ No, no, no. He loves you; I am sure of it. Only be patient
with him and it will come all right. Hush! is that his step? Stay here,
darling, and I will go into my room and write letters. [_Exit, brushing
the tears from her eyes._]
[Butler _ushers in_ Mr. Mandeville. _Neither of them perceive Julia, who
has gone to the window._]
_Butler._ His Lordship will be down in half an hour, sir. He is now
having his hair brushed.
_Julia._ [_In surprise as she looks round._] Mr. Mandeville! [_Pause._]
I hardly expected to meet you here.
_Mandeville._ And why, may I ask?
Julia. You know what Lady Doldrummond is. How did you overcome her
scruples?
_Mandeville._ Is my reputation then so very bad?
_Julia._ You--you are supposed to be rather dangerous. You sing on the
stage, and have a tenor voice.
_Mandeville._ Is that enough to make a man dangerous?
_Julia._ How can _I_ tell? But mamma said you were invincible. You
admire mamma, of course. [_Sighs._]
_Mandeville._ A charming woman, Mrs. de Trappe. A very interesting
woman; so sympathetic.
_Julia._ But she said she would not listen to you.
_Mandeville._ Did she say that? [_A slight pause._] I hope you will not
be angry when I own that I do not especially _admire_ your mother. A
quarter of a century ago she may have had considerable attractions,
but--are you offended?
_Julia._ Offended? Oh, no. Only it seems strange. I thought that all men
admired mamma. [_Pause._] You have not told me yet how you made Lady
Doldrummond's acquaintance.
_Mandeville._ I am here at Lord Aprile's invitation. He has decided that
he feels no further need of Lady Doldrummond's apron-strings.
_Julia._ Oh, Mr. Mandeville, are you teaching him to be wicked?
_Mandeville._ But you will agree with me that a young man cannot make
his mother a kind of scribbling diary?
_Julia._ Still, if he spends his time well, there does not seem to be
any reason why he should refuse to say where he dines when he is not at
home.
_Mandeville._ Lady Doldrummond holds such peculiar ideas; she would find
immorality in a sofa-cushion. If she were to know that Cyril is coming
with me to the dress rehearsal of our new piece!
_Julia._ It would break her heart. And Lord Doldrummond would be
indignant. Mamma says his own morals are so excellent!
_Mandeville._ Is he an invalid?
_Julia._ Certainly not. Why do you ask?
_Mandeville._ Whenever I hear of a charming husband I always think that
he _must_ be an invalid. But as for morals, there can be no harm in
taking Cyril to a dress rehearsal. If you do not wish him to go,
however, I can easily say that the manager does not care to have
strangers present. [_Pause._] Afterwards there is to be a ball at Miss
Sparrow's.
_Julia._ Is Cyril going there, too?
_Mandeville._ I believe that he has an invitation, but I will persuade
him to refuse it, if you would prefer him to remain at home.
_Julia._ You are very kind, Mr. Mandeville, but it is a matter of
indifference to me where Lord Aprile goes.
_Mandeville._ Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned this to you?
_Julia._ [_Annoyed._] It does not make the least difference. In fact, I
am delighted to think that you are taking Cyril out into the world. He
is wretched in this house. [_With heroism._] I am glad to think that he
knows anyone so interesting and clever and beautiful as Sarah Sparrow. I
suppose she would be considered beautiful?
_Mandeville._ [_With a profound glance._] One can forget her--sometimes.
_Julia._ [_Looking down._] Perhaps--when I am as old as she is--I shall
be prettier than I am at present.
_Mandeville._ You always said you liked my voice. We never see anything
of each other now. I once thought that--well--that you might like me
better. Are you sure you are not angry with me because I am taking Cyril
to this rehearsal?
_Julia._ Quite sure. Why should I care where Cyril goes? I only wish
that I, too, might go to the theatre to-night. What part do you play?
And what do you sing? A serenade?
_Mandeville._ [_Astounded._] Yes. How on earth did you guess that? The
costume is, of course, picturesque, and that is the great thing in an
opera. A few men can sing--after a fashion--but to find the right
clothes to sing _in_--that shows the true artist.
_Julia._ And Sarah; does she look _her_ part?
_Mandeville._ Well, I do not like to say anything against her, but she
is not quite the person I should cast for la Marquise de la Perdrigonde.
Ah! if you were on the stage, Miss de Trappe! You have just the
exquisite charm, the grace, the majesty of bearing which, in the opinion
of those who have never been to Court, is the peculiar distinction of
women accustomed to the highest society.
_Julia._ Oh, I should like to be an actress!
_Mandeville._ No! no! I spoke selfishly--if you only acted with _me_, it
would be different; but--but I could not bear to see another man making
love to you--another man holding your hand and singing into your
eyes--and--and----Oh, this is madness. You must not listen to me.
_Julia._ I am not--angry, but--you must never again say things which you
do not mean. If I thought you were untruthful it would make me so--so
miserable. Always tell me the truth. [_Holds out her hand._]
_Mandeville._ You are very beautiful!
[_She drops her eyes, smiles, and wanders unconsciously to the mirror._]
[Lady Doldrummond _suddenly enters from the boudoir, and_ Cyril _from
the middle door_. Cyril _is handsome, but his features have that
delicacy and his expression that pensiveness which promise artistic
longings and domestic disappointment_.]
_Cyril._ [_Cordially and in a state of suppressed excitement._] Oh,
mother, this is my friend Mandeville. You have heard me mention him?
_Lady Dol._ I do not remember, but----
_Cyril._ When I promised to go out with you this afternoon, I forgot
that I had another engagement. Mandeville has been kind enough to call
for me.
_Lady Dol._ Another engagement, Cyril?
[Lord Doldrummond _enters and comes down, anxiously looking from one to
the other_.]
_Cyril._ Father, this is my friend Mandeville. We have arranged to go up
to town this afternoon.
_Lady Dol._ [_Calmly._] What time shall I send the carriage to the
station for you? The last train usually arrives about----
_Cyril._ I shall not return to-night. I intend to stay in town.
Mandeville will put me up.
_Lord Dol._ And where are you going?
_Mandeville._ He is coming to our dress rehearsal of the "Dandy and the
Dancer."
_Cyril._ At the Parnassus. [Lord _and_ Lady Doldrummond _exchange
horrified glances_.] I daresay you have never heard of the place, but it
amuses me to go there, and I must learn life for myself. I am
two-and-twenty, and it is not extraordinary that I should wish to be my
own master. I intend to have chambers of my own in town.
_Lady Dol._ Surely you have every liberty in this house?
_Lord Dol._ If you leave us, you will leave the rooms in which your
mother has spent every hour of her life, since the day you were born,
planning and improving. Must all her care and thought go for nothing?
The silk hangings in your bedroom she worked with her own hands. There
is not so much as a pen-wiper in your quarter of the house which she did
not choose with the idea of giving you one more token of her affection.
_Cyril._ I am not ungrateful, but I cannot see much of the world through
my mother's embroidery. As you say, I have every comfort here. I may
gorge at your expense and snore on your pillows and bully your servants.
I can do everything, in fact, but live. Dear mother, be reasonable.
[_Tries to kiss her. She remains quite frigid._]
[Footman _enters_.]
_Footman._ The dog-cart is at the door, my lord.
_Cyril._ You think it well over and you will see that I am perfectly
right. Come on, Mandeville, we shall miss the train. Make haste: there
is no time to be polite. [_He goes out, dragging_ Mandeville _after him,
and ignoring_ Julia.]
_Lord Dol._ Was that my son? I am ashamed of him! To desert us in this
rude, insolent, heartless manner. If I had whipped him more and loved
him less, he would not have been leaving me to lodge with a God knows
who. I disown him! The fool!
_Lady Dol._ If you have anything to say, blame _me_! Cyril has the
noblest heart in the world; _I_ am the fool.
_Curtain._
Transcriber's Notes:
Words in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like this_.
Greek words have been transliterated.
Punctuation was standardized. Words in dialect, obsolete or alternative
spellings were not changed. The following were corrected:
missing 'f' added to 'of' ... implications of his speech ...
'allution' to 'allusion' ... without catching the allusion ...
'needed' to 'heeded' ... I had not heeded this ...
'undiscouragable' to 'undiscourageable' ... My undiscourageable search ...
'snggest' to 'suggest' ... reason to suggest that ...
'gasp' to 'grasp' ... his grasp had been insecure; ...
'deing' to 'being' ... he was being whirled through ...
'geos' to 'goes' ... then goes out._] ...
'Gardi' to 'Guardi' ... Canaletti and Guardi seen long ago ...
'waning' to 'waving' ... elbows out, umbrella waving,...
'allign' to 'align' ... that hesitates to align itself ...
'poem' to 'poet' ... upon the poet having conceived a passion ...
'requiees' to 'requires' ... requires time and study....
'upsettting' to 'upsetting' ... would be more upsetting?...
missing 'l' added to 'small' ... in a small house ...