SELECT PASSAGES FROM A COMING POET
_In the Morning Room at Wyvern._ Lady RHODA COKAYNE, Mrs.
BROOKE-CHATTERIS, _and_ Miss VIVIEN SPELWANE _are comfortably
established near the fireplace. The_ HON. BERTIE PILLINER,
Captain THICKNESSE, _and_ ARCHIE BEARPARK, _have just drifted
in_.
_Miss Spelwane._ Why, you _don't_ mean to say you've torn yourselves
away from your beloved billiards already? _Quite_ wonderful!
_Bertie Pilliner._ It's too _horrid_ of you to leave us to play all by
ourselves! We've all got so cross and fractious we've come in here to
be petted!
[_He arranges himself at her feet, so as to exhibit a very
neat pair of silk socks and pumps._
_Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself_). Do hate to see a fellow come down
in the mornin' with evenin' shoes on!
_Archie Bearpark_ (_to_ BERTIE PILLINER). You speak for yourself,
Pillener. _I_ didn't come to be petted. Came to see if Lady Rhoda
wouldn't come and toboggan down the big staircase on a tea-tray. _Do!_
It's clinkin' sport!
_Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself_). If there's one thing I _can't_
stand, it's a rowdy bullyraggin' ass like Archie!
_Lady Rhoda Cokayne._ Ta muchly, dear boy, but you don't catch me
travellin' downstairs on a tea-tray _twice_--it's just a bit _too_
clinkin', don't you know!
_Archie Bearpark_ (_disappointed_). Why, there's a mat at the bottom
of the stairs! Well, if you won't, let's get up a cushion fight, then.
Bertie and I will choose sides. Pilliner, I'll toss you for first pick
up--come out of that, do.
_Bertie Pilliner_ (_lazily_). Thanks, I'm much too comfy where I am.
And I don't see any point in romping and rumpling one's hair just
before lunch.
_Archie Bearpark._ Well, you _are_ slack. And there's a good hour
still before lunch. Thicknesse, _you_ suggest something, there's a
dear old chap.
_Captain Thicknesse_ (_after a mental effort_). Suppose we all go and
have another look round at the gees--eh, what?
_Bertie Pilliner._ I beg to oppose. Do let's show _some_ respect for
the privacy of the British hunter. Why should I go and smack them on
their fat backs, and feel every one of their horrid legs twice in one
morning? I shouldn't like a horse coming into my bedroom at all hours
to smack _me_ on the back. I should _hate_ it!
_Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris._ I love them--dear things! But still, it's so
wet, and it would mean going up and changing our shoes too--perhaps
Lady Rhoda----
[Lady RHODA _flatly declines to stir before lunch_.
_Captain Thicknesse_ (_resentfully_). Only thought it was better than
loafin' about, that's all. (_To himself._) I do bar a woman who's
afraid of a little mud. (_He saunters up to_ Miss SPELWANE _and
absently pulls the ear of a Japanese spaniel on her knee_.) Poo'
little fellow, then!
_Miss Spelwane._ Poor little fellow? On _my_ lap!
_Captain Thicknesse._ Oh, it--ah--didn't occur to me that he was on
_your_ lap. He don't seem to mind _that_.
_Miss Spelwane._ No? _How_ forbearing of him! Would you mind not
standing quite so much in my light? I can't see my work.
_Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself, retreating_). That girl's always
fishin' for compliments. I didn't rise _that_ time, though. It's
precious slow here. I've a good mind to say I must get back to
Aldershot this afternoon.
[_He wanders aimlessly about the room_; ARCHIE BEARPARK
_looks out of window with undisguised boredom_.
_Lady Rhoda._ I say, if none of you are goin' to be more amusin' than
this, you may as well go back to your billiards again.
_Bertie Pilliner._ Dear Lady Rhoda, how cruel of you! You'll have to
let _me_ stay. I'll be _so_ good. Look here, I'll read aloud to you. I
_can_--quite prettily. What shall it be? You don't care? No more do I.
I'll take the first that comes. (_He reaches for the nearest volume on
a table close by._) How _too_ delightful! Poetry--which I know you
_all_ adore.
[_He turns over the leaves._
_Lady Rhoda._ If you ask _me_, I simply loathe it.
_Bertie Pilliner._ Ah, but then you never heard _me_ read it, you
know. Now, here is a choice little bit, stuck right up in a corner, as
if it had been misbehaving itself. "Disenchantment" it's called.
[_He reads._
"My Love has sicklied unto Loath,
And foul seems all that fair I fancied--
The lily's sheen a leprous growth,
The very buttercups are rancid!"
_Archie Bearpark._ Jove! The Johnny who wrote that must have been
feelin' chippy!
_Bertie Pilliner._ He gets cheaper than that in the next poem. This is
his idea of "Abasement."
[_He reads._
"With matted head a-dabble in the dust,
And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust,
I lie all loathly in my rags and rust--
Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust."
Now, do you know, I rather like that--it's so deliciously decadent!
_Lady Rhoda._ I should call it utter rot, myself.
_Bertie Pilliner_ (_blandly_). Forgive me, Lady Rhoda. "Utterly
rotten," if you like, but _not_ "utter rot." There's a difference,
really. Now, I'll read you a quaint little production which has
dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, I suppose.
"Stanza written in Depression near Dulwich."
[_He reads._
"The lark soars up in the air;
The toad sits tight in his hole;
And I would I were certain which of the pair
Were the truer type of my soul!"
_Archie Bearpark._ I should be inclined to back the toad, myself.
_Miss Spelwane._ If you must read, do choose something a little less
dismal. Aren't there any love songs?
_Bertie Pilliner._ I'll look. Yes, any amount--here's one. (_He
reads._) "To My Lady."
"Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe,
Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green,
Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe,
Then--kiss me, Lady Grisoline!"
_Miss Spelwane_ (_interested_). So _that's_ his type. Does he mention
whether she _did_ kiss him?
_Bertie Pilliner._ Probably. Poets are always privileged to kiss and
tell. I'll see ... h'm, ha, yes; he _does_ mention it ... I think I'll
read something else. Here's a classical specimen.
[_He reads._
"Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,
Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;
Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,
Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing."
And so on, don't you know.... Now I'll read you a regular rouser
called "A Trumpet Blast." Sit tight, everybody!
[_He reads._
"Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, (One for _you_,
dear Archie!)
Blink your blearèd eyes. (Blink, pretty creatures, blink!) Behold
the Sun--
Burst proclaim, in purpurate effulgence,
Demos dawning, and the Darkness--done!"
[_General hilarity, amidst which_ Lady CULVERIN _enters_.
[Illustration: "NOW I'LL READ YOU A REGULAR ROUSER CALLED 'A
TRUMPET BLAST.'"]
_Lady Culverin._ So _glad_ you all contrive to keep your spirits up,
in spite of this dismal weather. What is it that's amusing you all so
much, eh, dear Vivien?
_Miss Spelwane._ Bertie Pilliner has been reading aloud to us, dear
Lady Culverin--_the_ most ridiculous poetry--made us all simply
shriek. What's the name of it? (_Taking the volume out of_ BERTIE'S
_hand_.) Oh, _Andromeda, and other Poems_. By Clarion Blair.
_Lady Culverin_ (_coldly_). Bertie Pilliner can turn everything into
ridicule, we all know; but probably you are not aware that these
particular poems are considered quite wonderful by all competent
judges. Indeed, my sister-in-law----
_All_ (_in consternation_). Lady Cantire! Is _she_ the author? Oh, of
course, if we'd had any idea----
_Lady Culverin._ I've no reason to believe that Lady Cantire ever
composed _any_ poetry. I was only going to say that she was most
interested in the author, and as she and my niece Maisie are coming to
us this evening----
_Miss Spelwane._ Dear Lady Culverin, the verses are quite, _quite_
beautiful; it was only the way they were read.
_Lady Culverin._ I am glad to hear you say so, my dear, because I'm
also expecting the pleasure of seeing the author here, and you will
probably be his neighbour to-night. I hope, Bertie, that you will
remember that this young man is a very distinguished genius; there is
no wit that _I_ can discover in making fun of what one doesn't happen
to understand.
[_She passes on._
_Bertie_ (_plaintively, after_ Lady CULVERIN _has left the room_). May
I trouble somebody to scrape me up? I'm pulverised! But really, you
know, a real live poet at Wyvern! I say, Miss Spelwane, how will you
like to have him dabbling his matted head next to you at dinner, eh?
_Miss Spelwane._ Perhaps I shall find a matted head more entertaining
than a smooth one. And, if you've quite done with that volume, _I_
should like to have a look at it.
[_She retires with it to her room._
_Archie_ (_to himself_). I'm not half sorry this Poet-johnny's comin';
I never caught a Bard in a booby-trap _yet_.
_Captain Thicknesse_ (_to himself_). She's coming--this very evenin'!
And I was nearly sayin' I must get back to Aldershot!
_Lady Rhoda._ So Lady Cantire's comin'; we shall all have to be on our
hind legs now! But Maisie's a dear thing. Do you know her, Captain
Thicknesse?
_Captain Thicknesse._ I--I used to meet Lady Maisie Mull pretty often
at one time; don't know if she'll remember it, though.
_Lady Rhoda._ She'll love meetin' this writin' man--she's so fearfully
romantic. I heard her say once that she'd give anythin' to be
idealized by a great poet--sort of--what's their names--Petrarch and
Beatrice business, don't you know. It will be rather amusin' to see
whether it comes off--won't it?
_Captain Thicknesse_ (_choking_). I--ah--no affair of mine, really.
(_To himself._) I'm not intellectual enough for her, I know that.
Suppose I shall have to stand by and look on at the Petrarchin'. Well,
there's always Aldershot!
[_The luncheon gong sounds, to the general relief and
satisfaction._