+Characters+: _A_ +Gainsborough Lady+ _in a picture. Also a
Gainsborough_ +Gentleman+, _supposed to be the subject of the
portrait which is the_ +Lady’s+ _next-door neighbor on the
wall of a gallery. As the_ +Gentleman+ _remains invisible and
enforcedly silent throughout the scene his proximate presence is
inferred solely by the_ +Lady’s+ _addressing her discourse to
him._
+The Lady+, _suitably framed, is revealed, but in deep shadow. Soon a
clock in the distance musically strikes the hour of twelve, upon
which a pallid moonbeam, gradually becoming bright, falls on the
picture. When this is fully illuminated the_ +Lady+ _slowly comes
to life._
+The Lady.+
’Twas prophesied
Some Christmas dawning,
’Twixt midnight and morning,
Would speech to us restore!
[_She peers from her frame about the gallery._]
My husband-lover, do you live
Below?
Or upward soar?
If he were near I’d know; he was so talkative!
[_Sagaciously wagging her head._]
Withal, the sweetest soul that ever sinned and died!
“Gad’s life”
[_reminiscently she strikes the attitude of a connoisseur_],
“now stab my vitals if they ain’t
A credit to the artist’s paint!”
(’Twas Colley Cibber spoke!) “So time will show!”
The day we sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
[_Looking farther from her frame first to one side, then the
other, on her right she evidently recognizes her neighbor, for
she utters an exclamation of delight, while a tender smile
lights her face._]
Then it _is_ you!
How I have wondered--!
After being sundered
A century--or more!
[_Evidently the_ +Gentleman+ _would have liked to set her right,
for she cuts him off sharply._]
Oh, yes! insist on those odd years!
Altho’
Touching that score,
Your own accounts, my dear, were always in arrears!
’Twas monstrous shocking how your debts were overdue!
[_The_ +Gentleman+ _would seem to wish to deny this._]
But, if you’ll let me speak for once, ’tis quaint
To spring to life from canvas, paint,
And be just boy and girl, just belle and beau,
As when we sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
Sometimes, indeed,
In sunbeam’s glinting,
I have said, “He’s squinting,
“That gentleman next door!
“Pleased with my eyes, perchance, my shape,
“Some beau,
“Perhaps some bore!
“Who would a picture-gallery acquaintance scrape!”
[_The_ +Gentleman+ _probably would like to protest “’Pon my
life!” but she checks him._]
Now, now, you know you cannot innocency plead!
You know as well as I you were no saint!
A man of flesh and blood, not paint!
[_The_ +Gentleman’s+ _eyes must be rolling, for the_ +Lady+
_waves him back, as it were, to herself, while virtuously
drawing her ’kerchief closer about her._]
Yon frescoed nymphs were never taught to sew
As we who sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
It seems, then, dear,
Long ages flitting,
Here we’ve hung unwitting!
(I trying to ignore
The flirt presumer by my side!)
When, lo!
One moonbeam frore
Quickens our portraits into life, bridegroom and bride!--
’Twas God who joined us living, dead, the auctioneer!
But hearts beat on as hearts, behind attaint
Of coating varnish, garish paint!
Love can a fairer immortality bestow
Than that we sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
What matters age!
Since fortune chancy
Yields this hour, in fancy
We’ll live the sweet life o’er--
Though each be but poor pictured ghost
A-row!--
When you shed gore
To win the season’s belle, the town and tavern toast!
(My dear, I’m modish still! This hat is all the rage!)
You fought!
[_Her change of tone indicates that the_ +Gentleman+ _would
disclaim this._]
You did! That duel was no feint!
’Twas crimson blood, not crimson paint,
You rogue! and crimson wine you caused to flow,
All in the days of Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
Do you recall
That sweet pursuing,
Fleeing game of wooing?--
The night this frock I wore?--
[_She listens. Faint strains of phantasmal music are heard._]
It echoes in remembrance yet....
High, low!
We hold the floor!
[_She makes a deep curtsey toward the_ +Gentleman+, _then takes
steps to the music._]
The violins play Boccherini’s minuet,
And you are sparking me at Lady Betty’s ball!
These hands poured wine, prepared confectioned daint
(Your heart and stomach were not paint!)
Next time you called ... these lips did not say No!...
All in the days of Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
I won’t deny
That you were trying!
[_Obviously the_ +Gentleman+ _would protest._]
Ah, ’tis useless lying!
I have known you to snore
After your dinner, and in church!
’Tis so!
But to the core
Fine! Never leaving foe or comrade in the lurch!
An English gentleman of a good school gone by!
I love you aye, sweetheart, despite restraint
Of framing canvas, fading paint!
And, speak! Don’t you...?
[_She holds out her hands to the_ +Gentleman+, _but, as just then
the distant sounds of dawn make themselves heard, suddenly
checks his impending advance._]
Hush, hush! That shrill cock’s crow
Says, “Peace, who sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!”
[_The concluding words die on the_ +Lady’s+ _lips, as, resuming
her original attitude, she stiffens slowly again into a
portrait, while the moonlight fades into the gray of dawn._]