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'échelle, 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!
[Illustration: "Bellissimo scultore!"]
_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
conservé! (_He skins 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 bàtir. (_Counting on his fingers for
CULCHARD's benefit._) Quattuor dichièmé secolo--_fotteen_!
_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
mediævalism.
_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 daresay. 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'hôte_ time.
[_They go out arm-in-arm._
* * * * *
'ARRY IN ROME AND LONDON.
A kind Correspondent calls _Mr. Punch's_ attention to the fact that
'ARRY the Ubiquitous crops up even in the Classics, as ARRIUS, in
fact, in _Carmen_ lxxxiv. of CATULLUS. How proud 'ARRY will be to hear
of his classical prototype! Our Correspondent "dropping into verse,"
exclaims:--
[Illustration: 'Arry the Classic in his Swell Toga-ry]
Yes! Your Cockney is eternal;
ARRIUS speaks in 'ARRY still:
Vaunts 'is "hincome" by paternal
"Hartful" tricks hup 'Olborn 'Ill.
How well he is justified may be seen by a glance at the text of
CATULLUS:--