THE TWO ANDROMEDAS
_Opposite a Railway Bookstall at a London Terminus._
TIME--_Saturday_, 4.25 P.M.
_Drysdale_ (_to his friend_, GALFRID UNDERSHELL, _whom he is "seeing
off"_). Twenty minutes to spare; time enough to lay in any quantity of
light literature.
_Undershell_ (_in a head voice_). I fear the merely ephemeral does not
appeal to me. But I should like to make a little experiment. (_To the_
Bookstall Clerk.) A--do you happen to have a copy left of Clarion
Blair's _Andromeda_?
_Clerk._ Not in stock, sir. Never 'eard of the book, but dare say I
could get it for you. Here's a Detective Story we're sellin' like 'ot
cakes--_The Man with the Missing Toe_--very cleverly written story,
sir.
[Illustration: "HERE'S A DETECTIVE STORY WE'RE SELLING LIKE
'OT CAKES."]
_Undershell._ I merely wished to know--that was all. (_Turning with
resigned disgust to_ DRYSDALE.) Just think of it, my dear fellow. At a
bookstall like this one feels the pulse, as it were, of Contemporary
Culture; and here my _Andromeda_, which no less an authority than the
_Daily Chronicle_ hailed as the uprising of a new and splendid era in
English Song-making, a Poetic Renascence, my poor _Andromeda_, is
trampled underfoot by--(_choking_)--Men with Missing Toes! What a
satire on our so-called Progress!
_Drysdale._ That a purblind public should prefer a Shilling Shocker
for railway reading when for a modest half-guinea they might obtain a
numbered volume of Coming Poetry on hand-made paper! It _does_ seem
incredible,--but they do. Well, if they can't read _Andromeda_ on the
journey, they can at least peruse a stinger on it in this week's
_Saturday_. Seen it?
_Undershell._ No. I don't vex my soul by reading criticisms on my
work. I am no Keats. They may howl--but they will not kill _me_. By
the way, the _Speaker_ had a most enthusiastic notice last week.
_Drysdale._ So you saw _that_ then? But you're right not to mind the
others. When a fellow's contrived to hang on to the Chariot of Fame,
he can't wonder if a few rude and envious beggars call out "Whip
behind!" eh? You don't want to get in yet? Suppose we take a turn up
to the end of the platform.
[_They do._
JAMES SPURRELL, M.R.C.V.S., _enters with his friend_, THOMAS
TANRAKE, _of_ HURDELL AND TANRAKE, _Job and Riding Masters,
Mayfair_.
_Spurrell._ Yes, it's lucky for me old Spavin being laid up like
this--gives me a regular little outing, do you see? going down to a
swell place like this Wyvern Court, and being put up there for a day
or two! I shouldn't wonder if they do you very well in the
housekeeper's room. (_To_ Clerk.) Give me a Pink Un and last week's
_Dog Fancier's Guide_.
_Clerk._ We've returned the unsold copies, sir. Could give you _this_
week's; or there's _The Rabbit and Poultry Breeder's Journal_.
_Spurrell._ Oh, rabbits be blowed! (_To_ TANRAKE.) I wanted you to see
that notice they put in of Andromeda and me, with my photo and all; it
said she was the best bull-bitch they'd seen for many a day, and fully
deserved her first prize.
_Tanrake._ She's a rare good bitch, and no mistake. But what made you
call her such an outlandish name?
_Spurrell._ Well, I _was_ going to call her Sal; but a chap at the
College thought the other would look more stylish if I ever meant to
exhibit her. Andromeda was one of them Roman goddesses, you know.
_Tanrake._ Oh, I knew _that_ right enough. Come and have a drink
before you start--just for luck--not that you want _that_.
_Spurrell._ I'm lucky enough in most things, Tom; in everything except
love. I told you about that girl, you know--Emma--and my being as good
as engaged to her, and then, all of a sudden, she went off abroad, and
I've never seen or had a line from her since. Can't call _that_ luck,
you know. Well, I won't say no to a glass of something.
[_They disappear into the refreshment room._
_The_ Countess of CANTIRE _enters with her daughter_,
Lady MAISIE MULL.
_Lady Cantire_ (_to_ Footman). Get a compartment for us, and two
foot-warmers, and a second-class as near ours as you can for
Phillipson; then come back here. Stay, I'd better give you
Phillipson's ticket. (_The_ Footman _disappears in the crowd_.) Now we
must get something to read on the journey. (_To_ Clerk.) I want a book
of some sort--no rubbish, mind; something serious and improving, and
_not_ a work of fiction.
_Clerk._ Exactly so, ma'am. Let me see. Ah, here's _Alone with the
'Airy Ainoo_. How would you like that?
_Lady Cantire_ (_with decision_). I should not like it at all.
_Clerk._ I quite understand. Well, I can give you _Three 'Undred Ways
of Dressing the Cold Mutton_--useful little book for a family,
redooced to one and ninepence.
_Lady Cantire._ Thank you. I think I will wait till I am reduced to
one and ninepence.
_Clerk._ Precisely. What do you say to _Seven 'Undred Side-splitters
for Sixpence_? 'Ighly yumerous, I assure you.
_Lady Cantire._ Are these times to split our sides, with so many
serious social problems pressing for solution? You are presumably not
without intelligence; do you never reflect upon the responsibility you
incur in assisting to circulate trivial and frivolous trash of this
sort?
_Clerk_ (_dubiously_). Well, I can't say as I do, particular, ma'am.
I'm paid to sell the books--I don't _select_ 'em.
_Lady Cantire._ That is _no_ excuse for you--you ought to exercise
some discrimination on your own account, instead of pressing people to
buy what can do them no possible good. You can give me a _Society
Snippets_.
_Lady Maisie._ Mamma! A penny paper that says such rude things about
the Royal Family!
_Lady Cantire._ It's always instructive to know what these creatures
are saying about one, my dear, and it's astonishing how they manage to
find out the things they do. Ah, here's Gravener coming back. He's got
us a carriage, and we'd better get in.
[_She and her daughter enter a first-class compartment_;
UNDERSHELL _and_ DRYSDALE _return_.
_Drysdale_ (_to_ UNDERSHELL). Well, I don't see now where the
insolence comes in. These people have invited you to stay with
them----
_Undershell._ But why? Not because they appreciate my work--which they
probably only half understand--but out of mere idle curiosity to see
what manner of strange beast a Poet may be! And _I_ don't know this
Lady Culverin--never met her in my life! What the deuce does she mean
by sending me an invitation? Why should these smart women suppose that
they are entitled to send for a Man of Genius, as if he was their
_lackey_? Answer me that!
_Drysdale._ Perhaps the delusion is encouraged by the fact that Genius
occasionally condescends to answer the bell.
_Undershell_ (_reddening_). Do you imagine I am going down to this
place simply to please _them_?
_Drysdale._ I should think it a doubtful kindness, in your present
frame of mind; and, as you are hardly going to please yourself,
wouldn't it be more dignified, on the whole, not to go at all?
_Undershell._ You never _did_ understand me! Sometimes I think I was
born to be misunderstood! But you might do me the justice to believe
that I am not going from merely snobbish motives. May I not feel that
such a recognition as this is a tribute less to my poor self than to
Literature, and that, as such, I have scarcely the _right_ to decline
it?
_Drysdale._ Ah, if you put it in that way, I am silenced, of course.
_Undershell._ Or what if I am going to show these Patricians
that--Poet of the People as I am--they can neither patronise nor
cajole me?
_Drysdale._ Exactly, old chap--what if you _are_?
_Undershell._ I don't say that I may not have another reason--a--a
rather romantic one--but you would only sneer if I told you! I know
you think me a poor creature whose head has been turned by an
undeserved success.
_Drysdale._ You're not going to try to pick a quarrel with an old
chum, are you? Come, you know well enough I don't think anything of
the sort. I've always said you had the right stuff in you, and would
show it some day; there are even signs of it in _Andromeda_ here and
there; but you'll do better things than that, if you'll only let some
of the wind out of your head. I take an interest in you, old fellow,
and that's just why it riles me to see you taking yourself so devilish
seriously on the strength of a little volume of verse which--between
you and me--has been "boomed" for all it's worth, and considerably
more. You've only got your immortality on a short repairing lease at
present, old boy!
_Undershell_ (_with bitterness_). I am fortunate in possessing such a
candid friend. But I mustn't keep you here any longer.
_Drysdale._ Very well. I suppose you're going first? Consider the
feelings of the Culverin footman at the other end!
_Undershell_ (_as he fingers a first-class ticket in his pocket_). You
have a very low view of human nature! (_Here he becomes aware of a
remarkably pretty face at a second-class window close by_). As it
_happens_, I am travelling second.
[_He gets in._
_Drysdale_ (_at the window_). Well, good-bye, old chap. Good luck to
you at Wyvern, and remember--wear your livery with as good a grace as
possible.
_Undershell._ I do not intend to wear any livery whatever.
[_The owner of the pretty face regards_ UNDERSHELL _with
interest_.
_Spurrell_ (_coming out of the refreshment room_). What, second--with
all my exes. paid? Not _likely_! I'm going to travel in style this
journey. No--not a smoker; don't want to create a bad impression, you
know. This will do for me.
[_He gets into a compartment occupied by_ Lady CANTIRE _and
her daughter_.
_Tanrake_ (_at the window_). There--you're off now. Pleasant journey
to you, old man. Hope you'll enjoy yourself at this Wyvern Court
you're going to--and, I say, don't forget to send me that notice of
Andromeda when you get back!
[_The_ Countess _and_ Lady MAISIE _start slightly; the train
moves out of the station_.