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I PAGE' AFTERNOON 3 IN PITTI 9T AT CAMALDOLI , . . 70 1 NEW YbRK : GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 17 TO 37VANDEWATER STREET. AFTERNOON. A COMEDY. Cloth of gold, do not despise To match thyself with cloth of frieze. DEAMATIS PERSONS. Philip Dormer, Earl L'Es- trange. Marquis of Ipswich {son of the Duke of Lowestoft). Principe Carlo SANFRLAJifO. Aldred Dorian. DUCA Dl MONTELUPO. Claire, Madame Crlyon. Laura, Pnncipessa Banfriano, Lady Cowes. Countess of St. Asaph. Marchesa Zanzinl Other minor 'persons. SCEN^E I. The long arbutus alley in the grounds of the Villa Imdovisi in Borne. Present : L'EsTKAK"GE and Ipswich. L' Estrange. Not to feel the Ludovisi Juno! What an utter Philistine you are! Ipstvich. Well, it's a big stone head. If you hadn't told me, I should have thought it was some severe mother- ' in-law of some dead Caius or Valerius. V Estrange (lights a cigar). How right Matthew Arnold is! What absolute, shameless, besotted blockheads En- glish Philistines are! Ipswich. One can't be a pillar of light like you, and adore marble dolls and pictures as brown as a cocoa-nut, L' Estrange. Can a ** pillar " " adore "? Confine your- self to Pall Mall jargon. You are only intelligible then. 4: AFTEKNOON. Ipswich. But I say now, tell me, what do you a&sthetes see in that big bust? V Estrange. What is the use of telling you? It is the purest ideal of womanhood that we possess. Ipswich {murmurs). I prefer Jeanne Granier! L'Estrange. It is the symbol of chastity, dignity, ma- ternity, sovereignty. It is divine. It should be set in the center of St. Peter's, and have the church dedicated to its worship. Almost I become a Comtist before that glorious incarnation of woman! If you had any mind or soul, you would feel so too: if you are a mere lump of flesh, clothed by Poole, you can never understand it, let it be explained "to you how it may. Ipswich. A lump of flesh! // When Fve won the Grand Military three times running! L' Estrange {with scorn). A steeplechase is your limit and conception of the divine! Ipswich. Oh, I say, it's not to be sneezed at; and you ride hard enough yourself sometimes at home. L' Estrange. To ride is one thing; to tear over hurdles in a monkey's silk jacket, with all the scum of the betting ring cursing you as you break your beast's back in a ditch, is another. Who is that coming yonder? . She knows you. Ipswich. That is the Princess Sanfriano — such a jolly little cat! L' Estrange. Surely not Italian? Ipswich. Canadian. Awfully nice. She don't get on ■ with her husband; but, herself, she runs pretty straight as yet. She'd no end of money; which the caS married her for, of course. Princess {coming close to them). Lord Ipswich! Are you actually " doing Kome" like Cook's cherubs? Ipswich. Princess, will you allow one of my oldest friends to have the honor? [Introduces them.'\ Princess {to L'Estrange). Have you been long in Kome? I don't remember to have met you, and we all - meet fifty times a week somewhere. L' Estrange. I came last night only; but I always shun society in Kome. Princess. Good gracious! Why? Ipswich. He thinks it profanity here — money-changers in Temple, you know; that sort of feeling. AETERNOON. 5 Princess. I see. Well, he will commit his first blas» phemy at my house to-morrow. Mind you bring him». L' Estrange {murmurs sulkily). Too kind — charmed^ Princess {continues). And as reward you shall see my~ beautiful and famous friend, Madame Glyon. She never goes out, so you can't see her anywhere else. L' Estrange {interested). Not the artist? Princess. Certainly, the artist. But prepare yourself; ^ she is as lovely as she is clever. You have seen the things she can do? L'Estrange {with a little shudder). The things ! Cer- tainly, Princess. I never miss the Salon, and the grand landscapes of Madame Glyon are one of the few spiritual and yet perfectly faithful works that the age has afforded . us. Ipswich. He praises something modern at last! Rome will fall! Do you know, Princess, he has been boring me all morning about the big head in there; it appears to me to have a '* front" like my landlady in Duke Street, and wear the severity of countenance suitable to a Dame at. Eton. Princess. The Ludovisi Juno? Ah! I can't see much in it; but Madame Glyon raves about it. L' Estrange. If you will allow me, I will go and rave again also at the goddess's shrine, for I find I left a vol- ume of Winckelmanii in the gallery. Princess. Is that the L'Estrange? Ipswich. What do you mean ? Princess. I mean the one who was such a brute to his wife. Ipswich. Brute! K"onsense, my dear Princess; he made a horrible mistake, tried to remedy it, and failed. Princess. He hilled her I [Ipswich laughs out loud. Princess {very severely). Oh! we know very well men - never kill with neglect, or ill- temper, or insult! I say he killed her; killed her as much as if he had danced on her in Lancashire clogs, or put arsenic in her sherry. Why, he used to write notes to her about the wrong'^way she held her teacup! Ipswich. Well, why not? He married a little peasant. Princess. She was a gardener's daughter; Tennyson has sanctified that. 6 AFTERNOON". Ipswich. She was a gardener^s daughter, and lie saw her first hoeing potatoes. Princess. Pi n eapples ! Ipswich. Potatoes! Princess, excuse me, but people don't hoe pineapples, and she — was — hoeing ! Princess. Very well, if she were? She didn't brain -liim with her hoe! She didn't ask him to marry her. Ipswich. That was his Quixotic chivalry. He has re- pented it ever since. Princess. Do yoHi mean to say be has redeeming grace enough in him to feel remorse? Ipswich. Oh, remorse! Come, I say! That is rather strong. Princess. He ought to be haunted to his dying day. The Lords ought to have impeached him and hanged him in Palace Yard. Ipswich. Gara mia,he reasonable! What did he do? You can't have heard the right story. He married the Trench peasant when she was fifteen — beautiful as a dream, that I grant, but ignorant! .... Lord, you don't believe me, I see; but I assure you she tried her gloves on her feet, and asked the servants to warm her first ice! Princess {severely). Not reasons to divorce a woman. Ipswich. Divorce? Who talked of divorce? He bore it all like an angel. Princess. While he was in love. Exactly. Then in six months' time all the blunders and the innocence that had seemed to him so divine, grew stupid, ugly, unendura- ble, I know, and she was sacrificed to the petty shame of a capricious young man who knew nothing of any passion save the basest and most fleeting form of it. i Ipswich. Not at all — nothing of the kind. Of course he began to see that he had done a thing that put him in a hole; that it was out of the question to take her about in London at all; of course he remembered his position. Princess. The one god of the Englishman! Ipswich. Then there was his mother— wild. Princess. I can imagine the British matron under such circumstances! Poor Claire! Ipsivich. How did you know her name? Princess. 1 was at the convent he sent her to — the beast! I was a good deal younger than she (we always say AFTEKNOON. 7 that, you know), and I was struck by her beauty, by her despair, by her history — as any child would be. Ipswich. And she really did — kill — herself? Princess. He really did kill her, if you want to speak the truth. They could do nothing with her, naturally; she was sunk in apathy and misery; nothing roused her; and when she drowned herself, be was as much her mur- ^ derer as though lie had killed her with his own rifle. Ipswich. My dear Princess! How could he ever fore- see it? Princess. If he had had two grains of sense, a pin's point of a heart, he would have known it! Can you wor- ship a woman for six months and make her mistress of all you possess, and then turn her off to be a schoolgirl in a convent? Ipswich {doggedly). I don't see what else he could do. Of course in two years' time or so he would have taken her back. I don't see how he could have stood the chaff of London if he had gone on living with a Touraine peasant girl who didn't know the common ABO of manners and- Princess {passionately). You will excuse me,.. Lord Ipswich, but / prefer the veriest Don Juan of them all to such a cold-hearted, paltry-spirited truckler to conven- tionalities. I say I prefer Mephistopheles himself! I can tell by the look of him that this wretch never cared a straw. He is as cold as a Canadian winter, and as self- engrossed as Ipswich. Well, you know it's eleven years ago. A fel- low can't wear crape on his hat all his life. Princess. Lord Ipswich, I hate you. Go and ask if my carriage is at the gate. I see my friend at the end of the alley, and I want to speak to her alone. "^ Ipswich. Why, she's living in your own house. Surely \ you'll let me stop, and send that boy sweeping yonder f or ^ your carriage? Princess. How should that boy know my carriage? Go directly, or never venture to bow to me again. Ipswich. Dread and unjust lady, I fly! Princess. How glad I am to be rid of him! All this distance off, I can tell she has something to say to me, and this morning it can only be — Well, my dearest dear! You look pale. 8 AFTEKNOON. Mme. Glyon enters; she looks grave, a little agitated; she seats herself on a stone bench beside the Prikcess. For a moment she does not speak. The Princess {eagerly and anxiously). You have seen that man? Mme. Gltok gives sign of acquiescence ; then, in a low _ voice, says: You knew he was in Eome? Princess. No — no — no! Good heavens! as if I would not have told you! But when did you see him? how? - where? He was talking here with Ipswich a moment since. Mme. Glyon. He was entering the sculpture gallery as I came out. [Her voice is faint and grave. Princess. And you said nothing happened? 3Ime. Glyon. What should happen? Princess. Much. If I were you! Mme. Glyon {smiling slightly). You and I are very un- like, my dear. I have seen him often in the streets of Paris, and even in the Salon before one of my own pict- ures; it is nothing new; nothing to wonder at; only — only Princess {striking her sunshade into the earth). Only — scoundrels have the power to torture good women when they have lost all title even to be remembered by them. Mme. Glyon {dreamily). I do not think he has a gray hair yet; and I, how many? Princess {with scorn). I dare say he dyes! Mme. Glyon {indignantly). Ridiculous! He never cared in the least how he looked, and he is not a ci-devant beau vOf sixty. [^Her voice gives way and she bursts into tears. Princess {sympathetic and yet angry). Oh, my darling, I know how you feel; and yet, how can you feel anything? You must be a very much more forgiving woman than I! I should hate him, loathe him, abhor him! I should tear his eyes out of his head — I should make him scenes where- ever I met him, so that he would grow afraid of his very shadow! Mme. Glyon {with an effort). Like the deserted mistress of the stereotyped boulevard novel! I am quite sure you would do nothing of the kind, Laura. AFTERNOON. \) Princess. I should ! Or probably I should have shot him long ago. Mme. Glyon. Quel melodrame ! You are very violenfc to-day. Princess. Because that idiot Ipswich has been haying the impudence to defend him. Mme. Glyon. Yon spoke of me? Princess. We spoke of L'Estrange's marriage and of his conduct to his wife. Ipswich is his friend. He made lame excuses. It has left me rabid for the day. I tell you, my dear, I have not your divine foi^giveness! Mme. Glyon (ivith coldness.) Who told you I forgave? Not I. Princess. Your conduct! Patient Grizel was never gentler. Mme. Glyon. You do not read character very well, Laura. You have been the best of friends to me, my love, but I think you have always taken me on trust. You have never understood what I felt or why I acted. Princess. Oh no; you are like the Ludovisi Juno to me. I gaze; I try to admire; I am dumb; I fail to comprehend. I cannot appreciate the Colossal. Mme. Glyon {with a tired smile). Am I colossal? I am as unconscious as the Juno herself. Princess. Colossal! You are supernatural! Now, if yon had torn his coat off his back in that gallery, you would have been human and akin to one. Mme. Glyon {sternly). Do not talk in that fashion, Laura. It is quite unworthy of you, and you do not mean it. Princess. I do, Mme. Glyon. At all events, spare me the expression of your sentiments when they take that color. Mean- while, do something else for me. You are intimate with Lord Ipswich. Learn from him if — if — his friend stays long at Eome. Because if he do, I will returq to Paris and come to you some other time. Princess {rapidly). I know he is going away directly — Asia Minor, I think. {Aside. I never dare tell her I Iiave asked him for to-morroW night!) But, if you have passed him so often in Paris, it can't hurt you so very much to pass him in Eome! Mme. Glyon {in a low tone). It hurts me always. 10 AFTERNOON. Princess {kisses her hand ivith effusion). Oh, my dear Claire, forgive me! [ am a wretch, and, of course, I am quite incapable of understanding you. What does the proverb say? Fools, you know, always rush in where anybody else would be afraid to tread. JEnter Ipswich. Ten thousand pardons if I've seemed ages, but your people were right down at the end of Via S. Basilio. Princess. Thanks. I must be off. I've got the Japan- ese Legation to breakfast, and it's one o'clock now. Ipswich. Let me go to the gates with you. {Aside to the Feii^ CESS.) Is that your great artist? What a beau- tiful creature! Princess. You shouldn't say so to me, as she is the pre- cise opposite of everything I am! But she is very hand- some. I can't introduce you, for she won't know stran- gers, and she hates Englishmen. [Exit from the alley ; Mme. GtLYON" a little behind the Princess and Ipswich. Scene II. Drawing-room, Palazzo Sanfriano. Present: The Princess, Mme. Glton, Lady Cowes, Marchesa Zanzini, Ipswich, various minor person- ages. It is six o'clock. Tea on a gueridon. Lady Cowes {ivhispering to M. Zanzini). Such a dear creature, the Princess; but she always does know such queer people! Marchesa. Who you mean? La Glyon? Oh, but an artist, you know — that excuse everything! Lady Cowes, In a studio, perhaps. Not in a drawing- room. Marchesa (laughing). Ah, you dear English! You are always so ironed — I mean, so starched! For me, I care for my own house; bub I care not who I meet other peo- ple's. Lady Cowes. But the Princess introduces her! Marchesa, What if she do? The new woman must call first. You not return her card. That very simple. Everything stop there. AFTERNOON. 11 Lady Goices, Bnt the Princess would never forgive it! Marchesa (stolidly). Pooh! What matter what a little hastardo American like or no like^ Lady Cowes (shocked). Oh, dearest Marchesa! Indeed, indeed, the poor Princess was not — was not what you say. She was nobody, indeed; but I am sure her parents were quite respectable, and very rich. Indeed, my son, when he was fishing in Canada, dined with them! Marchesa (shaking loith laughing). Ah, ah! and the din- ner is the sacrament of respectability; is it not so? But I mean not what you think. Bastardo with us, that mean, what you call it, mongrel — not born — ne derien — how you say it? Lady Goives (still shocked). Yes, yes; I see; quite so; you speak English so beautifully, Marchesa! Ah, dear Lady St. Asaph is over there. [Rises and goes to that end of room. Marchesa (to Ipswich). Come here and recount me of the stipple-chase. You won, they tell me; is that so? Ipswich. Yes; after a fashion. I rode an awful screw. Marchesa. Screw? There is corkscrew; there is screw to a steamship; there is screw that you put into wood; how you can ride a screw? Tell me. Princess (passing by). Marchesa, he will call you a purist. Marchesa. Ah, my dear, as you are here, tell me, who is your friend La Glyon? Princess (colors a little). She is Madame G-lyon. Surely you have heard of her? Marchesa. My child! She is one of those of whom one hoars fifty thousand things every five minutes, but per- haps none of them may be very true things. That is why I ask you (because Lady Cow do ask me) who was she, whence comes she, who was M. Glyon — or, it maybe, who is he? Princess, She is a widow. Forgive me, there are peo- ple coming in. [Escapes to receive neio-comers. Marchesa, She not care to talk about her. That is ill. I will ask Carlino. IpsmicJi. Who is he? Marchesa, Sanfriano. Carlino!-^ 12 ArTERKOOlf. Sanfriano, March esa ? Marchesa, Who is La Glyon, your wife's friend? I spik English because queste gente they not spik Italian. Ipswich. I'm afraid we haven't often such good man- ners in return! Marchesa, Pooh! We not come to you tor manners; we come to you for morals ! Carlino, answer me, who is LaGlyon? Sanfriano, On my honor, I do not know. She was at the same convent with Laura in Paris. They are great friends. Marchesa, And who was Monsieur Glyon? Sanfriano. That I cannot tell you. A scoundrel, I be- lieve, who married her when she was very young. You know, of course, that she is a great artist? Marchesa. You never ask the Principessa more? Sanfriano. I never ask the Principessa anything; quite content if she return the compliment. There is the Oali- fornian beauty. Look at her. Is she not adorable? Fresh as a daisy; white as a lily! [He goes to greet the Calif ornian beauty. Marchesa. There is something bad. I shall not send her a card to my ball. Lady St. Asaph. How do, Marchesa? How are your sweet little grandchildren? They were quite the stars of the babies' ball at our embassy. Do tell me — {drops her voice) — you know everything. Lady Cowes has been mak- ing me quite uncomfortable about that Frenchwoman over there, who is staying with the Princess. She says she is — well, you know, not at all what one likes to meet where one visits. Is it true? Marchesa, I shall not send her card for my ball; San- friano think not well of her; her husband, he disappear; not a soul know who she was. Lady St. Asaph. But it is intolerable of the Princi- pessa! I am grieved I brought my girls. Marchesa {grimly). She will not eat dem. She only get all the men round her. Lady St. Asaph. Perhaps she is separated! Marchesa. Cat is very likely. Why not? Lady St, Asaph. But it is horrible, scandalous! Couldn't one speak to the French embassador? n Estrange {to Princess). Dear Principessa, will you APTERNOON". 13 not do for me the kindness that you denied me the other night? Princess (nervously). Madame Glyon never makes new acquaintances. U Estrange. But ^he and I should have so many themes of talk in common, and honestly, I admire her pure and wonderful genius so greatly. Princess {pettishly). Oh, she is bored to death with people praising her genius. L' Estrange. Un discerning praise, perhaps. Nothing more wearisome; but Ipswich, But this Kuskin of the drawing-room; this St. James Street prophet; this aesthetic of aesthetics, who sees no excellence out of Lit>nardo, will give her a very different thing to vulgar compliment. UEstrange {coldly). Certainly; I should presume to offer her sympathy. [At that moment Mme. GlyoisT, who is at the tea-table, has the lace at her wrist caught by the spirit-flame of the silver kettle; her sleeve takes fire. L'Estrajs'GB is qiLicker than anyone : he extinguishes the burning lace with his handkerchief, and is slightly burnt in the palms of his hands. Mme. GLYOi^ says nothing, bvi sits doivn and groivs very pale. Buzz of excitement from others round them. * L'Estrange {smiling). Indeed, I am not hurt. The skin scorched — notliing more. Madame Glyon, fate has been kinder to me than the Princess, I have implored m vain a presentation to you. Will you not allow the kettle to be my sponsor? If you will not, I assure you that I will pour vitriol on my fingers and declare that I am crippled for life by saving you! Mme. Glyon {bows coldly)^ I have to thank you for great presence of mind. I fear you are hurt yourself. L' Estrange. Would that I were! But, at all events, let the kettle's misdemeanor allow me to introduce myself, and — will you not at least give me a cup of tea? Mme. Glyon {she pours him out a cupful as she speaks), * As you please. [He seats himself at t^te table. Lady Gowes {to Lady St. Asaph). Is it not extraor- dinary, my dear Anne, how women of that kind of char- acter always attract men? Lady St. Asaph. Because they lay themselves out for it! 14 AFTERNOON. Marchesa Zanzint Ah ha! And what do your girls do at your lawn-tennis? I not wish to know La Glyon, but I am quite sure she never jump about in jersey with per- spiring man in shirt! Lady Cowes (to Lady St. Asaph). How anxious the little Princess looks because Lord L'Estrange has got at- tracted by that woman! But why does she have her here? Is it because — (mysteriously) — because the Prince compels her to be civil, do you think? Lady St, Asaph (also mysteriously). It can hardly h& that. You know he would not be allowed by the Duchess ' Danta. She holds him so close. Lady Cowes, Then, what can it be? She was at the same convent as the Princess. Is it possible she knows of any school-girl imprudence, and therefore has to be pro- pitiated? i Marchesa Zanzini, Suppose that it only just is that they do like each other? Lady St. Asaph (with a sour smile), I don't think that's possible! Why, when they are together she actually kills the little Princess, overtops her, washes her out! No; there must be a reason for the friendship. We will hope that it is a good one. Marchesa (with a chuckle). And pray that it is a wicked one, eh? Oh, look not so scandalized. Good reasons, they give other folk no diversions! I cannot endure them my- self. Lady Cowes, You are cynical, Marchesa! Marchesa, Ah no! It is not me who have ever the spleen! Lady Cowes. To be sure — of course; your lovely sun, no fog, no east wind; who cow^cZ be ill-natured in Italy? Marchesa, To be certain, nobody, unless they bring with them their ill-nature in the train, as they do bring their umbrellas, and their sponges, and their — how you call it — portable baths? Ipsivich (aside, laughing). How merciless you are, Mar- chesa! Marchesa (aside). Ah! that Miladi Cow, she make me impatient. It is just that she want Milord L'Estrange for her daughter Luisa. La Glyon, she is nobody; I not know her myself; but she is handsome, and to men she is cold. See! she leave L'Estrange now and go and talk AFTERN^OOl^. 15 to that old Monsignore instead. Your friend, he look gloom — how you say it?— glum? He not like to heplante Id alone with the teacups! Ipsivich (with surprise). She does seem uncivil to him. Marchesa {with sarcastic smile). You Englishmen, you so spoiled by your own women, you think any woman who not throw herself at your head uncivil. Your women are forward, antl that is always bad. It spoil men. Ipswich {ivith a sigh). Well, they do butter us, and come after us, too much at home, that's true. You can't get away from 'em anywhere. Marchesa (grimly). Poor creature! You honey; they flies. Now here, it is we are the honey. That is pret- tier. Ipswich, Much prettier, and a long shot better fun. Marchesa, Long shot! You speak strange English, you young men. Well, I go; it is seven o'clock. I dine your embassy. You dine too? A rivederci, [A general rising; people go out one by one. L'Es- TRANGE approaches the Peincess to say adieu. L'Estrange, Madame, your friend is too cruel; she scarcely deigns to speak to me. Princess (sharply), I am sure you must have done so much cruelty yourself, and endured so little from others, that the change is the best thing possible for you! L' Estrange (a little coldly). Certainly Madame Grlyon is a great artist and I am only a poor dilettante; still, I cannot see what I can have done to offend her, and Ipswich. You have been snubbed f How delicious! I could kiss the carpet where Madame Glyon's feet have just passed! It is the very thing you have wanted all your life long, only it comes too late! L'Estrange. Eeally, Ipswich, you have a good deal of the Margate 'Arry about you. You have all the wit of a cheap-tripper. Princess, you are so exquisitely kind your- self that I feel confident you will soften the heart of your friend toward one of the most sincere admirers of lier genius, and, if I may add it without offense — of herself. ' Princess (giving him her hand in farewell), I think I shall do nothing of the sort. To be "out in the cold " a little must be such excellent discipline for you who have been brought up in a hothouse amidst parasites all your life. 16 AFTERITOOK. L'Estrange. A frost more often kills than cures, Ma- dame. Ipswich, Princess! You will promise me the cotilloia to-night? Pray — I*rinces$, I will tell you, after the last waltz, [ They take leave of her and exeurd. Princess {left alone), Marco, go and beg Madame Glyon to be so good as to come to me a moment. [SerwLnt exit^ Princess {aloud). Good heavens! What wretches men are! If she were his wife now, he would be finding every fault in her that a human creature could have, and be^ for ever writing notes to her about conventionalities, and breaches of precedence at her last dinner-party! Just be- cause she seems something new, uncommon, indifferent, incomprehensible, the base weak monster is piqued and almost in love! They are all alike — alike! If I were but somebody else's wife, Sanfriano would be mad about me^ and ruin himself in five minutes to satisfy my caprice or my curiosity. Because I am his wife, he never even sees what sort of gown I've got on; and if he is obliged to- spend an hour with me, he goes to sleep! And yet I am ten, fifteen, twenty million times prettier than that yel- low, lean, black-browed Danta woman! (Mme. Gltoit enters,) Ah, dearest Claire, how good of you to come down again; but there are heaps of time before dinner^ and I did so want to tell you — you have made that maa in love with you. Mme. Glyon. Laura! If you were anyone else Princess. Than myself, you would leave my house be- fore dinner! But I am myself, dear, and privileged ta say anything. Don't look so stern, and so reproachful. If you choose, in a fortnight's time he will be as much in love witli you as — as Mme. Olyon, As he was with a gardener's daughter in: Touraiue! Princess, Oh, Claire! you are the proudest woman in the world. Mme. Olyon. No, I am the humblest, or should be, for I have been the most humbled. Princess. But now, if you took your revenge? Mme. Glyon, Revenge? A ghastly word, not one I like or use. AFTERKOOK. 17 Princess. Ifc was a religion here in Rome, and should he yours. Oh, my dear, I know we are not in the days of daggers, and that if we were, you would not use one; but I mean a vengeance innocent, but just. Make this man love you, and then, when he will suffer tortures in your rejection, tortures of passion, tortures of pride, then — avenge with one word ^' No " the gardener's daughter of Touraine. You will? You will? Mme. Glyon. Laura! you talk as if life were a game of tennis, or a struggle between two gamesters — nothing more. You never understand Princess. I never understand life as you see and read it. To accept outrage and neglect, to condemn yourself to solitude and sterility; to let the destroyer of it pass off unpunished, and have society like a gilded ball at his foot, to kick or play with — this is what you think honor and. dignity and duty. Well, to me it is a folly, nothing more; a grand, idiotic, sublime, and most useless tomfool- ery. There! Mme. Glyon. My dear, we see things with such differ- ent eyes. I said so the other day. I grieve t-hat I list- ened to you, and stayed here against my better judgment; but who could foresee the little accident that gave him opportunity and leave to speak to me? Princess. And he admires you beyond everything; your pictures he thinks perfection; yourself Mme. Glyon {with heat and pain). Oh, spare me, for heaven's sake, more evidence that no ray of recollection dawns on the utter night of his absolute forgetful ness. His admiration — his! A dog would have more recogni- tion, more instinct, more remembrance. Princess (surprised). But you always dreaded any rec- > ognitiou? Mme. Glyon (losing her calmness). Who has said that our granted wishes are our curses? Do not mistake me; I know that any suspicion on his part would lead to mis- ery for him and for myself, and were there any chance of it, I would put seas and deserts between him and me. Yet — ah, my dear, women are weak! when he looks at me as on a stranger, when he speaks to me with the compli- ment of society, it is hard to bear. Princess. But, dearest, do be reasonable. To him you 18 AFTERiq-OON". have been dead so long: there is your memorial marble in this chapel. What can you expect him to Mme. Glyon. I know, I know! I said the same thing myself the other day in the Ludovisi gardens. Yet one might have thought — when I spoke — some accent, some tone might have touched some chord in his heart. Princess. He has done! He never had any. Would he have done what he did Mme. Glyon. What he did was done from pride. He was ashamed of me; he was mortified before his world by my ignorance and my errors. Perhaps I should have understood that, but I was so young. You cannot give a child of fifteen all the most exquisite joys of love and life for a year's time, and then drive her away from all the happiness you have taught her and consign her to the dreary tedium of a convent life without making her mad or worse! I loved him — you know how I loved him! Could he widow me at sixteen and think I should be pa- tient? And then to know how he had wearied of me, how he blushed for me, because I knew not all the little laws of his own world; how every day had been a greater shame and bitterness of regret to him until he had thrust me out of sight and memory under the sophist's pretext that I had received no education and should gain it best amongst the women of my own religion! Oh God! the torture of it, the martyrdom, the death in life! And you think to please me and console me because you tell me that he admires my pictures and my face! Princess. Claire! you frighten me. Pray don't be angry. I only thought, I only meant, if I were you I should revenge myself. You are famous, you are beautiful, you are independent; I would make him die of love for me, and die in vain! He has no heart, but he has passions. I would ring his very soul! M)ne. Glyon. You would do nothing of the kind if you had loved him once. Nor would there be decency or dignity in any such poor revenge as that. Besides — what a romance you weave because he scorched his hand! He only sought me because he is a connoisseur, and therefore artists are the poor moths he puts under his miscroscope. Princess. But you must feel proud of having achieved such a position for yourself. Mme. Glyon. I can be proud of nothing. A man loved AFTERKOON-. 19 me, and wearied of me. That is humiliation enough to crush the pride of an empress into dust. Princess. You should not be humiliated at all. You are greater than he. You should scorn him. Mme. Glyon {with her teeth set). Perhaps I do. But that cannot take the sting from the wound. Yes, it was cruel, and so contemptible! He was a m;in of the world; he knew its codes, its exactions, its false estimates; he knew also that a peasant child, taken from field and or- chards, who only knew the Credo and the alphabet, could not by any miracle conceive the ways and the demands, the rigor and the mockery of a patrician society. He should have sent me to the convent first, and waited until I was more fit for his people and his sphere. Indeed — indeed — had he said even to me, when he did send me from him, ^"^ Do this for love of me, my child," I would, I think, have borne the exile and the shame of it. But he grew colder and colder, more silent every day; he was to courte- ous to say to me all he felt, but in his eyes I read the daily humiliation that I was to him, and when he wrote to me — wrote to me! — that he was going on an Indian tour, and would be away two years, and those two years he wished me to pass at the convent learning, as he phrased it, the ordinary rules and graces of society; what girl of my age then could have endured such agony? And I — I adored the very dust he trod, I would kiss the heads of the dogs he had laid his hand on! To him, no doubt, it was but one of many episodes; an idyl lived out and found insipid. No doubt I was ignorant, and for him my ignorance was fatigue and shame; but to me, he and his love were all my life, and I could not tell why what he had earlier praised as pure and fresh and unconventional should have later lost all charm for him — I could not tell — hush! There is the Prince! Prince {entering). Care mie ! are you not going to dress to-night? We dine in ten minutes, Laura, and then there will be two hours wanted for you to get into your ball costume, and we must be punctual, since the Queen goes. Princess. Oh ! the Court never gets anywhere till eleven. You always fidget so! and you are always late yourself. My maid always gets me into my clothes in fifteen min- utes by the clock. / do not paint my skin . 20 AFTERiq^OON^. Prince. There is so very little to put on you when it is question of a ball! Two inches of corsage and a little wreath for a sleeve. It might be done in Jive minutes! Princess. My gowns are always decent. The Duchess Danta's exhibition of her vertebra Mme. Glyon {pushing her gently to the door). My dear! what is the use of that? It prevents nothing, and imbit- ters everything. Prince {angrily). Madame Glyon, you see! She prick, prick, prick me every hour like that, and then she do wonder that I like better other women! 3Ime. Glyon. My dear Prince, what pricks you is your conscience. You know you do neglect Laura sadly. Prince {opening his eyes widely). I leave her alone. She has her own way. I only want her do the same by me. Ma quante sono gelose le. donne ! — Mme. Glyon {smiling). No wife is wise. But I shall be late for dinner. \^Exit. Prince {to himself). That is a woman I could have got on with; not that I care about her. Antonio! un hicchier^ ino di Vermouth. [Exit toward dining-room. SCEis^E III. studio of Aldred Dorian. Tapestried Walls, Paintingif MarUes, Bronzes, Carved Chairs, Artistic Litter, Present: Doeian and Mme. Glyon. Dorian {tur^iing dissatisfied from one of his easels). You are a greater artist than I. Mme. Glyon. Oh! pas de phrases! _You area Titian, and paint physiognomy for posterity; 1 am but a poor limner of windmills, corn-fields, and little brooks that wash the linen. Dorian. You portray the face of Nature. It is the higher art. The sunset is nobler than a rosy cheek. Mme. Glyon, I can only paint a rosy apple. Dorian. Who would dare say that of you? You are as true, as grave, and as lofty as Millet. Mme. Glyon {smiling). You must be a very great man to say that of a woman — if you mean it. AFTERNOOl^. 21 Dorian, I always mean what I say, and to you I conld not use an empty flattery if my lips could frame one {he pauses, hesitating), Madame — Olaire — you are greater in the art we love than I am, far greater, but I can own it with frankness and without jealousy, because — because — cannot you divine why? Mme. Glyon, Because you have a noble nature, and also too great a distrust of yourself. Dorian. Ko! It is because I love you. Mme. Glyon {staring at him toith wide-opened eyes)* Love me? Me 9 Are you mad, Dorian? Dorian, Mad? No; if I be, it is a lunacy that many share. Have you never guessed, never seen? I should not dare to speak, only our common love for our common art gives me some courage. I am rich, for an artist; for- give me if I say so vulgar a thing, but I mean that 1 have , the power to make your life a happy one, one of leisure to study, and aspire to the highest heights, which those who must needs work for bread can never do. I love you, I adore you — 1 adore you in the double form of woman and music. If you would not scorn me — you have showed me some esteem, some friendship — if you would be my wife — Mme, Glyon {stupefied). Your wife? Yours? You forget yourself strangely. Do not make me regret the confidence I have felt in a comrade, in a fellow-worker! Dorian {with some anger), Madame! how do I forget myself in offering to you an honest name, an honorable love? I worship you, I believe in you, I kneel at your •feet, Wliat wrong is there? I do not seek to know your , past; I do not, I will not, ask you of your marriage; the man is dead. I would forget he ever lived. Mme. Glyon, Pray cease! I cannot hear you. I shall never marry — again. I must ask your pardon for my hasty words. You do me much honor. I will endeavor to be. grateful, Dorian. I want no gratitude. I want your love, your beauty, your genius, your grand and tranquil nature; I want you. Mme. Glyon, Mr. Dorian, you will compel me to leave your studio, Dorian {seiziiig her hands). You will never listen! 22 AFTERl^OOK. You will never cease to care for that dead man who they all say was but a brute to you! Mme. Glyon. I can but say what I have said. I shall never marry. I shall never love — again! [DoRiAiT releases her hand, and, luithout a word, leaves Ms studio hurriedly iy one door as there enter from another the Prii^cess jSaneriano, the Due a Di MoKTELUPO, and L'Esteange. Princess. Have we kept you waiting too long, Claire? But I know that you and Dorian can always talk together twelve hours at a stretch. But, goodness! where is Dorian? You told him we were coming? Mme. Glyon {with a little embarrassment). He went out a little while ago. No doubt he thought we were old friends enough to be content with his works without him- self, li^ou know they are the best part of every artist! Princess {loohs at her quickly). I shall wait till he comes back. I shall get his tea, and the dear little Per- sian cups and the apostle spoons, and the niello tray, and the Eoman maritozzi, and his negro will bring us his samovar. {Rijiys; a black servant apj^ears). Bring the urn, Eblis; you see we are old friends; I know your name* [She busies herself getting the Persian cups off an old oaken *' cabinet, ^^ Montelupo engrossed in, helping her. V Estrange (to Mme. Glyon). It is strange of Dorian. I saw him an hour ago, and told him we were to meet you here and see his treasures. Entre nous, I think him- self a much finer creation than his works. I care nothing for his pictures, but he is a rather noble fellow. You seem to know him well? Mme. Glyon. I have seen him often in Paris. I think he is a great artist, but his manner perhaps is hard and his color too thin to do his fine conceptions justice. U Estrange. He cannot be named by you. Mme. Glyon. Oh, why compare a pastoral and an epic? VEstrange. True! Besides,r goes out as they ap- proach. Lady Coiues. Dear Prmcess, we are so late and it isn't your day, but we thought we must take a peep at you, though we cannot stop an instant. Lady St. Asaph had something very especial to say to you — to ask you. Princess {aside). I am sure it is to subscribe to a church, or to do something spiteful on my visiting-list. {Alotid.) I shall be so charmed if I can be any use. Yes? What is it? Do tell me, please! Lady St. Asaph {dropping her voice). Could you — would you mind — pray do not think me too personal — but would you tell me if Madame Glyon is really going to marry Aldred Dorian? Princess. Mr. Dorian? No; I don't think so — I don't know. What made you think of it? Lady St. Asaph. Oh, everyone is talking about it; they say it is definitely arranged, and it would be so very — very — very—YBUY dreadful. Princess {sharply). Dreadful? Why? Lady St. Asaph. Oh, dear Princess, you see Aldred Dorian in a sort of cousin of ours— distant, but still a 46 AFTERKOOlS. con sin — the sixteenth Lord St. Asaph married a Dorian of Deepdene. Of course he has always been very strange and odd, caring for nothing but painting, and throwing away all his chances; but still he is a cousin of ours and of heaps of other people too, and if you do know any- thing of this marriage, I do entreat you to tell me the truth. Princess. I don't know anything of it; but if the thing were so, wliat would it matter? why would it be dreadful? Yow know that Madame Glyon is my guest and my friend. Lady Cowes {implori^igly). Oh, dear Princess, pray do not be quite too vexed with us. We remembered your Wfa..affeetion for her, but for all that we resolved to come and jL\^k you frankly to tell us the truth, com Lady St. Asaph. And beg you to stop this marriage without scandal; that is the great thing to do. Aldred jJorian is so headstrong; if there were any opposition, it would make him ten times more determined. Princess, But why should I stop it? Mind, T don't know anything about it; but why should I try to stop it if I did? Lady St. Asaph {lowering her voice). Dear Princess, you are very young, and you have a very warm heart, and you will let an old woman, who knows this wicked world better than you do, tell you something painful — that it is necessary you should know? You will allow me? Princess, I never knew anyone wish to tell me any- thing unless it were painful! Yes; pray say it out. I am very inquisitive. Lady Coives. You know we can only have one motive: to save Dorian and to open your eyes. Lady St, Asaph, And I feel that you ought to know it. Princess. To know what? Oh, please be quick! Lady St. Asaph. Well — that — well, I never can bear to say these things; for, after all, one cannot be sure, and one can never be too charitable — but still, sometimes it is one's dutv— dear Princess, what did you know of Madame Glyon? Princess, She was at the convent where I was. Lady St, Asaph, Ah, quite so; but who was she? Princess, Of very humble birth, I believe; she never disguises it; she is not ashamed of it. Lady St, Asaph, Ah, I see; dear sweet creature, your AFTERNOON. 47 goodness and your innocence naturally lead you to be too trustful; but indeed, you will allow me to advise you — you will make some excuse for bringing the lady's yisit to you to a close. We know for certain, on most unim- peachable authority, that M. Glyon never existed. You will understand me? Princess {coloring), I really don't. I don't care the least for M. Glyon; I love Claire. Lady Cotoes. Ah, dear Princess, that is so sweet and unsuspecting! Of course you fall a pre}- Lady St, Asaph. It was Aldred Dorian's 'infatuation that led me to make inquiries at the proper sources of in- formation. You really do not seem to see the matter in its true and very serious light. There has never been a M. Glyon. The whole thing, name and marriage and all, is false. She is a clever artist, no doubt — at least, they say so; but she is quite — quite unfit for the honor of your affection and protection. They told me in the very strict- est confidence at the French Embassy Princess {rising and speaking qtiichly). Then please. Lady St. Asaph, keep tlieir confidence. You must think the very worst of me if you like, but I will not hear another word against Claire. Lady Coives. But she has an assumed name. Lady St. Asaph. There never was a M. Glyon. Lady Coives. They say she has two millions worth of diamonds; how did she get them? Lady St, Asaph. Aldred Dorian will close society agjiinst him forever if he marry her. Lccdy Coives. You know, everybody knows she does not paint her own pictures — she never did. Lady St. Asaph. If you will only allow me, I can prove to you that you harbor a mere adventuress. Princess. Oh, please don't make me quarrel with you; I should be so sorry to have to do that; but not a word more must you say. You are all wrong, entirely wrong; and as for her marrying Aldred Dorian, she will no more marry him than I shall. Lady St. Asa2Jh. So potdtive an assurance from you is a great comfort, for you must know so much better than anyone else. But some day when you are calmer about it, I think I shall convince you that French artists with feigned names are very compromising guests. 48 AFTERIS^OOis". Lady Coioes. Dear Princess, you have told me your- self that her husband was cruel to her. Princess. So he was. Lady Cowes and Lady St, Aspah (together). But if he never existed? Princess. He did — he does. Lady Goioes and Lady ^t. Asaph {in chorus). Does! Then she is not a Avidow? She is separated? Princess {impatiently). If she be, at least Aldred Do- rian is safe from her! You will pardon me if I ask you to leave my friend^s name in peace. Lady St, Asaph {softly). If one only knew what her name is! Oh, I am so quite too grieved that I have vexed you, but really I thought you ought to know what they say. Priyicess. " They say " has killed many friendships and much happiness, but it won't kill mine and Claire's. Won't you have some tea? No? Oh, you have not vexed me. One is not vexed at what is not in the very least true. Lady St. Asaph {with a sigh). How beautiful such confidence is! But, alas! dear Princess, when you are as old as I you will have learnt that there is no enemy so dangerous and so costly as belief in others! We shall meet to-night? You will be en leaute, I am sure, and I hear Rodrigues has done something marvelous for you in humming-birds and ivory satin. Au revoir — don't be angry, love! Princess {left alone). Oh, the old cats! the horrid old cats! And I am quite sure I answered so badly; and I let them know that her husband was alive! Two millions worth of diamonds! Claire! who won't wear as much as a silver bangle, and spends all her money on the poor of Paris! Oh, the horrid old cats! Poking'into everybody's cupboards, and if they see a cobweb declaring it's a skele- ton! I haven't told any of them any stories yet, but I think — I shall begin. Intrusion ought to be answered by invention. If only Claire would declare herself! — but she never will. Of course as she has had the strength to keep silent all these twelve years, she will go on doing so. Carlino! Carlino! {TlieViii^c^ enters.) Will you tell me one thing, truthfully if you can? Do people ever ask you questions about Claire's husband? AFTERXOOK. 49 Prince. Mia cara ! I think they do, now you name it. Princess, And what do you answer! Prince. Mia cara, I know nothing of the gentleman, so what can I say? She does not produce her husband, and I think you said he was dead; but whether he is dead, or in Russia, or in America, what does it matter? She is a handsome woman, and might amuse herself very well if she chose. I know two or three men who admire her greatly, only she has too much the air of the nemo me impime lacessit. Princess. You would like my female friends to be like yours, then? Prince, Amiability is always agreeable. I should be so glad if you would remember that. Princess. I will try and remember it, and you must not blame me if you dislike the results of my remem- brance. Prince. You mean some menace very profound, but I do not follow it. And I do not think you will ever get out of your regrettable habit of making little scenes about everything — you like them too well. Princess. I detest them, but when you insult me- Prince. Ah, ah! what is coming but a scene? Rather instruct me what I am to say about the dead or the van- ished husband of your friend. They do talk much about her just now! Priiicess. Say she is an angel, and that he was most utterly unworthy. Prince. Oh, cara mia, they would laugh at me for be- ing in love witli her. And as for being unworthy, every- one knows that husbands are always that; there is not a pretty woman in Europe whose husband is not a brute — if you listen to her. I am convinced you tell Montelupo I am a monster. Princess. Montelupo sees for himself that you outrage my feelings on every occasion. Prince. And he consoles you for the outrage. Ah, yes, that is just as it should be. 'Only, Montelupo is a puppy— a gruUo-^an inanity — an absolute ass — you might choose better, more creditably. Princess (aside). He has some decency left; he is jeal- ous. Perhaps he will tire of that horrid woman yet! 50 AFTERNOON. (Aloud.) I find Montelupo quite charming; he has so mncli tact^ so much silent sympathy. Prince. And recompenses himself for his silence by boasting with both lungs in the club! Princess, And don't you boast^ sometimes? Prince {angrily). No, never. [ am not a monkey, all grimace, like your servo; and I tell you now, once for all, that though you can divert yourself as you please, and have any number of young men about you that you like, it is a number that you must have, and not anyone in es- pecial; for if I get laughed at about you, or hear my name dragged through the club, then, Signora Principessa — Princess, Oh, then you mean yon w^ill stand up in your shirt with a big saber? Very well. That will be very flattering to me. But the Duchess Danta will be very angry! [She leaves the room with a little laugh, and the Peikce stands disconcerted. He pours himself out a glass of Kilmmel at the tea-taUe, and says with a sigh, If she were not my wife, she would certainly be bewitch- ing. As it is — che seccatura ! Scene V. 8ame room, five d'cloch next day. Present: L'Estrange and the Prinoess. U Estrange. Princess, in spite of your kind promises, which I am sure have been sustained by kind offices, Ma- dame Glyon remains for ever on the defensive with me. What is the reason? Do not spare my vanity in answer- ing me. Princess.. Well, I must tell you a secret if I am to answer you honestly. L'Estrange, I will be worthy of your confidence. Princess. Oh, it is not very much of one, only Claire would be angry if I spoke of it. You must know, then, that she and I were at the convent with — what did you call her the other day? — the poor young girl who had the misfortune to be your wife of a year. AFTERKOOIS^. 51 JJ Estrange. I unclerst;ind. Madame Gljon remembers lier, pities her^ and so deems me a wretch? Princess. Exactly. Of course yon know it did make a terrible impression on all of us, and Claire being older than I, felt it more. I do not think anything you could ever say or do would change the imj)ression that she has of you. L' Estrange, She is very unjust; it is of no use to go over the old ground, yet it is strange that so serene a woman should show herself so implacable on a matter that can never have touched herself. Princess. She was attached to your wife; pity is very strong in such a woman as Claire. L' Estrange. She has none for me. Princess. My dear Lord L'Estrange, she probably is as convinced as I am that you never can possibly be a sub- ject for compassion. L^ Estrange. Be serious, dear Princess. Surely, by all I have said to you, you must believe that my admiration for your friend is so strong that it must be called by another word, _^ Therefore, her coldness to me is more than painful; it is so distressing to me th&t I am a fool to linger on in Rome. Princess. Oh, she is going back to Paris at Mi-careme. But, really and truly, with all this feeling for her, would it carry you so far as to make you commit another folly in marriage? IJ Estrange. You are her friend, and you call it a folly ? Princess. Certainly; from the world's point of view — v/hich your marriage with the gardener's daughter was. Claire is a famous woman, but she is not of high birth; she is not rich, and the ill nature of society has touched her. You know it is like London soot; it flies about by the merest accident, but if it smudges you, the smut makes you look foolish, though you be white as snow. L^ Estrange. Princess, she is your friend, therefore you will believe that I would not insult either you or herself by a mere frivolous curiosity. Will you let me ask you then honestly— is she. free to marry? Princess. To marry you? L^ Estrange. Well, put it so — is she? There is a ru- mor, more than a rumor, that Glyon is not dead. Princess, Bat would von marrv her? 52 afternoo:n", JJ Estrange. Please answer my question first. Frincess. Then, yes; ten times over, yes; she can be your wife, if she wish it, with as clear a conscience as I am Cariiiio's. But do you wish it? That J doubt very much. ^Estrange, I am beginning to wish it, passionately. I gave her to understand me so, last night. Princess. And what did she say? L^ Estrange. Nothing; we were interrupted; your rooms were so full. Princess. But seriously — you do not seriously mean that you are ready to give your title a second time to a woman without birth? L' Estrange. If 1 be willing to dow^ your friend with all I possess, it is not you, Princess, wo should quarrel with me. 8he has a grand genius, and I am sure a grand nature. They are worth sixteen quarterings, I am a conservative in some ways, but I have no prejudices. Princess. I am sure you mean what you say now, or you think you do; but I am so afraid that — you are so very changeable V Estrange, That is her idea. I am not so. Princess. I mean, you know, that when you see a rare piece of Celadon or Crackling that charms you, you bid against everybody, and would ruin yourself to have it knocked down to you. But, then, when you have it in your collection a little time, you begin to think — perhaps it is an imposture, perhaps it is not worth its money, per- haps somebody else has something like it, or something better; and then, little by little, you quite grow into dis- gust with the poor piece, and would like to put it out of your cabinets altogether, if you were only quite sure. Kow, one woman you have already treated like the bit of Celadon; and, though you are so eager now to pay any price for another, I am afraid you would feel much the same to her in time, ii you get your way. And Claire is not a mere piece of china; she is a very sensitive and very proud woman. E Estrange, You have a poor impression of me; j^our friend has inoculated you with her opinions. Princess. Can you deny that toward your china you do gradually grow from adoration to indifference, from indijfference to doubt, from doubt to downright disgust? AFTERNOON". 53 L'Estrange. One always depreciates or overestimates what is one's own. But your parallel is not quite true. I have pieces of Old Vienna^ of Japanese, of Crackling, with which I have been satisfied for twenty years. It is only where there is a doubt that one grows whimsical and dissatisfied. Pi'mcess. Well, Claire to you would be like the china that you do doubt about. If you won her, you would always be saying to yourself, What does the world think of her? V Estrange, You make me a poor creature. Princess. No, no; only a connoisseur not easy with his MleUts unless the whole of mankind be envying them. Envy is the mark that society scratches on the very best of everything, as I believe they put double L's on the Bourbon Sevres. Unless your Sevres had the double L's, you would not care for it. L' Estrange, You are so witty. Princess, that it is im- possible to keep up with you, and I do not want wit to- day; I want sympathy. Princess, Try and get it from Claire. [Mme. Glyon enters, not seeing L'Estrange; she has a quantity of daffodils and narcissus in her hand. She speahs to the Princess. Laura, these arc lovelier than your camellias and azaleas. I will put them in your Venetian bowl {sees L'Estrange). You here again, Lord L'Estrange? Good morning. Why must one say morning even while vespers are sounding? U Estrange. Dinner is the only meridian we recog- nize, I never knew why we have not called it supper. You have got those flowers in the Doria woods, I think? Mme. Glyooi. Yes, I have been there with B6be. Princess. Ah, my Bebe! I must go and see him. I hope you nave not tired him, I am afraid he is getting to love you better than me. Mme. irlyon, I shall be gone in ten days, and then Bebe will forget, [Exit the Princess. L'Estrange apjjroaches Mme. Glyon as she is arranging the dcffodils, V Estrange, Do you believe it is so easy to forget you, even for Beb6? 54 AFTERIS^OON. Mme. Glyon. Yes, it is very easy. Bebe is a boy; over his Easter eggs he will forget even what my face is like. L' Estrange. T do not think even Bebe at his mature years will be so faithless, I wish you would have more true conception of the bold you take upon us through your eyes, as Spaniards say. Most people have so far too much self-esteem. You err in the very opposite fault of self-detraction and self-depreciation. Mme. Glyon, No; I know where my strength lies and where my weakness does. I can force the world into ad- mii-ation of my works, but I never yet could influence a living being. Some people are like that; their power of volition is expended on their art; in the facts of life they are weak, and write their names in water. L' Estrange: You write yours in fire on men's memo- ries. Will you let me say again what I said ill last night? Will you Mme. Glyon. Leave it unsaid; I will consider it un- said. You spoke on a mere impulse — a whim of the mo- ment. We all know such a whim cost you dear once. V Estrange. Can you never leave in oblivion that one folly? After all, it was no crime. Mme. Glyon. I think it was one. I may be hyper- critical, L" Estrange, If it were, leave it in its grave. Mme. Glyon, In her grave. L^ Estrange, You are most unjust. One moment you call my hapless marriage a whim, the next a crime. It cannot be both. If I be such a poor light piece of this- tledown, I cannot seriously be loaded with responsibili- ties so weighty. I cannot see what that one action of my past can have to do with you. Mme. Glyon. Nothing; only, I am quite well aw^are that what you profess to feel for me is of no more worth, and will have no longer life, than what you felt for the gardener's daughter of whom you made a countess. L' Estrange. Good heavensi how shall I convince you? Can you compare yourself one instant, in your genius, your brilliancy, your fame, to that poor child whose mer^ physical loveliness, for an hour of summer-pass'^"' "lade me lose my wits and brave the'laughter of the "^o/'ld? Mme. Glyon {loohing at him sternly). The^® ^s not so very vast a difference. I am of the people. yQUj* world. AFTEEXOOX. 00 if it do not laugh at me, often slanders me. To love mc, a man would need to be indifferent to comment and to in- nuendo; no coward before conventionality, and deaf as a marble wall to the envenomed buzz of chattering tongues. Lord L'Estrange, you are not such a man. V Estrange, 1 could become such — for you. Mme. Glyon, You think so at this moment. I believe you to be sincere. But you deceive yourself. You never would resist the pressure of social opinion. You see me through your own eyes now, and do me more than justice; but, if I listened to you, soon — very soon — you would see me through the eyes of others, and little by little you would quarrel with yourself once more for having been a fool. L'Estrange {Utterly). Ah! You can reason so ably and so coldly because I do not touch a fiber of your sym- pathies; I do not for a moment quicken a pulse of your heart! If you had the faintest feeling for me, you would not condemn me with such chilly logic. Mme. Glyon (J.ooTcing doivn on the daffodils), I am not insensible to the honor you do me, and I believe in the momentary sincerity of your assurances. But — that is all. L'Estrange {passionately). What can I say to make you believe? Mme. Glyon. ISTothing would make me believe in the duration of the fantasy that moves you this idle Carnival time, and will have left you, as my memory wd 11 have left Beb6 by Easter-day. [She rings. A servant enters. Mme. Glyon {to Servant). Bring water for this bowl of flowers. Lord L'Estrange, why do you distress your- self and me? Go— go in peace; and when you awake out of this momentary madness, as you will do very soon, you will say to yourself, '^ How nearly I committed a second folly because a woman's pictures had a morlidezza and a fancv in them that I liked!" L Estrange, You are cruel! You are unjust! You are utterly wrong. Mjne. Glyon, Here is Giovanni with the water. He understands English very well. L Estrange, But if I could convince you of the sin- cerity of my feelings — of their constancy— would there be anything on your side to forbid your listening to me? 56 ^FTERNOOK. Mme. Glyon, It is mere waste of time to* discuss the impossible. L' Estrange, At least do me the justice of a frank re- pl)'. Would you be free to grant me what I solicit? Mme. Glyon. What do you mean? L' Estrange. I mean in plain words — is Grlyon dead? Mme. Olyon, Were there a shadow of claim on me from any other, you may be sure I would not have let you speak such words as you have done. But these questions are very idle. Lord L'Estrange, in plain words, since you ask them, I refuse you. Ij Estrange. I will leave you. You will make my ex- cuses to the Prince. [Exit. [8he completes the arrangements of the flowers and then dismisses the servant. Alone , she sinhs into a seat and bursts into tears. He loves me now! And if I could keep up the comedy, he would love me, perhaps, always. I might marry him again, and he need never know the truth. But I would not Avin him by a lie — it would be too base. Maybe, even as far as I have gone is wrong; and yet it was such temp- tation to see his cold heart day by day warm and soften toward me, and his fastidious fancy find in me his ideal. And he is so dear to me — so dear! How could he not know that I resented so passionately because I loved so well! Maybe even now we might be happy — no, not if he knew the truth. I should lose all my charm for him; he would be once more afraid of all my antecedents; he would be once more seeing the peasant in my step, in my voice, in my habits; he thinks me a muse, a goddess, now — but if he knew! He is so utterly the unconscious slave of his fancy, he is so entirely under the dominance of mere ca- price, that when he learned that he was in love with his own wife, he would be disenchanted like a child who sees the fairy of a pantomime, stripped of her gossamer wings and golden crown, trudging through mud, in common every-day attire. He is entirely the creature of his fancy, as the child is. And I could not risk it again — the grad- ual disillusion, the impatience that only courtesy con- trolled, the fading away of tenderness into dissatisfaction, the changing of adoration into incessant criticism; no, I could never bear them now. Better that we should for AFTERNOON. ever live apart. I have art; he has the world. He will bo happy; in three months' time he will have forgotten my rejection. And yet, oh heaven! how Imrd it is not to cry out to him — My love! my love! SCEKE VI. Dorian^s Studio, Present: Lady Cowes, Lady St. Asaph, tlie Princess, Ipswich, Moktelupo. Princess, Is Dorian really gone? Lady St, Asaph, Oh, yes, to the Soudan. I am so thankful. Princess. Oh dear, how can you be! All his delightful life in Rome to be broken up like this, and all these de- licious things to be sold — it is too utterly vexing; and his Tuesday teas for us in Carnival were the very pleasantest things one had— how can you say 3'OU are thankful? and that delicious negro and the 7iieUo teapot! Lady St. Asaph. Dear Princess, you know why 1 am thankful. A temporary break-up is very much better for him than a lifelong misfortune, and you can buy the tea- pot at the sale; the negro is gone with him to Africa. Lady Cowes, And of course he will come back with another negro in a year or two, and begin to buy teapots again, and get tapestries together in a new studio. It was the very wisest thing he could do to go. Ip^swich, Is it true. Princess, that your handsome friend sent him to the Soudan because she is trying it on with L'Estrange? Lady Oowes, Everyone knows that. Lord Ipswich, ex- cept, perhaps, the Princess. Princess [hastily). It is utterly false. Lady Coiues and Lady St, Asaph {together). Oh, dear Princess! Princess. Utterly false! If you must know, she re- fused to marry both Aldred Dorian and Lord L'Estrange. There! you make me say mean things — things I never ought to say — because you are so obstinate, so untrue, so unkind. .58 AITERNOOX. Lady St. Asa^jh {angrily). She certainly did nofc re- fuse Aldred Dorian. We talked to him — we are cousins — and he said how right we were, and determined to go to Africa. Princess. As if Dorian was such a contemptible creat- ure as to be talked to — talked over! Of course you don't believe me, but I know she refused him here in this very studio. Lady Cowes. She told you so, I suppose? Princess. No, she did not. Dorian told me himself. He was wretched. He will never be the same man or the same artist again Ipsimch {laughing). And is L'Estrange wretched? On my word, I don't see it. He was buying brocades in the Ghetto this morning with all the zest imaginable. PiHncess. His soul never rises above brocades and /hiljeUts! No, I don't mean that; he can be very nice, very charming, but it makes me angry to see how he does absorb himself in old rubbish. It is better than horses, though. Lady St. Asaph, I though you said he was in love Avith your friend? She certainly is entirely modern, as nobody ever heard of her till five years- ago! Princess. Oh, you mean till all Paris crowded to her great picture of the **G-leaners." Well, no artist can be heard of until something's exhibited. Ipswich. Come, Princess, you don't mean seriously that she has thrown over L'Estrange? Princess, I am very sorry I said it. I ought not to have said it; but as I have said it, I can't unsay it, and it is true. Ipswich, Well — it beats me! — when his marriage twelve years ago was such a blunder. Lady St. Asaph, There cannot be any question of any- thing half so innocent as even a stupid marriage. Ma- dame Griyon's husband is alive — the Princess told us so the other day. Princess, You quite misunderstood what I meant, and my friend is quite free to marry Lord L'Estrange if she choose to marry him. Lady Coives. Well, I think he had better ask a few questions in Paris first — the questions you should have asked, dear Princess! AFTEKKOON. 59 Princess. I never do ask questions about my friends, I was born in a country-house on the St. Lawrence, where nobody is supposed to know good manners, and I was taugiit that to sneak behind anybody's back, to pry about them, was a very vulgar sort of thing to do. But, in so- ciety, everybody does seem to me to be vulgar. [Lady Cowes and Lady St. Asaph laugh slightly. Ipsivich. AVell, yes, society is a bit of a cad, there's no doubt about it; we do slang one another so awfully. Here's L'Estrange; come to look after the niello teapot, I'll be bound. L^ Estrange {salutes them and adds to Lady St. Asaph). I cannot tell you how sorry I am about Dorian. Are these things really to be sold? Ipsioich^ There! That's all he thinks about. He wants the teapot and the tapestries. To have one's friends really interested in one's disappearance or death, one must have got together a lot of good things in pots and pans and bed-curtains and old iron. V Estrange. Are they really to be sold? Lady St, Asajjh. Oh, yes; he does not mean to come back. L^ Estrange. He will come back. No one can stay away from Eome who once has cared for it? Lady St. Asajoh. But they are all to be sold; he has left all directions to Costa's judgment. L^ Estrange. He is great friends with Costa. I am so very sorry; few have so fine a mind as Dorian; few give one such genial companionship. Princess. And such delightful Tuesday teas. How v/e shall miss those Tuesdays with those solemn tapestries frowning at our frivolity! Lady St. Asaph. We must be going homeward. Good- day, dear Princess; v/e shall meet at Madame Minghetti's. [Exit ivith Lady Cowes and Ipswich. Princess. I have to wait here for Carlino. He wants to look over the things before any regular arrangement is made about them. It seems Dorian has some wonderful trasferato work in steel and silver. L' Estrange. Yes; 1 know it; it is exquisite. I will see Costa at once^ and try and buy everything as it stands, 60 AFTEKKOON". without letting a sale come on. Dorian is terribly mis- taken to think of selling his things. One should never do that. Princess, Lord L'Estrange, T said just now that you cared for nothing but brocades and dric-a-brac. It seemed a little harsh when I had said it, but you see it is true. You are feeling nothing for Aldred Dorian; you are only thinking of buying his things, just as Oarlino is. V Estrange, Princess, I am thinking of buying them, it is true; but I am only thinking of it for this reason — that I want to keep the atelier together just as Dorian left it, so that when he comes back, as he will certainly do, he can have it all again if he please to have it; he will only need to hand me over my purchase-money. I do not like Dorian^s things to be dispersed. Princess, Oh — h — h! I beg your pardon, I did mis- judge you. But how can you go buying brocades at the Ghetto when you pretend to be miserable about Claire's indifference? U Estrange. Vun n^empeclie ])as Vautre, One's hab- its are a part of oneself; one puts them on as one puts one's boots on in the morning. Besides, you must re- member I do not ^'sorrow as those that have no hope." I believe that Madame Glyon will come in time to do me justice, as you have now done in a lesser matter. Princess. But she is going away. V Estrange. To Paris? Well, I usually spend the spring in Paris. I do not foresee any great obstacle in her return to Paris. If there were no greater Princess, And you really would make her your Count- ess? V Estrange. I would really make her my Countess, if you like that Court-circular form of expression. I prefer to say that I would make her my wife. It seems the warmer term. Princess. Do you know, Lord L'Estrange, I am getting quite fond of you? L' Estrange. I am too charmed. Princess, I never thought you had so much feeling; and it isn't only evanescent, is it? V Estrange. As far as I know myself, it is not. It is of this that I want you to persuade your friend. She got rid of me yesterday by means of da&odils and a servant^ AFTEKXOON. 61 and it is difficult for me to approach her again yet. She was so very cold. Indeed, she seems always disposed to resent as an impertinence the highest compliment that a man can pay to a woman. ^^^^ Princess. Well, I have done all I can. But Claire has her own view — it is difficult to change them. I think you will do better not to worry her. U Estrange. Worry her! You certainly do treat one to rough facts, Princess. I suppose what you mean is that one must ride a waiting-race. Princess. Yes, that is what I do mean. I quite un- derstand your impatience. You are a very great person, and you have got a very high place, and you would give all you have to Claire, and you naturally expect your gen- erosity to meet at least with gratitude. Only you see it is all spoilt in her eyes by the fact that you were equally generous to that poor peasant girl, and repented it. L'Estrange. I think it hard that a long past folly, which was after all a chivalrous folly, should for ever be quoted against me. Princess. Perhaps ifc is hard, but it is good for you to taste a wholesome bitterness for once. You have been fed on honey. {The Prince enters.) Carlino, it is no use your fretting over the trasferato; Lord L'Estrange is going to buy up everything by a private arrangement. Prince. Is that so, caro mio f L^ Estrange. I am going to try and do it, at any rate. It is folly to break up this charming atelier, Dorian will certainly return. Prince. When he has ceased to break hig heart about La Glyon. Laura should send that lady back to Paris: she makes mischief here. There is Sant' Elmo now wild to marry her, and he is Ion ^prince and enormously rich, and a handsome lad too; she will take him, I dare say. Princess. No, she will not; you will not under,stand, Carlino. She does not want to marry — again. Prince. Oh, yes; she is a muse, and all that, but she will take a very. big thing when it comes to her. Dorian was not a very big thing; he was only a fairly nice thing. That was not enough for your friend. She is ambitious. One sees that in the way her head is poised. Now, Sant' Elmo is a grand marriage; you cannot have a grander — off 62 AFTEKNOOK. a throne: Roman prince, Spanish duke^, Hungarian mar- graf, and rich — ouf! — if I were only as rich! Princess {low to L'Estrakge). Don't you feel as if yon were at Christie's or the Drouot, bidding against Lord Dudley for a vieux Vienne cup? V Estrange. I did not need the stimulus. Prince. Lord L'Estrange, shall we go together to the Via Margutta? If Costa refuse to let you purchase en Hoc, I should like to say a word to him about the trasferato. L^ Estrange. Certainly. The Princess comes' with us? Priiicess. No; I shall stay here till Claire comes^ and then we are going very far out to some convent to see some Madonna of Mino's that no male eyes must profane. [Mme. GtLYON enters. The Prin-ce and L'Esteange how to her and go out, Claire, he is going to buy all Dorian's things and keep them till Dorian comes back. Isn't it nice of him? Do you know, he ^'s very nice when you understand him. . I do — I doj indeed, think you ai^ in error. Mme. Glyon. I know that I have been in error when I came into this room. I allowed a noble nature like Do- rian's to fasten its hopes on me, which he never would have done if we had not, tacitly at any rate, led him to believe that my husband was not living. I can never for- give myself the wreck of Dorian's happy and noble life; but, if you will believe me, until he spoke of it here, I never dreamed of his feeling for me anything more than that sympathy which the same tastes and art beget. Princess. And now Carlino says there is Sant' Elmo? Mme. Glyon. Oh, that handsome boy will find many to console him. Dorian is very different — to him I have been guilty. Princess. And I think you are — not altogether right to Lord L'Estrange. Mme. Glyon, How can anyone in a false position be altogether right to anyone? A false position is like a wrong focus in photography; it distorts everything. My motives in all I have done have been innocent enough, but concealment always ends in some sin or another. Princess. No, no— sin is too big a word — too ugly a word; it does not suit you at all. Your worst faults are pride and oversensitiveness; they are no very grave ones. afier:nook. 63 But indeed, Claire, he does love you now^ not only with his fancy. I cannot see why you should not tell him. Mjne, Glyon. He would be disenchanted in one in- stant. He is only captive by his imagination. The other day he saw the cast of my foot at Story's studio, and found it perfect; if he knew now that it had ever orone in wooden shoes over the plowed fields, he would find at once that the ankle was too thick or the instep too high. Alas! I know him so well — so well! Princess. And you make him out a fool. Mme. Glyon. Oh, no; only a dilettante full of caprice. Princess. Well, I think you wrong him. 1 have said so fifty times; and I never thought to live to say so, either. Would you let me try the experiment I told you of the other day? He ought at least to know you live. If you continue to reject him, he may turn for solace to some one else; then he may want to marry that some one else, and then you will have to tell him, coute que coHte. Mme. Glyon. Oh, no; I have kept silence twelve years. I can very well keep it all my life. And you will never betray me? Princess. ISTever, unless you bid me. But I think you do very wrongly. You are of that sort of nature which self-sacrifice fascinates; and because an act is a martyr- dom, 3^ou cannot also imagine that it may be at the same time an error. Mme. Glyon. Laura! you grow quite logical and subtle in your arguments; I never knew you thought out things so much. Princess. I think them out because I love you, and I see your whole life going to waste; no, not to waste, be- cause your works are fine, and you spend all your days do- ing good; but barren of all happiness, of all sympathy, of all tenderness, and even, you know, subject to the rumors of lying tongues. Mme. Glyon. That last does not matter. Princess. Oh, no; you are very proud, and falsehood cannot touch you; but still it tells, somehow, when the world crowns you with one hand and scourges with the other. Will you let me try my experiment — just try it? Mme, Glyon. It would be unwise, and it would be use- less; I am sure he would take his release so gladly on any terms. hmiw^^ 04 AFTERXOOls^ Princess. That is what I will see if you will let me. Do think it over. Tell me to-night. I don't wush to persuade, but indeed — indeed, Olaire — it is not fair to him to let him go on in ignorance, in a fool's paradise; and if he do know, and behaves unworthily, he will never force you to live with him— he is too truly a gentleman, Mme, Glyo7i, He will have no wish, my dear, when once he knows, ever to see my face again. Try your ex- periment, as you call it; but if he would take his liberty so, remember, I will be dead to him for ever, though I hide myself in the uttermost ends of the earth. Princess. That, of course. But if he be loyal to his forgotten wife, then you will pardon him? [Mme. Glyok is silent. Princess. Silence is assent. Let us drive to the con- vent, and we will not speak another word. I have all my fibs to fabricate. Mme. Glyon. He will accept. Princess, He will refuse! \Exeunt, Scene VIT. In the Cimontcmara Grounds; o?i the stone seat of S. Pi- lippo Neri are seated L'Estrange a^id the Prikcess; » facing them are the Campagna, Porta Ban Giovanni, the mountains of Albano. Princess. In this stone summerhouse S. Philip, your namesake, preached to the giddy youths that loved him. Now I, who am very giddy, am going to preach to you. I asked you to come here because I am never sure of be- ing interrupted in my own house, and I have to tell you something very, very serious. V Estrange. I am sure you are my friend, Princess. Princess, . I am. But my friendship can be of little use to you. Now Olaire does care for you — cares for you as you wish, but V Estrange. Never mind the ^^buts!" How can I thank you. Princess? Princess. It will be a folly, you know. Another folly! 1/ Estrange. I do not think so. AFTERNOON. 65 Princess. And you did not think so once of the other. Are yon sure you will not change? L' Estrange. I dare swear I shall not. Princess. But if the world L' Estrange. The world will haye no power over me. Princess. It had twelve years ago. V Estrange. Pray let the past alone. I want to live in the present. What you have told me this morning makes it as cloudless as the day is. Princess. Wait! I have much to tell you. V Estrange, What else can matter? I am happy. Princess. Ah, don't say so: wait till you hear every- thing. Claire could have cared for you, but I feel frightened to tell you, but jy Estrange {growing pale). Glyon is not dead? Princess. It is not that. Maitre Jules Desrosne, the great French advocate, you know, is in Rome. He has come for the French Cardinals L* Estrange. What has that to do with me? Princess. Well, I don't know how to tell you, but I must; and I could not, if there were not some consolation in it too; but Maitre Desrosne has known me from a child — he defended a case for my father against the French Oovernment — and as he heard the gossip of Rome, which made out that Claire was going to marry you next week, he told me to tell you something, which he thought I might break to you better than he could, as you have never known him. L' Estrange. Well? Speak out. Princess. What is this terrible thing that a French lawyer knows? Princess. Oh, do not jest; pray do not jest. Maitre Desrosne is quite distressed for you: it is — it is, that your young wife did not die. L' Estrange. Whatf Princess. Yes, that is it — that is what he says; she is alive — he knows her very well; he has been her counsel. L^ Estrange. Good God! Are you mad, or am I? Princess. Nobody is; oh, pray do not look so; you -frighten me. You look as if I had turned you into stone. [L'EsTRANGE 7Hses and moves about with his face averted. VEstrnnge. I will not frighten you, Princess. Only CG AFTERNOON, give me one moment to get my breatli— you have stunned me. Princess {murmuring). I am so sorry! Desrosne could not tell you before, because he only knew it in confidence, as her adviser; she gave him permission now because she heard of your L^ Estrange. But how can it be? She was drowned, and it was bupposed her body was washed out by the un- derground waters to tlie Seine. Princess. Oh, yes; that is quite true. I mean, it is quite true that she did throw herself into the moat, and meant to drown herselt; but her father had come to the convent, begging to be taken on as gardener there for the sake of being near her; and Maitre Desrosne tells me that her father rescued her from the water when she had sunk twice unseen — for it was twilight— and hid himself with her for some time, in the cottage of a forester who was his friend. She heard you thought her dead, and let it be so. She had friends amongst the convent girls; one of them she wrote to, and confided in, and asked how she could gain a livelihood. That girl was going back to her own country for the vacation, and as she loved your wife, took her with her to her own people. In that country she main- tained herself by teaching; she would not be dependent on her friends, though they were rich. When they came to Europe, she, I believe, came with them. All this Maitre Desrosne has known for years. V Estrange. Where is she now? ^ Princess. You do frighten me! Carlino's violence is not one half so terrible as your English quietude. Your eyes look as if you saw a ghost U Estrange, I do see— many. Not dead, good God! — and I — hear it as the worst calamity that could befall mel Not dead? Not dead? Princess. No; Maitre Desrosne has known her seven years. He should have told you earlier. V Estrange, He should, indeed. Princess, But I suppose he could not. Lawyers are like confessors. Your wife has lived honorably. L' Estrange. Ah! Princess, She has maintained herself here, and \vl America. L' Estrange. She has been in America? AFTEllKOO]Sr, 6? Princess. So he says. You will wish to see her? L^ Estrange {luitli a shudder). Do not talk of it! I will endeavor to do my duty. Princess. But if she were so contrary to all your tastes, and v/ishes tlien, will she be less so now? Twelve years passed in hard work does not give the bloom of Ninon, and you — you are not less fastidious now than then. Wiiab ^ a future for you! L^ Estrange. Spare me! This advocate will give me means of proving all that he has said? Princess. Oh, yes; he will, of course. I do not think, tbou2:!K that she wants you to take her back. [L'EsT RANGE covers Ms eyes with his hand a moment. Princess. And I do know Claire cares for you. L' Estrange. Spare me a little. Princess! Where is this Maitre Desrosne? I must see him at once. Princess, He stays at the Farnese Palace. L' Estrange. You believe he speaks the truth? Princess. He must! He is so great a person in the law; he will be a Judge whenever he pleases; he has your wife's letters with him. And — and — he said something lelse, Lord L'Estrange, which gave me courage to tell you this; if he had not said the good with the bad, I never jGonld have dealt you such a blow; for you know I have g-ot quite fond of you since you loved Claire. L^ Estrange. What good can there be? Princess. Well, it seems that when she returned to Prance, years ago, your wife went to him with an intro- duction from a French bishop, and told him her position, and asked him as to the legality of her marriage, of which she had become gjiioubtful. Now, Maitre Desrosne told me U Estrange. What? Princess. Well, that the marriage is not a perfectly ^ legal one— not perfectly; that there are loop-holes by which you could get free — some omission of some trifle, some blunder in the date of your wife's birth through the stu- pidity of her own people— no fault of yours — but you at- tended too much to the religious ceremony and not enough to the civil one. He would explain it better, but his strong opinion is that you can break the marriage; annul it, if you please; he is sure that both France and England will set yoa free. If he had not said that, I never should have 6S AFTERKOOH. summoned courage to tell you, knowing as I do, too, that Claire's happiness is at stake. [L'EsTEANGE loolcs at her in silence. Princess. How you do look! Indeed, indeed, Maitre Desrosne said so, and you can see himself any day you like; he stays a month at the Palazzo Farnese. He bad gone into the question years ago for your wife au grand secret, and he is one of the very greatest lawyers in all , France. He never would give an opinion lightly. [L'EsTRANGE is still silent. Princess. Do say something! You frighten me! Per- haps I should have told you the good news first. You don't look now one bit more glad. U Estrange (rising and standing facing her). Princess, I do not know what you take me for; that this poor creat- ure lives is most terrible to me, that I do not deny. I am no saint, as was St. Philip ISTeri. But, if you believe I could take advantage of a legal quibble to cast shame upon a woman who in her youth trusted me, — well! you have known me very little, though we have spent so many- pleasant hours together. Princess. But, heavens and earth! I thought you loved Claire? V Estrange. You know well that I do love her most dearly, but I cannot stoop to dishonor even for her: the very basest sort of dishonor, too. Just heavens! to hire men of law to hound down in the dust a hapless soul who gave herself to me in all good faith and innocence! Can you think I would deny her rights, whatever they may cost me, merely because some forgotten minutiae of men's trumpery laws have lost them to her? '; Princess, You refuse to free yourself? L' Estrange. At such a price I must refuse, or be a scoundrel. My life will be most wretched if all you say is true; but, at least, it will not be foul with perfidy and^ cowardice. . Princess. Ah ! ah ! there are depths in you to be stirred! I was right! And now Well — well — perhaps, you know, you will not be so very wretched after all! The aftermath may be richer than the first crop was. You will bless Time the mower. Yes, you will. Ask Claire [She rises and moves away,. AFTERNOON. 69 Mme. GlyoinT advances slowly from leJiind the stone sum^ merliouse and the lay and artutus that grow ahout it. She holds out her hands to L'Esteange in a timid ap' peal. She says : Love! I forgive you. Will you forgive me? or will you despise me? [He starts and falls hack; then tahes her in his arms, ' L' Estrange, Great God! How could I be so blind ? AT CAMALDOLI. A SKETCH. DRAMATIS PERSONS. DucA Di Bastia, MaRCHESE BELLA ROCCALDA. Mr. Wynne-Ellis. Padre Francesco. The Comtesse de Riom. Madame de Satntai^ge, Mrs. Yanscheldt. Sce:n^e: Tlie Hotelin the Monastery, \In the Pharmacy.'] Comtesse de Riom. It makes one long to be ill, to have an excuse to come here. Duca di Bastia. I need no excuse; I buy liqueurs. Comtesse de Miom. Did you ever see such exquisite old blue pots? All pure Savona. I have offered my soul for one of them, but tlie monks are obdurate. Duca di Bastia. Do not tempt them. Selling is the modern curse of Italy. It is a comfort to find that mon- astery walls can exclude the temptation; they too often do not^ and our angels are sold to shiver in the fogs of Lon- don and the snows of Berlin. Co?ntesse de Riom. Does not one get back into pure qi/attro cento here? Romeo's apothecary must have had just such conserve pots and sweet- water jars as these. Duca di Bastia. You would like my old palace at Sqnillace, madame; it has such quantities of such old pot- tery as this, all as dusty as the soul can desire. Comtesse de Riom. I should delight in dusting them. Duca di Bastia. How happy you would make me! I should envy the cobwebs. • (70) AT CAMALUOLI. 7i Comtesse de Riom. What! when I should destroy the cobwebs? Duca cli Bastia. It would be better to be destroyed than to be unnoticed. Comtesse di Riom. That is according to taste. Mrs. Vanscheldt. How do you do, Duke? What ever are ?/oti doing at Camaldoli? Duca di Bastia. If it were not impolite to reply to one question by another, I sliould ask what do you — the idol of Paris, the queen of Aix, the reine gaillarde of London? - Mrs. Vanscheldt. All that is very pretty, but beiiiud my back I daresay you call me that horrid American; don't get off by a faux fiiyant; what makes you bury yourself in this pine- wood? Duca di Bastia. My adoration of Americans. Mrs. Vanscheldt. Don't expect me to believe that, when you might have married Elise Hicks last winter, with the biggest fortune that ever came out of Arkansas lum- ber. {To Madame de Riom.) He might indeed, and she was a very pretty girl too, and — my! — her pearls. Comtesse de Riom, ^The Duke was ungrateful. Duca di Bastia. As ungrateful as the monks who won't sell their pots. My prejudices and theirs have prob- ably the same roots. Mrs. Vanscheldt. But why do you come to Camaldoli • — you? Can you live without a Club? Duca di Bastia, I find Camaldoli charming; a most admirably healthy air, p/erfect quiet; pine-woods which are so good for the lungs, and, as Madame de Eiom remarks, divine pharmacy-pots to keep alive in one the love of the fine arts. What can one ask more? Perhaps the cook- ery leaves something to be desired, but that is just the amount of mortification which one ought to be willing to - endure in a monastery. i Mrs. Vanscheldt. All the same you must be bored to ^ death, mon cher. Shall we get up a little baccara to- night? Duca di Bastia {hesitates), Madame de Eiom does not approve. Mrs. Vanscheldt. What! is the Countess to be the keeper of ull our consciences? Then we shall be as dull as a Boston Sunday, for she sets her face dead against all fun. 72 AT CAMALDOLI. Comtesse de Riom. You think me a Purifcan!' Indeed I am no such thing, but I detest all kinds of play; I have seen so much suffering caused by. it. Mrs. VanscJieldt (aside). Now she will preach like a young Dominican friar. Comtesse de Rio7n. No; I never preach; play if you like, but if you must play, why do you come to Camaldoli? Mrs. Va7ischeidt. I come to wait for Mr. Vanscheldt, who is in the course of crossing the ocean, and because, as the Duke wsely observes, the odors of the pine-woods are so good for the lungs; my lungs are seriously affected, only nobody ever will believe it. Duca di Bastia. Nobody will believe that mine are. Mrs. Vanscheldt. I am sure we have both done our best that they should be. Did you come for your lungs, too. Countess? Comtesse de Riom. No; I came for quiet. But it seems that the world sends its echoes even up amongst these saintly hills, and you have brought as many fourgons as if you had come to Monaco in January. I have brought nothing but serge. Mrs, Vanscheldt. Serge smothered in Mechlin, how- ever. So much depends on what one can wear. You are such an elegant creature that you may put on sacking and you will look just as well. If I'm not dressed up to my eyes, I'm a dowdy, a fright — nobody 'd look at me — the very birds would peck at me. I wouldn't put on those plain tailor-made suits that you can wear if it were to save my life. Duca di Bastia. There is Saxe china pimpante and charming, and there are marble Venuses, white, serene, .superb. One may admire both. Mrs, Vanscheldt. Very prettily said, Duke. But I know you don't admire me; you told a friend of mine that I was like a doll out of the Palais Royal. Duca di Bastia. That friend must have thoroughly understood the mission of friendship. If I could hope that friend were of the masculine' gender Mrs. Vanscheldt. You would quarrel with him about a cigar or a newspaper, and hack him about afterward with a saber; I know your ways. Why will Italians always fight with sabers? It is very barbarous. Duca di Bastia. It is not pretty. The rapier is much AT CAMALDOLI. 73 more elegant and the pistol much quicker. But every nation has its prejudices; the saber is ours. Mrs. Vanscheldt. It ought not to be so; it is not suffi- ciently graceful. The rapier is more like what your na- tional weapon should be. The rapier is amongst swords what the mandoline is amongst instruments. Duca di Bastia (boios). Henceforth I will fight with the rapier. Comtesse de Riom. I hope you will not fight at all; it is very barbarous. Duca di Bastia. It is a little, but it is wholesome. If that friend whom Madame Vanscheldt spoke of Mrs. Vanscheldt, It was a she! Duca di Bastia, Ah! I might have supposed so. Some- one who has envied your toilets, or whose receptions I have neglected. Malice is always so busy; one wonders there are two people left on speaking terms with each other. Padre Francesco {approaching). Our mountain roses are very smiple things, but if their Excellencies would deign to accept them? Oomtesse de Riom, Oh, mon Reverend! how exquisite! How can I tliank you enough? Monsieur de Bastia, say something pretty to him for me. Mrs, Vanscheldt. Poor old man! And we order tea thousand for a ball, and never look at them. Uomtesse de Riom. How very kind! What sweet roses! I must really learn Italian to be able to talk to these de- lightful old people. Duca di Bastia. Let me have the honor to teach you, madame. Mrs. Vanscheldt, When Italians teach a pretty woman their language, they always begin with Dante. They get to the galeotto fu il lihro e chi lo scrisse, and there they stop. Tlie lesson never advances. Duca di Bastia. Perhaps it advances too quickly! Comtesse de Riom. We will begin with Silvio Pellico. Duca di Bastia. We will begin with what you like, provided we end in Armida's Gardens. Comtesse de Riom. Armida's Gardens? That is in Ariosto. Duca di Bastia. It is in Ariosto. But Ariosto found 74: AT CAMALDOLl. it in Love. It is still there. {The Comtesse de Riom col- ors and plays with her roses.) Mrs. Vanscheldt {smiling). Did Ariosto ever come here — for liis lungs — I wonder? Do these dear old male goodies sell cigarettes, do you know? Duca di Bastia. I fear they are not yet at that height of civilization. They sell liqueurs into which I believe oil and honey enter in equal proportions. Here is one with a title fit for an ode of Meleager's or Ovid's, the Lagrime deV ahete. What can be more poetic? Mrs. Vanscheldt, I'll taste. It won't beat Delmonico's pick-me-ups. Duca di Bastia, Alas! what can the old world Mrs, Vanscheldt. Don't be hypocritical. You despise us utterly from the heiglit of all your twelve centuries of nobility. Tell us all about your twelve centuries; it is very interesting. I don't go back myself further than my own fcitlier. Duca di Bastia. You are laughing at me; that is very unkind. Mrs. Vanscheldt. Honor bright I'm not. I think it must be perfectly delightful to have an ancestry that is just a cours de Vhistoire in itself- There were Bastias in the time of Constantine, weren't there? Tell us all about it. We are in a mood to be educated. Is it true you were kings of Corsica once upon a time? « Duca di Bastia. Pray spare me. I will send you the volume B of Ingherami; I shall so at least not see you yawn. Mrs. Vanscheldt. I shouldn't yawn; I think your Ital- ian genealogies as delightful as wonder-stories and as interesting as a lecture of Caro's. What shall we do with ourselves to-day? If you won't read us Inghe- rami Duca di Bastia. I will read you the ^'Decamerone " under the pines yonder. Mrs. Vanscheldt. Oh, but isn't that very shocking? Duca di Bastia. I will take care not to shock you. It will be Madame de Riom's first lesson in Italian. I assure you we are very little altered since the days of Boccaccio. The middle classes are changed, but I think our class and the, popolo are both very much what we were in the medio evo. Here and there we have put electric bells in our AT CAMALDOLI. 75 villas, and bought a threshing-macliine for our fields, but even that is rare, and would liave been better let alone. Life in Italy is still a picture and an idyl, our old walled gardens and our loggie still hear the lute. Mrs. Vanscheldt. Let us go under the pines then, et va pour Boccaccio! Oomtesse de Riom, ^f the Duke do not translate it, I shall understand nothing. Duca di Bastia. I will translate it, and will remem- ber the Boston susceptibilities of Madame Vanscheldt. Mrs. Vanscheldt. My Boston susceptibilities have had a good airing on the Boulevards; that produces a wonder- ful change in them. The starch comes out with quite as- tonishing rapidity when once one has eaten a beefsteak at Bignon's. Mr. Wynne-Ellis. You would not let anyone else say that, Mrs. Vanscheldt. Mrs. Vanscheldt. Why, of course not. One laughs at one's country and one abuses one's husband, but one don't let anybody else do either. Duca di Bastia. Happy country! Thrice happy hus- band! Mrs. Vanscheldt. Don't you be impudent. Duca di Bastia. Impudent! I only sigh for a felicity that cannot be mine. Mrs. Vansclieldt. You might have married Elise Hicks. Dnca di Bastia. No one has any right to suy that I could. Mile. Hicks is about to marry a Pnnce Galitzin* there are tiiree liundred and thirty-five Princes Galitzin.- I do not know whether he is at the top of the list or the bottom. Mrs. Vanscheldt. I believe you are regretting Elise. Well, let us get to Boccaccio. All / know about hirn is that stupid little operetta. I ought to have been learned, coming from the ^ hub of the universe,' but I'm not. Duca di Bastia. You are so many things so much more delightful. Boccaccio would have adored you, eS' peciaily when you wear that red cloak. Mrs. Vancsheldt. Adoration that depends on thft color of a cloak won't kill one with over-devotion, and I don't think you are as respectful as you might be, Duke. Duca di Bastia. Eespectful! I am neither twenty nor 76 AT CAMALDOLI. sixty. Need a man be respectful to ladies between those ages? Madame de Saintange. Not if he wish to please. Mrs. VanscheldL How shocked Mr. Ellis looks! En- glishmen are always respectful; I believe they remain so even when they talk to a ballet-girL Duca di Bastia. They are born en froc et cravatte llanche. At the risk of shocking Monsieur Ellis again, I will tell you a story. It happened to me myself. Per- haps you will say it is too like Toto chez Tota to be true, nevertheless Mrs. VanscheldL I think we'll pass over it, Duke, for Mr. Ellis is blushing in anticipation. Fm half afraid to trust you with Boccaccio Duca di Bastia. I assure you . I will be penetrated with respect, though I agree with Madame de Saintange that it is an unlovely quality. You shall have a Decam- erone that might be read in Boston on a Sunday; can I say more? Mrs. Vanscheldt. I am afraid you have said a little too much. However, we will go under the pines and hear your worst. Duca di Bastia. There are listeners for whoso ears the type of the '^ Decamerone " would change of its own ac- cord into the type of the ^'^Imitatione Christi." - Mrs* Vanscheldt, You are speaking to me, but you are looking at Madame de Riom, She might perform that miracle in printer's type, I certainly shall not. Well, let lis go. These old men are wanting to be alone with their stills and herbs and flowers. What delicious old fel- lows they are — in their white flannel gowns and their broad flapping straw hats. What a pretty world it must have been when everybody dressed picturesquely! Duca di Bastia, And when monks were as many in the land as song-sparrows in the trees. Nothing *' comes " better, as artists say, in the Tuscan landscape than two of these white-frocked figures going up a grass path under the olives, or passing along a sunny road through the vine- shadows; and if the bells are ringing within hearing at the time, the thing is perfect. Mr. Wynne-Ellis, It is only a trivial and profane mind which can consider the monastic order — the curse of so AT CAMALDOLI. 77 many centuries — as the mere ornament of the decorative scene, Duca di Bastia, Ah, dear Mr. Ellis, I am so sorry, but I am always trivial; I am pagan, too; yet, so near Alver- nia, do you think we should speak ill of a community that held S. Francesco? Trivial as my mind is, I do not feel inclined to do that. I dare say there are many monks great rog^ues, but still, when I see a monk I take off my hat to him, for, if he be nothing, or even worse than noth- ing in himself, he represents so much in the past that was holier than anything we shall ever see again, Mrs, Vanscheldi. That is a pretty feeling, and I shall not let Mr. Ellis dispute it with you. You have kept the soul of the Quattro Centisti, though you have eaten, like me, the Msqite of Bignon. But we shall never have Boccaccio read at this rate, and the sun will be going down if we don't make haste into the woods. [In the Woods.] MarcJiese delta Roccalda. Caro mio, you liave read re- markably well. To make Boccaccio decent and yet divert- ing is a task that might daunt any man; but where fail- ure was almost certain you have achieved success. Mr. Wynne-Ellis. The Duke did not wholly avoid some questionable suggestions, but in the main, for an impromptu translation, it has been well done, Mrs. Va7iscJieldt. Dear Mr. Ellis, to the pure all things are nasty; that's Scripture, and it's such a pity. I'm a naughty woman, and I can't for the life of me see what was left that w^as objectionable. Mr. Wynne-Ellis. There were suggestions Mrs. Vansclieldt. Oh, only suggestions. Well, you know, I must be very obtuse, I really didn't notice them. Perhaps a course of the petits tliedires has hardened my conscience and my tympanu«ra. Comtesse de Riom. How beautifully you have read, or, rather, improvised, Monsieur de BasLia; you have givea * ns a great pleasure. All that marvelous life of Old Tiorence seemed to live again. Duca di Bastia. I am happy, indeed, to have your praise. As I said before, we are not so very much changed ^t heart or even in manners since those days. It is easy 78 AT OAMALDOLI. to reproduce them iu fancy. It requires no talent — only memory. Cumiesse de Riom, Perhaps genius is only memory; I have heard it said. Duca di Bastia. Oh, do not give such a great word to my slight efforts. I am a very idle son of the soil, with a trick of rhyming and of improvising in which anyone of onr mountuin peasants would excel ten times better than L MarcJiese delta Roccalda. We might be holding one of ; those Courts of Love of which Italy saw so many in Boc- caccio's days. Those big dusky pines, those lovely ladies, Bastia's lute, the Countess's great peacock fan — it might be all up at Urbino iu Bembo's time, or at Ferrai'ain Lu- crezia's. Duca di Bastiao The lovely ladies certainly made heaven of Urbino and Ferrara then, as they do now at Camaldoli; but the pinevvoods you would have been puz- zled to find in either place. MarcJiese della Roccalda. You are hypercritical. Duca di Bastia. Nature created me so. When De Musset made an Andalouse in Barcelone, he spoilt his poem for me. Comtesse de Riom, The mistake does not prevent the poem thrilling like the song of a nightingale and the thrust of a dagger. Duca di Bastia. N"o; it has the passion of a lifetime and the moonlit nights of a whole summer of love in it. After all, his city is not Barcelona only, but anywhere wiiere heaven is found upon a human breast. Mr. Wynne-Ellis, What frightful waste of talent Alfred de M asset's! Perhaps if he had never met George Sund Duca di Bastia, Waste? I would sooner have written Rolla than have cut the Suez Canal. If he had never met George Sand — if Tasso had never met Leonora — if Dante had never known Beatrice — if Abelard had never ^■let H61oise — Comtesse, love is not an accident, it is a ^ destiny. / ' Comtesse de Riom {loith a smile). You are very fond of talking about love. Is that Italian? Duca di Bastia. We never talk about anything else. Love has a much larger share in our lives than in those AT CAMALDOLi. 79 of your northern men; there never was but one northern who understood us, and that was Henri Beyle. Mrs. Vanscheldt. Didn^t he say that ail men are tyros in the art of love beside the Italian? Duca di Bastia {loitli emphasis). Because with us it is an art, exacting and imperious as an art, whicli absorbs our lieai'L and soul, our passions, our entire being; an art which we think is worthy to occupy our lifetime. Mrs, Vanscheldt, Ah, yes, just lilie a painter! His art is one and indivisible, it is only his subjects that change; he can't help painting a mill one day, and a tree the next, and a horse the next, and so on; it is always art. So with you, it is sometimes gray eyes, sometimes blue eyes, sometimes brown eyes, but it is always love. Duca di Bastia. Did you learn all of this, Madame, at Boston on a Sunday? Mrs. Vanscheldt, No, it is the result of my observa- tions since I came East, In our great country sir-ee, there's such an uncommon deal of marriage that love gets kind o' hustled. Men and w^omen too, down oar way, walk out so much together that they just lose flavor for each other, and feel like two tame 'possums sitting on a gum tree. Now don't say I can't talk Yankese! Mr. Wynne- Ellis. Do you really think, Mrs. Van- scheldt, thtit marriage is unappreciated in the States? Mrs. Vanscheldt. Heavens, no; it's too much appre- •ciated. There's such a lot of it, it's like buying yams by the sack. If it was a little harder to do, and a little harder to undo, perhaps Americans would learn to make love. As it is, they can't, no more than they can say a clear monosyllable. You never met an American who didn't split the monosyllables, did you? Mr, Wynne-Ellis, I have observed what you mean. It is very extraordinary. Perhaps climatic influences on the trachea Mrs. Vanscheldt. I daresay {aside): Is it climatic in- fluences that produce the genus bore? Marchese delta Roccalda. How happy Madame Van- scheldt would make me if she woul-d only say one mono- syllable to me: ^^ tu "/ Mrs. Vanscheldt. Fm more likely to say in my own Ternacular, ^^ goose"! Marchese delta Roccalda, That is what you call '^ chaff;" 80 AT CAMALDOLI, we do not possess the equivalent in our language. It is- not even precisely the same thing as the Gallic badinage. Mrs. Vanscheldto No; it ain't half so delicate^.and it don't want any wit. Duca di Bastia, We have something like it in Palci and his compeers, and in our peasants, too, on a market day, or when they are in a merry mood anywhere. Oom- tesse, shall we go for a little walk before the sun sets? This brook that comes tumbling down amongst us seems to promise all sorts of delightful recompense to the advent- urous {they saunter away together), Mr. Wynne-Ellis {to Mrs, Vanscheldt), Is that the Madame de Kiom — the very rich one? Mrs. Vanscheldt, "Yes, I think so. A charming woman, so Bastia seems to say. Mr, Wynne- Ellis, Belgian, I believe? Mrs, Vanscheldt. Yes, they are big people in Belgium;; as big as they can be in that mouse of a country. Marchese della Roccalda, Madame de Eiom would re- mind us that the mouse has had the spirit of a lion ere now; and that it has come nearer to ourselves in art than any other country on the map of the world. Are not the De Eioms Brabant nobility? Mrs. Vanscheldt. I believe so; they are immensely rich. This one is the widow of Henri di Kiom; she is un- commonly handsome. Marchese della Roccalda, We might think so, perhaps,. if Madame Vanscheldt were not by. Mrs, Vanscheldt. Now, my dear Marchese, what rub- bish! I haven't a feature in my face! I've a little w^^o^s chiffonee crumpled up like a rag ball, with two sparks for eyes, and that's all. But you are so used here to regular profiles that you don't appreciate them; they are toiijours perdrix; you like a little ugly mobile gutta-percha face better, because it's new. Marchese della Roccalda. The mobile face is the only one of which one never tires. Mrs. Vanscheldt. See if you'd say so if we were shut up opposite each other through a cold spell m Ottawa, or the sickly season down Florida way. Marchese della Roccalda. I am convinced that the ther- mometer would always stand permanently for me at 20^ Ee AT CAMALDOLI. 81 .under those circumstances, and its sister instrument at "set fair." Mrs. VmiscJielcU. It's set fair with Bastia. Marcliese clella Roccalda. It's only the red dawn that precedes the stormy day. It is quite evident he means to marry lier! Mrs. Vansclieldt. Why don't they have chaises a por- teurs here? Who can climb who eats six times a day? Besides, the human's not meant for a climbing animal. He has no hooks io his toes. We'll sit still, and «wait till they come back. Marcliese della Roccalda {casting himself at her feet). Paradise! Mrs, Vanscheldt (looking ahout her). I only do hope there are no snakes. When you've seen a hooded come wriggling along, you don't love them any more, however fond you may be of the study of natural history. Marchese della Roccalda, We have no snakes in ,Tus- cany, only harmless chains of green and gold, that hang head foremost from the boughs, and look at us. Mrs. Vanscheldt. You must have adders, anyway. They're an universal institution, like marriage. Marchese della Roccalda. When you say these things I cease for one moment to envy M. Vanscheldt. All the rest of my life is consumed in envy of liim. Mrs. Vanscheldt. AYell, that aren't too civil, seeing there's no living man sees less of me! Here's a peasant: how miserable she looks. Perche piange ? What does she say? Does she talk High Dutch? Marchese della Roccalda. Mountain Italian; equally unintelligible. Her husband's in prison because he dared to ])hiut a cahbage or two on a bit of forest land, that is, of government land. Mrs. Vanscheldt. Poor soul! tell her to go and ask my maid to give her twenty francs. Guess you worry your poor too much, drives 'em all our side. Seems to me if the man 'd stole his cabbages you couldn't have done more to him. Is it true your hill people eat grass? Marchese della Roccalda. Saggina, a sort of seeding grass; yes, they do, poverini. Mrs. Vanscheldt. Here we grumble if the fish don't come up every day, and if the truffles run short now and then! Marquis, there's enough of buckwheat on God's 82 AT CAMALDOLI. earth for every man to have his handful. How is it we've become so right on wicked that we stuff while they starve? It's not in nature. MarcJiese delta Boccalda. Oh, yes., pardon me, it is in nature. Look at monkeys, {Higher in the Woods.) Duca di Bastia. Will you not believe me? Did the devoti(m of a whole winter prove nothing? What can I do to induce you to take pity on me? Comtesse de Eiom. Dear Duca, you are well Jen own to be ? most desperate flirt. No woman in her senses ever take? your pretty speeches seriously. Duca di Bastia. Every man is a flirt until he loves sincerely. I have been most serious. It is now seven months since I saw you first; it was at a novena at St. Peter's; you were all in black. The next night I saw you at tlie Apollo; you wore a marvelous crimson dress, and you had some great red lilies. Comtesse de Riom. Red lilies! To be sure; they dye even the poor flowers nowadays. What a pity it is! Red is the only color that tells in a theater; it is the color of crowds. To impress the multitude soldiers should only wear red; when they are gray they have no moral effect. Duca di Bastia. In red, or in gray, or in black, you '* awe me through my eyes." Why will you not believe it? Comtesse de Riom. You are always saying those pretty things to women; you may even mean them at the mo- ment, but D^ica di Bastia. Do you think that a little thing would make me bury myself under these monastic pines? Comtesse de Riom, I thought it was for your lungs? Duca di Bastia, You never thought any such thing. When you left Rome at Easter, you said you should come to this religious solitude, and therefore Comtesse de Riom, This religious solitude is profaned by tlie click of Mrs. Vanscheldt's roulette ball, and re- sembles the big world as a lizard resembles a crocodile. Wliere can one go nowadays tluit one is not pursued by the cigarette smoke of *^ society"? Duca di Bastia. You cannot, because society goes where you go. AT CAMALDOLI. 83 Comtesse de Riom, Oh dear no! I am a very insigni- ficant person. If you really wish to know, I have come to Camaldoli because it is — cheap! Duca di Bastia. You are pleased to jest. ComtessG de Riom, I was never more serious. I am much more serious than you were iust now. My dear Duke, do not let us beat about the bush. You think I am the widow of Henri de Riom, who was very rich. I am the widow of Otto, the younger brother, who had only a younger brother's portion, and ran through that in two years. Buca di Bastia, But — but — surely ■ Comtesse de Riom. You mean that I look as if I had a hundred thousand francs a year to spend on my gowns? Tnat is the way of all of us in our world. We had a very pleasant winter in Rome. I should be sorry if it wore to leave the slightest cloud of painful remembrance with you. {He is silent. She loolcs at Mm and smiles.) Comtesse de Riom, I am so often supposed to be my sister-in-law, Marthede Roim, Henry's widow. She never leaves her chateau, and never spends a sou that she can help, just because she has millions. I have fancied once or twice that you were misled into thinking me the owner of these millions. Oh, I do not bear you the slightest grudo^e. Why should I bear you any? It has been all my own fault for letting Worth dress me too well. Really I have next to no money at all. My own people are poor noblesse, and. Otto once dead, the de Rioms iiave nothing to do with me. Madame de Sain tan ge lives with me par respect des convenances, but she pays everything for her- self. Now tiiat I have been quite frank with yon my con- science is clear. I know marriage in Italy is only a ques- tion of cliiffres. " I have so much: how much have you?" That is all that Hymen inquires. Love you keep between the leaves of Boccaccio; or — where was it you said, that Ariosto found it? Buca di Bastia [very pale). Madame Comtesse de Riom. How white you look! Do not be afraid; I do not mean to hold you to your pretty speeches. If I did, you could justly retort that they are only for Armida's Garden. I understand it all quite well; you have a great name and a delightful wit, but you are very poor; you see in me a woman who does not displease your 84 AT CAMALDOLI. taste, and in whom, by a fatality of misunderstanding, you believe you meet one who has the riches and the es- tates that you are obliged to seek in marriage. As soon as you speak seriously to me I tell you the facts as they are. I am quite poor, too; horribly poor, for a woman who likes luxury, and must go to courts and embassies. Our toilets mean nothing except that we spend all we do possess on them. I have some fine old jewels; they are all. I had a tiny dot, which is what I nave to live on now. I married poor Otto when I was sixteen; I cared very little about him. I was in love with love, as girls are. The man was but a peg on which to hang a dream- coat of many colors. He gambled, and died very early. I am five-and-twenty years old, and I feel a hundred. Don't waste your time thinking about me. Go away from the monastic solitude and enjoy yourself. There is nothing more to be said. I am not what you believed me. You will put me out of your bead from this moment, and take nothing worse away from Oamaldoli than a bottle of the lagrime cVaiete. You will shed no tears of your own, Duca di Bastia (hitterly). Nor can I hope for any from you! Comtesse de Riom, Oh, that would be really too much to expect. Eemember how many women, to be Duchessa di Bastia — and your title is so old that it is really attract- ive — would have only let you find out the truth so late that you could scarcely in honor have drawn back; or, if you had drawn back, my brother Louis, who is always enchanted to kill anybody, would have tried the saber en- counter with you which Madame Vanscheldt thinks so ugly. I might have done you a very great deal of harm, and I refrain from doing you any. You cannot reasonably expect me to weep for you as well, can you? Duca di Bastia. You have never deigned to believe in what I expressed. Comtesse de Riom, Yes, I have done in a measure. I see that I am agreeable to your taste, that you approve of me, that you find pleasure in talking to me." Those things are never assumed, or, when they are, one at once detects the assumption; but then you saw me painted on a golden back-ground, like the Quattrocentisti Saints. When you realize that I am that much-to-be-pitied creation of modern life, a well-born woman accustomed to all kinds of self- AT CAMALDOLI. 85 indulgence and elegances, with a certain rank to keep up, and a mere pittance to do it on, which all goes to the pock- ets of the Paris tailors, you will view me with quite differ- ent eyes. Take away the golden ground, the suint is no saint, but a mere commonplace woman, with no nimbus at all. (He is silent.) Comtesse cle Riom. Haven't you even one compliment left with which to contradict me? You look terribly shocked, considering that there is no real harm done. If you keep your own counsel no one will be the wiser. They iill know that the Duca di Bastia is a great flirt. They will not be surprised that you grew tired of flirting with anybody as grave as I am. Really the wonder is that you have been so coiistant for six months, and that you have endured Camaldoli for six days, even with the support of the liqueurs. Duca di Bastia. You are very mirthful. I suppose I ' ought to rejoice that I amuse you. Comtesse cle Riom, It is very amusing that you should have taken me for Madame Marthe. She is everything that I am not; small, dark, prim, very religious, full of economies. Because she could spend half a million of francs with Worth any year, she has all the year round a camelot gown that costs fifty centimes. I do not know why she saves so much; she has no children, and her money would go if she died to some distant relations. To , be sure she may marry; wiiy don't you go and marVy her? She is not handsome certainly, but there is no doubt about her fortune; she has rentes, actions, valeurs of all kinds in all the banks of Belgium and in the banks of France too. I will give you a letter of introduction to her. The - chateau is near Malines, it is called Qaincampoix: it is all pignons et tourelles, with stonework like old Flanders lace; it IS really worth seeing. It has fine woods too, and in Henri and Otto's time the shooting was good. You might re- vive its glories; there is a peculiar breed of hounds very, famous here. . Well, you are not excited? I should have thought you would have been already half-way down the hill. Duca di Bastia {bitterly). It is evident, madame, that you deem the offer of my hand a diverting comedy. It is true my hand is emptv! Comtesse de Riom. Here is Madame Vanscheldt, who 86 AT CAMALDOLI. lias tired of sitting still. To her all life is a comedy* Wluit a delightful temperament that. It is a perpetual amulet against ennui. Mrs. Vansclieldt {to Mr. Wymie-MUs). How glnm that gtiy Duca looks. You bet she's refused him. I didn't think sIjO would. But to be sure she's all the dol- lars. I don't think he's a rich man himself; if he were driven to say what he lives on Mr. Wynne-Ellis. The Italian nobles are impoverished by the inordinate taxation, and the Duca di Bastia inher- ited embarrassed estates; his way of life is not calculated to disentangle his difficulties. Mrs. VanscJieldt, Well, his way of life would be smooth for ever if Madame de Riom would say yes, but he don't look as if she had said yes. Suppose she thinks he's after her money. Madame de Saintange {overhearing, loith a smile)^ Marsrot is not suspicious. Mrs. Vansclieldt. She mayn't be, but when one's got a pot of money one can't help feeling like a sugar cask in, a street. Do tell me now, you who are her intimate friend, will she marry iiim? Madame de Saintange. I am not in her confidence. Mrs. Vansclieldt. Then you may be sure she won't,, for if she had meant to do it she couldn't have helped tell- ing you. Madame de Saintange. You think we always boast of our good actions? \In the Comtesse de Riom^s room. ] Madame de Saintange. What have you done to the Duca di Bastia? He did not dine to-night. Comtesse de Riom. • He is probably gone to take the train at Popp.i. My dear friend, he mistook me for Ma- dame Mar the. Madame de Saintange. What do you mean? Comtesse de Riom. Precisely what I say. He took me to be the widow of Henri, whose millions would have been very serviceable to him. So many people have always con- fused me with Marthe. What can I do? I cannot wear a placard on the back of my gown proclaiming that I am the widow of Otto who left me sans le sou 9 AT CAMALDOLI. 87 Madame de Saintange. Did the Duke ask you if you yfevQ Martbe? Cointesse de Riom. Of course not; be took it for granted. lie asked me to marry him; I replied that he was under an iliasion, tliat I was not Marthe, and had not millions, that I had in fact scarcely enough to pay for my gowns. Madame de Saintange. I do not think you were called on to explain that unasked. Comtesse de Riom. ■ Oh!-h-h! Madame de Sai?itange. I do not really. He is cer- tainly in love with you, even if he did make that error; that was all you had to do with; you should have accepted him, since you like him, the rest would have revealed itself in time. Comtesse de Riom, When in honor he could not have drawn back! Philosophers are right; women have no conscience. Madame de Saintange, If he had inquired point blank if you v/ere Marthe, you must have answered that you were not, but as no doubt he only made love to you Comtesse de Riom, Because he imagined that I pos- sessed a large fortune which would have restored his own. Certainly, I admit that he — he — perhaps likes me a little, one can never tell; Italians are such exquisite actors that they cheat themselves into belief in their own fictions, but he would never have allowed himself to say so if he liad not been misled by some impression (current in Rome, I know not how) that I was the rich Comtesse de Riom. All I had to do was to undeceive him; the rest will come of itself. When he is fairly away from Camaldoli he will forget that there exists an extravagant woman who has gowns and old jewels that nobody ought to have under half a million of francs a year. He has been near a great danger. Whenever he remembers it, if he do remember it, he will feel a little catch of his breath, as a man does when he recalls how he has been once within a moment of an avalanche's falling or within an inch of a runaway c«:- press-train. \_She turns away and laughs a little; the tears are in her eyes.} Madame de Saintange. Ciiere Margot! if he liave es- caped an avalanche you have not altogether escaped a slight that wounds you. lam certain you care for this 88 AT CAMALDOLI. Diica di Bastia; though you are so generous and so lenient toward him, you suffer something, much more than he merits to have suffered for him. Comtesse de Riom. Pray do not make him such a hero, or raise me into a martyr; we are two yery useless gens du mo7ide, who if we had had Marthe's million might per- haps have gone through life in a very fair amity together, but as we have not, shall be quite content to go our several ways apart. He will marry some heiress, and I — I dare- say I shall marry, too, some rich old man, some day when Worth^s account has more zeros to it than usual. What is there to regret? I don't know Italian, and I have had Boccaccio charmingly translated to me; that is a solid gain. Madame de Saintange. Your jests do not deceive me. You care very much for Bastia; he is the only man who has ever had power to interest you. You will never marry for a fortune, because you have refused so many alliances already which would have tempted you if you had been to be bought. This Italian Duke is poor, but Italian pov- erty is graceful. It lies on a marble stej3 in the sun and smiles; it is not appalling. And as it is — but you so un- happy! Comtesse de Riom. One is always unhappy when one's vanity has been wounded. My reason of course accepts the fact that in view of one's not being Marthe, a man can do only his best to forget one as soon as may be; but at the same time one cannot be proud of that, and I have- always liked to be proud. Madame de Saintange. Oh, why did you tell him? Comtesse de Riom. For shame, Pauline! You would have done the same had you been in my place. Do not belie yourself; we are weak creatures perhaps, but we are not quite base. Madame de Saintange. But you care for liim! Comtesse de Riom. Perhaps I could have done. There! it is not worth while to think of any possibilities of that sort. I will sell my jewels which so fatally lead people io imagine that I must be a rich woman. When you are poor you have no business to wear diamonds; there ought to be sumptuary laws about it. Do you know when I am a few years older I think I shall go into one of those delightful Flemish Beguinages of ours; I have often AT CAMALDOLI. 89 thought them charming; their cloisters, their stone courts, their little quiet gardens, their beautiful iron-work gates. One would have a gray flannel gown; one would not want Worth^s advice about that. I wonder what it would feel like; all the world shut out and nothing left but recollec- tion. They look peaceful enough, these women; so do these old men here. Do they really grow contented? Is it best after all for human life to become a stone that is never turned, and feels neither the sun nor the rain? [Her maid enters zvith a 'bouquet: Madame la Comtesse, M. le Due She takes the fioivers; her hand tremiles.J The Duca di Bastia! Madame de Saintange, The Duca di Bastia? He has not gone to Poppi? Comtesse de Riom. These flowers did not grow at Oamal- doli! He must have ordered them whilst he was still under the impression that he knew the Comtesse Marthe! They have evidently come from Florence. Madame de Saintange. Wherever they came from, surely, since he has sent them now Comtesse de Riom, Do not suggest such an idea to me; I am convinced it is wholly groundless. Madame de Saintange. Well, flowers have been the messengers of love ever since the world began, in the days DfLilith. Comtesse de Riom. In the days of Lilith the world was very easy to live in; in ours it is very difficult, espe- cially if you are dans le train and have a certain dignity of name to keep up, and little with which to do so. The Duke and I are back in that position; the bouquet comes to say adieu; that is all. Madame de Saintange. They are nearly all orchids. Do orchids mean farewell or separation? Comtesse de Riom. I think orchids mean nothing; they come from the West, Lilith did not know them. Madame de Saintange. You are very perverse. Comtesse de Riom. People always find us most so when "we are most reasonable. Madame de Saintange. Will you not come down stairs? They will miss y(Xi, and will notice that your absence coin- cides with Bastia's. Comtesse de Riom. I have a headache, and I do not 90 AT CAMALDOLl. care to hear people screaming at Poker, or see them grow- ing greedy at Roulette. Madame cle Saintange. We can go out of doors. Comtesse de Riom, Do you go; I will come later. Madame de Saintange. Why will you not admit that you care for him? Comtesse de Riom. I will admit if you like that my yanity has been wounded, also that the Duca di Bastia is a charming companion. But I am not a pensionnaire to weep for a lost lover, and I perfectly understand that though he might adore me he would be obliged to put me out of his thoughts. The thing for which I reproach my- self is that I did not take some means to let him know earlier that I was as poor as he is. There was nothing to tell him in Rome, when one stays at an embassy and goes everywhere, that one is as poor as a church mouse. Madame de Saintange. I do not see why you should so reproach yourself. If he had inquired he would have learned. Comtesse de Riom. I am sure he would have never asked. He is too true a gentleman to speak to other per- sons of any woman that he regarded with any sort of ^friendship. Madame de Saintange. You think very well of him. Comtesse de Riom. I think he is a gentleman. Madame de Saintange. Well, considering he comes from the Byzantine emperors, he ought at least to be that. Comtesse de Riom. It does not follow. I have known a descendant of great kings take the change for a franc from a cabman after a course. Madame de Saintange. Well, that is better than squan- dering the money of a nation. Comtesse de Riom. Perhaps; but as there are some vices that are generous, so there are some virtues that are mean. ,, Madame de Saintange. It is very mean, though it may be very prudent, to adore a woman under the impression that she has millions, and to desert her because the mill- ions are not there. Comtesse de Riom. My dear friend, 3^ou speak as if I were Hetty Sorel or Lescaut! The Duca di Bastia owes no sort of allegiance to me. AT CAMALDOLI. 91 Madame de Saintange, He has been your shadow for six months. Comtesse de Riom. He has wasted six months then. He has hurt no one by doing that except himself. Do you not think we have talked enough about him? Pray go down; I will follow. It is ten o'clock; Poker must be now at its height. There is a pretty Jewess who lets her- self be plundered that she may get spoken to. Madame de Saintange. Very un- Semi tic. Comtesse de Riom. Not so very; look what la grande Jniverie wastes on entertaining the fashionable Cliristians in all the capitals of the world. '' Rob me. bnt visit me," they say to society. Pray do go down, my dear. If 1 be not too lazy I will come. Madame de Saintange. Lazy! you are unhappy. What a pity it all is! I will leave you if you really wish it. {She goes; the Comtesse de Riom takes uja the bouquet and looks at it tuitli a sigh .) Com,tesse de Riom. Why did he send it? What is the use? (In the Refectory,) Mrs. Vanscheldt. Is the Duke really gone? What a pity! Let us sign a siqyplicaio Madame de Eiom, to ask her to recall him. There is nobody half so delightful. Marchese della Roccalda. You make me feel homicidal toward my oldest friend. I can only hope that if I were also absent you would praise me as amiably. Mrs. Vanscheldt. You must deserve it first. Has she really refused him? Do tell us. Marchese della Roccalda. I cannot imagine Bastia en- during that degradation; but everything is possible at the hands of woman. But do we really know that he offered himself? Our lively imaginations have built up a romance on the simple fact that we found them alone under some pine trees, and thought he looked more serious than usual. Mrs. Vanscheldt. And he disapj^ears, he don't even come to dinner; she keeps her own room, her maid is seen carrying a magniGcent bouquet, and her bosom friend Madame Saintange is as cross as two sticks in the salon. Marchese della Pi,occalda. Which would argue that if Madame de Eiom has been cruel she has at least felt re- 92 AT CAMALDOLI. Mr, Wynne- Ellis {enters with an open letter^, I have some curious intelligence, dear Mrs. Vanscheldt, which I am sure will interest you. I had an impression — a mere impression — that the charming lady we have with us here was not the rich Madame de Eiom; that she was, in fact, the widow of the younger brother, who was a great game- ster and died very early. I wrote to a friend of mine in Brussels, and I find my impression was correct; my im- pressions are usually correct. So I think we may conclude that the departure of the Duca di Bastia is — well — let us say, a prudential piece of diplomacy. Perhaps he had a friend in Brussels too! Mrs. Yanscheldt. Dear me, Mr. Ellis, how kind of you I Have you any friend in New York, too, that you've written to about me? I do assure you our pile's sound. We made it about five years ago, sending tinned clams to Europe. ISTobody 'd thought of tinning clams till we did. {Aside to Roccalda): He'll go and tell that in London and Paris* Marchese delta Roccalda. Do you mean, Mr. Ellis, that this beautiful Madame de Riom, who has the jewels of an empress, is sans le sou 9 Mr. Wynne-Ellis. Well, as the world looks at such things, she is. She had a slender dower, her people were the Oomtes d'Evian of Brabant, very poor people; that is all she has now to live on, and I imagine her gowns Marchese delta Roccalda. Then Bastia must have learned it somehow or other in time? Mrs. Vanscheldt. Probably she told him. My dear Marchese, a woman born a d'Evian, who wedded a de Eiom, isn't an adventuress to marry a man on false pre- tenses I Mr. Wynne-Ellis. Any way he has evidently thought prudence tiie better part of valor and has retreated in time. Mrs. Vanscheldt. Then he is a white-livered curl When he has been faisant la cour the whole winter and spring, when he is as much in love as if he were eight- een Marchese delta Roccalda. What can he do? He has hardly anything of his own. A very picturesque, utterly unprofitable, estate in Calabria drags on him like a can- non-ball, because he will not sell and cannot improve it. He is like us all; he is a man of tiie world, with all the ways of the world, and the extravagance of it. She has AT CAMALDOLI. 93 the same. They may be lovers if they like; it is impossi- ble they should marry. How can we all have taken for granted that she was the rich veuve de Kiom! There is a rich one? Mr. Wynne- Ellis. Oh yes, there is a rich one. Mon- sieur di Bastia should go and see her. I believe she never leaves a chateau of hers called Quincampoix, but she is worth millions; an ugly little woman, but he need not look at her; with his lamentable principles his wife will natu- rally be the woman he looks at least. Mrs. Vanscheldt. Well, I'm sorry. Madame de Eiom hasn't been particularly civil to me, and she has a chill sort of manner with her, but she is wonderfully handsome and I like her, and I wish she'd got the millions, and I think di Bastia isn't much of a man for running away like that. We should call it real mean our side. Mr. Wynne-Ellis. He has certainly gone. Marchese della Roccalda. What else could he do? Mrs. Vanscheldt, Well, he don't reward the woman much if she were honorable enough to tell him herself. I wonder if she did, or if be found it out. Madame de Saintange looked as black as thunder last night. Well, men are poor creatures. {In the Monies' garden the next morning. ) Comtesse de Riom. What a charm there is in old mo- nastic gardens; in all Italian gardens indeed. In the datura growing with the black cabbage, in the clematis climbing beside the beanstalk; it is all so rough and simple and en- tangled and luxuriant, and yet it might all have sprung up because the feet of a nymph had passed by! I think I should like to be one of those song-sparrows, flying all day amongst these green silences. Ah, Padre Francesco! What beautiful roses again! You are always so kind. Mi rincresce di non capire — I have learned that one phrase of regret. Padre Francesco. La Signora Oontessa deve imparare la nostra lingua toscana; e delta suite belle labbra. Comtesse de Eiom (to herself). How I wish I could talk to him. I would ask him the secret of his content. They always say it is the privilege of philosophers, but surely it is rather the privilege of ignorance. It must be easier to be content in Italy than elsewhere. There is art in the 94 AT CAMALDOLI. air, and there is joy in the light. If one could only live without that silly great world which is so little, which is always making us spend so much more than we ought, and squander our time in follies we despise, and put away our gowns unworn because we have been out in them three times. Oh, the intolerable nonsense of it all! And yet it is like any other habi^., it becomes a chain; we wear the chain till it grows into a very part of us. If one were quite happy, I think one could be content with veiy little wealth and nothingof the world, but then nobody is happy; the world is of such use to us just because it make? us for- get that. I would go to Scheveningen or Blankenbergiie now to get out of myself, only all the people here would be sure to say that I went away because he liad gone. l^Duca di Bastia enters the garden; he bows in silence. Comtesse de Riom (m surprise, with a forced smile). Are you here still, Monsieur di Bastia? I thought you went to Florence last night. Do you want that note of introduction to my sister-in-law? I will go in-doors and write it. Duca di Bastia, Pardon me; did you receive my bou- quet? Comtesse de Riom, Some gorgeous orchids? yes. You had ordered them for Marthe, I am sure. However, they were not wasted on me, for I am very fond of flowers, and I painted one of them on a china plate as soon as the sun was up; one gets such good habits in the country. Duca di Bastia. Did it tell you nothing? Comtesse de Riom. I thought it told me that you had gone to Florence, but it seems I was mistaken since you are still here. My sister-in-law Duca di Bastia. Madame, your sister-in-law is, I am sure, everytiiing that is most estimable in woman, but I confess that she does not interest me; let us leave her in peace at Qiiincampoix. I have come here to speak of a person much less worthy, but who does interest me much more — myself. You were very cruel to me yesterday Comtesse de Riom. On the contrary, I was most kind. I saved you from the consequences of your own unconsid- ered impulses, and from the results of a mistake w^hich might have been to you most disastrous, had you been taken at your word. Duca di Bastia. You were very cruel. You gave me AT CAMALDOLI. 95 a douclie d^eau froide that it still ices my blood to remem- ber. Now I will not pretend to be better than I am. I did^ I confess, understand in Eome that yon were that Comtesse de Riom who possesses one of the largest fort- unes in Belgium and is Comtesse de Riom {loitli irritation). My sister-in-law! I know. I saw your error, and rectified it as soon as I saw it. There is no more to be said. You owe me no apologies. Duca di Bastia. Pray listen! lam one of those un- happy people who have a great rank and yet are very poor. There are many like me in Italy. Fortune is not indiffer- ent to me; no man in my position could declare honestly that it was so. But you were in error wlien you said that marriage with us was only 'd question de cldffres, .We are not so base as that. I sent you my orchids that they mi.oht tell you so. They seem to have spoken in vain, and yet what I meant them to say is very simple. It is this — I love you ! Comtesse de Riom. Why do you repeat it? It is of no use. I thought you understood yesterday that I am no richer than yourself. You certainly appeared startled out of all illusion. Duca di Bastia {impatiently). Cannot you forgive me a few moments of disappointment and astonishment? I am aware that it was unromantic to show either. I ought to have been so indifferent to all save yourself that I should have been scarcely sensible of what you told me. But you did aot tell it mercifully. You threw your facts and sar- casms pellmell in my face with so rude a hand that I was stunned by them for the instant. You attributed mercen- ary motives to me so unhesitatingly, and made such a jest of my declaration, that you unmanned me; I was discon- certed and defenseless. La nuit porte conseil. I went over the hills to Alvernia; though 1 am no saint, there is a sort of holy influence in such a place — it soothes one at the least. I do not know whether you will laugh again, or again despise me, but T came back to say to you, if you would not be afraid of the future I should not. I could get an embassy, they have often offered me one; or we could lead an idyllic life all by ourselves on my old estates in palabria — it is so Greek there still! We should be poor certainly^ for I have very little, but if you were not afraid 96 AT CAMALDOLI. Comtesse de Riom {growing pale). My dear Dnke! you are dreaming. You have been asleep at Alvernia and had visions. You would not say these things if you were really awake. Duca di Bastict. I am entirely awake, and was never in my life more serious. You should believe me, for I do not attempt to disguise the truth from you. I thought you a rich woman, but do not raise that mistake into a crime. I love you; 1 love you for your beauty, for your grace, for your charm, for your frankness — for your very faults; I love you with the love that makes a man willing to give his life. We are both gens du monde, as you said, but I think we are both something more. Let us try and make a fate for ourselves which shall laugh at the world, or let us conquer the world together, which you prefer. Comtesse de Riom {ivith emotion). You had better go to Quincnmpoix! It would be wiser. Duca di Bastia, I might have been wise in that way very often, and I have always refused to do so. When they told me you had millions I should never have looked at you if I had not seen in you what I could love. I have nothing on earth save an old name, an empty palace, and a few square miles of classic soil that is as Greek still as any idyl of Theocritus; they are all I have, but I offer them to you. Will you take them, or will you ridicule them? Comtesse de Riom {in a, low voice) . If ever you repent, do not reproach me! I have been unhappy— yes, I do not mind confessing it all now, — but I fear we are going to be very unwise! Duca di Bastia {hisses lier liand). There is only one wisdom on earth; it is to love. Comtesse de Riom, Take care! you will shock Padre Francesco! Mrs. Vansclieldt {enters). What! are you come back, Duke? I thought you were gone for ever and ever? Will you read us some more tales of Boccaccio? Duca di Bastia. I feel more inclined for Petrarca to- day. But I will read anything you like, even all you ladies' fortunes if you desire me. Mrs, Vansclieldt {loitli a smile), I guess you have already told Madame de Riom's! IN PITTI. A SCENE. CFounded on Fact.) DRAMATIS PERSONS. Sib Oscar Beresfokd, An English Gentleman. Dorothy Claremont, A Ta'pe^try Fainter. ,ScE]srE: The Sale degli Arazzi in Palazzo PittL Time: An April morning: twelve d'doch. ■Sir Oscar Beresford, Mind you let me out at one. Custodian. Al tocco — al tocco ! — non diiMti, signore! Sir Oscar. Why on earth do you lock one in? Custodian {shrugs his shoulder), M-a-h! Sir Oscar^ Of course I know you only obey orders; but it is an utterly idiotic regulation, and devilish uncompli- mentary to one's appearance. Custo€lian {shrugs, and loivs, and smiles). M-a-h! Sir Oscar. Suppose one fell ill? — had a fit? It is aw- fully stupid this lock and key business. You know very well on€ couldn't get an order to paint here, unless one were pretty honest. Custodian (shrugs, smiles, spreads out his hands). M-a-h! Sir Oscar, Well, if it must be, it must be. Thanks; jou may go. [CusTODiA.:^" retires and lochs the door on the i his steps die away in the distance. Sir Oscar goes to open a vnndoio. Dorothy Claremont {seated painting luith her laclc to him, loohs around, and speaJcs). You must not do that; they vvili turn you out. 4. (97) 98 IN PITTI Sir Oscar, Why? . ^ ^ . ^^ t,t Dorothy. Why must the windows be shut? :No one knows, except that Italy just now ^s/n love with red tape, and ties up her tiniest parcels with it. She thinks it an emblem of freedom. . Sir Oscar. But. it is such a warm morning, and by noon it will be terrible. ,;, . Dorothy, You are a stranger, I see, or^ you would not expect such simple reasons to have any weight. Sir Oscar. And you really mean the windows are never ^^^Dorothy. l^ever. At least not by such profane hands as ours. Besides, Italians never see the necessity for open windows. In winter they would let in the wind; m sum- mer they would let in the sun. Such a trifle as air does not count. Sir Oscar. Good heavens! Dorothy. Would you kindly stand a little aside.'' You take off the light. Sir Oscar. A thousand pardons! Excuse me, you are copving this tapestry? . ^ xi 4? ^ Dorothy. This sofa. I have an order for the sofa and all the cliairs. , i t-. Sir Oscar {aside). An order! She looks like a prin- cess out in a cotton frock for a freak. {Aloud.) How much that painted imitation tapestry is the fashion, isn t it? It must be a great bore to do, though; at least, 1 should think so. Mvself, I hate copying. -^ , . .^ Dorothy {coldlv). Probably you do not need to do it. Sir Oscar. Oh yes, indeed— at least— no, I do not need to do it— but I want to have rooms just like these built down at mv place in Dorsetshire; and as I can draw a little, I thought I would design their decorations and take the scale of their proportions myself. Don t you think it better to do things oneself as far as one can:* Dorothy {briefy). No doubt. Sir Oscar Uhinhs). How chilly she is all m a moment. I dare sav she is vexing herself about having talked so familiarly with me. What a pretty girl it is! and all that bright short hair of her own is charming. She is copying that sofa as if her life depended on it. Perhaps her bread does depend on it, poor child! I will go into the next room and take my measurements. When I come back she liq- PITTI. 99 may have thawed again. Who on earth can her people be that let her come out and be locked up all alone? I am sure she is English. No other than an English girl would dare be all alone with the face of Venus on her shoulders. There is something absurdly wrong, now, in a pretty child like that having to paint linen for her bread, whilst here ;am I, who could very well earn my own living if I were pushed to it, bothered with some land and more money than I know what to do with. I must say Fate is a very silly person; she always gorges her fat chickens and starves her lean ones. ( Goes into the next room and remains there ten minutes; then returns.) This is the finest room, don't jou think? Dorothy {coldly). By no means. There are others far finer. Take the Sala dei Stucchi. Sir Oscar. Oh yes; but that is not what I want. It is superb; but all that snow-white immensity would not suit a dusky English country-house. These carvings, these somber tapestries, this solemn gold, will suit it down to the ground. Do you — do you — know England at all? I think I cannot be mistaken in claiming you as a coun- trywoman? Dorothy {coldly). Yes; I am English. Sir Oscar. But you live in Italy? Dorothy, I live in Italy. Sir Oscar {to himself), I am sure she thinks me a con- foundedly impudent fellow. May not one talk in these old galleries? Art surely is a very good chaperon. She has got shy all in a second. Did I say anything insolent? Surely not. I had better sketch a little, perhaps, or she will think I cannot. (For twenty minutes measures pro- portions and draivs outlines; stealthily glances from time to time at the tapestry painter.) How steady she is over that linen and her bottles of dyes! She never raises her head. How well-shaped it is, and all those loose boyish €urls are charming. I should say she would be tall if she stood up. How can I get her to talk? How very thoughtful of them when they lock one in to give one such consolation! (Aloud.) Pardon me, I think the sun •is touching your work. I will move the shutter a little. {Moves it; she does not speak.) Isn't that better? It grows excruciatingly warm; and to think those duffers keep the windows shut! (She does not ansiuer; he walks 100 IK PITTI. about and passes heliind her.) How very beautiful all this Gobelin is! What a charming landscape this upon your sofa! — a perfect picture in itself. Dorothy. It is not in very good taste on a sofa. Sir Oscar, Oh, you are hypercritical! You are right, of course, aesthetically. One ought not to lean one's shoulders against a seashore, a sky, and a cart, Dorothy {coldly). There are the Dolce pictures and much fine furniture in the other rooms of this suite. Sir Oscar. I am afraid I bother you by drawing here? You want me to go away? Dorothy {with significance). Oh — if you draw — you have as much right here as I. Sir Oscar {conscious of reproof). But I am drawing! Only if you would permit me to talk just now and then — I can always work so much better when I am talking, Dorothy. I cannot. Sir Oscar {sensible of a snub, retires to his seat and draws diligently in profound silence). What a dear little girl! How she gives it to one! To be sure she does not know anything about me. Perhaps it is bad form to try and draw out a woman whilst one's unknown oneself. How can I tell her my name, 1 wonder? I won't lose sight of her. She is too charming for anything. I must wait a little before I try, [Shetches carefully for an hour, but shetches the pro^ file of his companion instead of the proportions and decorations of the room. She is engrossed in her own worTc. Sir Oscar {to himself). There! with a few washes of color, what a perfect liead that will be! And she has not an idea of what i have done. It is a very delicate profile; she must have good blood in her. Women are always kind to me; I don't see why she should be so uncivil. I suppose it puts a woman's |)ack up to be seen here by all the idiots that dawdle through their Murray — stared at, pestered, and worried all day long. I will leave her alone till the time comes to go, and then (Aloud.) Pray forgive me if I venture to disturb you before I go; it is now one o'clock; the man will come for me. Might I be permitted to ask — did I hear you rightly? — did you really say you were copying these tapestries for — for— -any one? IJ^ PITTI. 101 Dorothy. For the tradesman who has ordered them — yes. _ Sir Oscar. Then might I ask a very great favor indeed of you? Might I beg you to paint me a suite of this fur- niture? As I said, I am going to have some rooms in my own house decorated like these, with some tapestries that I found in Flanders, and if you would have the infinite goodness Dorotliy, There is no question of goodness — I copy for * any one who employs me. - Sir Oscar {disconcerted). Ah, exactly — but, still, you know, it will be a very great favor for me if you will per- mit me to be classed amongst your Dorothy, Patrons. When I have finished this set I shall be happy to begin other pieces for you. It is my trade. Sir Oscar, Pray do not call it a trade! Dorothy. You cannot call it an art. Sir Oscar. But indeed it is, as you do it. You have made me very happy. May I see you again to-morrow? Dorothy. I am always here. But there is nothing to see me for, if you will give your orders now, and tell me where to send the pieces when finished. Sir Oscar. Here is my card. I am staying at the Ho- tel del' Arno; but the paintings of course will be sent to Eivaux, my own place. We had one wing burnt down last autumn; and, as I must rebuild it, I thought I would make it a re])lica of this part of the Pitti. Dorothy {glancing at his card). Since you are rich enough to do that, you should not have imitation tapes- tries on your sofas and chairs, when you have real ones on the walls. Go to the School of Art in Kensington. They say their embroideries are beautiful. Sir Oscar. Oh, thanks; but I want you to do these identical chairs. Dorothy. As you please. If you will write your di- rections, I will attend to them as soon as this commission is finished. Sir Oscar {to himself). Clearly she wants to get rid of me. {Aloud.) Where may I send them? Dorothy. You might leave them on that table. Sir Oscar. I shall return to-morrow. I will bring them. I suppose the man won't forget to unlock the door? 102 iisr piTTi. Dorothy, Probably not. I was once forgotten until sunset. Sir Oscar {sotto voce). I wish I might be to-day if you were forgotten too! What a cool young lady it is! She knows who I am now, but it don't seem to make any dif- ference. {Looks at Ms ivatcli.) By Jove, it is half-past two! Pardon me — how late do you stay here? Dorothy, Till four. Sir Oscar. Without eating anything? Dorothy. I breakfasted before I came out. Sir Oscar, So did I. Still, when it gets on to lunch- eon time — not tliat I care much what I eat, but one must have something. Dorothy. Yes; humanity is very badly organized. Sir Oscar, We should lose a good deal of enjoyment though, if we didn't eat. Dorothy. You think so? To me it seems such a waste of time. Sir Oscar. ISTot more than the stoker's; the train couldn't get on without coals. But I suppose at your age you think yourself able to live upon air? Dorothy {to herself). What business has he with my age? And he is not so very old himself either. Sir Oscar, Might I be favored with your address, in case — in case — anything should prevent ray coming back here to-morrow? Dorothy, Certainly. My name is Claremont, and I live at the Oolombaia, Via di Petrarca. Sir Oscar {lurites it down). So many thanks! The Dovecote — what a pretty idea! And are there any other doves besides you in it? Dorothy {coldly). I live with my mother. It is a poor place. We are poor. Sir Oscar {te^iipted to say that tvith such a face as hers any one is rich enough^ hut refraining). But does not your mother feel uneasy about you when you are so long away ? Dorothy. Oh no; she knows! am strong and well. Sir Oscar {thinks). Is it absolute innocence, or ad- mirable acting? I'll be shot if I can tell! The girl must be conscious of her own pretty face. {Aloud.) It's quite awfully hot, don't you think? I really must open that window. IN PITTI. lOS Dorothy, The citstode has forgotten you. Sir Oscar {gallantly). Very fortunate for me, Dorothy. What, when you have had no luncheon? I have two buns here; but I am afraid those will scarcely console you. Sir Oscar, Indeed, I am perfectly happy. One can lunch any day, but it isn't every day that one can enjoy the happiness of being Dorothy, Locked up! Well, certainly you will have full time to complete your designs. Sir Oscar, Who taught you to snub people so merci- lessly? Dorothy, Strangers — who suppose that because I am copying in the palace I may be addressed without any ceremony, and am here only to amuse them. Sir Oscar {coloring). Oh, come; that is very severe! I assure you, my dear young lady, I never dreamed of be- ing impertinent; I wouldn't be so for worlds; nobody could be to you Dorothy, I shall be more convinced of that if you will kindly allow me to continue my work in silence. Sir Oscar, Oh, of course! I beg your pardon {goes again into the next room and begins to draio). What a severe little kitten it is! Perhaps she is right, though. It is not altogether good form to bother tliese people who are pinned to their easels here; they must be mobbed and stared at day by day till they naturally show fight. That man decidedly has forgotten me. If the little girl Avould let one talk to her it wouldn't matter, but making archi- tectural sketches all alone on an empty stomach is not en- livening. I suppose I ought to have tipped the fellow beforehand. This is one of the lands of backshish. How pluckily the child holds on at her work! Sbe makes one ashamed. To think I have never done anything I did not like all my life long, and that pretty girl there has to slave away in a stifling room to make a few pounds at an age when she ought to be doing nothing but lawn-tennis, garden parties, and cotillons. If one only might speak to her! — but it will seem such awful bad form after that snub direct. [Hesitates, then si^s down again to his plans; an hour passes : four o'clock strikes. 104 liif PITTI. Sir Oscar {taking out Ms watch). Yes, four, as I live. Well, now we shall get out. I think I may say a word. She is putting ujd her colors. {Aloud.) I suppose we shall be let out soon, shall we not? How fearfully warm it is! Are you not very tired? Do you never get a head- ache or anything? Dorothy {rising). Yes, I often get a headache in the heat of tlie rooms. The custode will be here in a moment. The people all leave the galleries at four. Sir Oscar. The fellow has had an extra dose of garlic •and blue wine, and has gone to sleep somewhere. He'll be sure to come as you said just now. Pray don't mind, -and do eat one of your buns. Dorothy. I do not want to eat, thanks; I am very thirsty; and it is so warm. Sir Oscar. Yes, we'll have the window open, though, you hinted that the tortures of the Inquisition would fol- low. Dorothy. It is the rule for no one to touch them. Sir Oscar, And do you always follow rules? Dorothy. Yes; I think one ought, else what use is it for them to be made? Sir Oscar, Well, none that I ever could see, that is why I make a point of breaking them. Dorothy. I suppose that is all very well for a man. Sir Oscar, Why, what an old-fashioned little lady you are! you are not a bit emancipated, you are quite arrieree. Women want all the fun and all the frolic nowadays. They don't care to have a day out unless they break down *every fence in the country. Dorothy, I do not understand your metaphors. Sir Oscar. Well, you know, I mean they like all their "birds to be rocketers, and they like to put all their money on dark horses, and they like the spot stroke in billiards, and they'll always win by a fluke if they can — you know what I mean. Dorothy. I really do not. Sir Oscar. Well, — women never run straight if they can help it. Dorothy {coldly). Your experience must have been un- fortunate. Sir Oscar {smiling). It's a good deal longer than yours, anyhow; you'll allow that. I ought to bog your pardon liT PITTI. 105 for uttering sucli a beastly cynical sentiment; I am sure I didn't mean it. If women do get off the line, it's be- cause men shunt them there I say — this man is late. One can't make him hear? Dorothy. Quite impossible. There is nothing for it but patience. Sir Oscar. An admirable quality wholly missing from my constitution. Dorothy. Especially when you have had no Inncheon, Sir Oscar. Oh, that does not matter; you know when one is out grouse-shooting or deer-stalking one goes a whole day on cold tea. Do you really come here every morning. Dorothy. Here, or some similar place, wherever there are tapestries or frescoes to be copied. You seem to have forgotten — it is my trade, I am only a copyist; I can do what you order, I have nothing of my own. Sir Oscar. But do you do nothing original? Dorothy. Can the mill -horse run about where he likes? I never even dare to think of anything original; I should have no sale for it. Sir Oscar. It makes me sad to hear you say that; I fancy you would like to be sketching birds, and flowers, and trees, out in the air, wouldn't you? It must be such drudgery imitating all these faded figures. I am sorry now that I ventured to ask you to paint these chairs for me. Dorothy. Pray do not be so. I shall be happy to exe- cute the work. Sir Oscar. I think you said your name is Olaremont? Dorothy {coldly). I did say so. Sir Oscar. I wonder if 5^ou are any relation of a man I was much attached to once; he was my tutor at Eton, a magnificent scholar and a true gentleman. What be- came of him I never knew. 1 am ashamed to say I for- got all about him when I went into the Guards; one grows so brutally selfish in the world. He was called Tom Olare- mont; he had been a Balliol Scholar Dorothy. I think you speak of my father. Sir Oscar {ivith great animation). You don't mean it! Well, you ^re like him, now I think of it. Is he — is he ■ — living? Dorothy. • No: he died many years ago. He had been 106 1^ PITTI. obliged to come to Italy for his health. He married here. I know he was once a tutor at Eton. Sir Oscar {with feeling). My dear little lady, don't snub me any more; I can assure you 1 loved Tom Clare- mont as much as a boy can love anything; any grain of sense or decency I have in me I owe to him, to say noth- ing of any Greek and Latin. You are the daughter of a very noble fellow. He deserved a better fate than to die in a foreign land and leave his child to work for her liv- ing. Dorothy. He had always worked for his own, I believe. He always told me to rely on myself. He said poverty mattered little, but independence was the bread of life. Sir Oscar. Oh, he was always a very proud fellow — if he had been less so he might have been a head master or a bishop before now; but he could never eat that humble pie which is the only food that makes a man climb a bean- stalk. I was only a boy — a very graceless tiresome boy — but I was devoutly attached to him. You do not seem to believe me? Dorothy {hesitates). You did not care to learn what became of him! Sir Oscar, My dear child — I beg your pardon — I mean you don't understand what the world is when a young fel- low is just launched into it, with money enough and birth enough for everybody to come buzzing about him like bees. There is no room left for old friendships. The whole year is a galop ventre a terre. Everybody flatters you; everybody invites you; you think everybody femin- ine is an angel, and every man Jack of them a good fel- low. You are like a colt in a clover field — you don't know that the pace will tell on you and that you may come a cropper before you've done, though you are first favorite. Myself, I went straight from Eton into the First Life, and — and — and I enjoyed myself; I did no end of follies; I spent a great deal of money — I bought my experience, in a word — and bought it pretty dear. Well, all this don't interest you, I know: only I want you to understand how it was that I came not to know anything about Tom Clare- mont. One never does know anything about one's tutors. But, on my honor, I very often thought of him. He had had great ideas of what I might do, and I had disap- pointed him greatly by becoming a G-uardsman — no doubt 11^ PITTI. 107 he thought much better of me than I deserved. I had a sort of reluctance to see him when, after all, I had just fallen into the ruck with the others, and done nothing on earth except amuse myself; and so, you see, the time slipped away and I never met him again; and now you say he died years ago, and you are his daughter? Dorothy {the tears in her eyes). Yes, he died some years ago; at Oamaldoii one summer. Sir Oscar, Ah! *^ the pity of it!" When one of my big livings came vacant, I wrote and offered it to him. I was just of age then. He thanked me, but he would not take it. He had some scruples abouc preaching what he did not believe. He was not orthodox; he was something much better. I ought to have gone and offered it to him. I shall never forgive myself. Dorothy. He would not have taken it. He thought the whole system of the Church of England wrong. He used to say that the beneficed clergyman was worse than the fat monk, for the monk at least gave no dinner-parties and had no liveried servants. 8ir Oscar. How like him! I can hear him say it. Yes, he was one of the few men who lived up to their principles. What did old Hildebrand write? ^^ Dilexi justitium, et odivi iniquitatem, propterea morior in exilio.'' Dorothy. I am prouder of him, so. Sir Oscar. Quite justly. To have the courage of one's opinions and to suffer for them is the grandest thing a man can do. It is not my way; but I can admire it. Dorothy. Have you no opinions? I suppose you hardly lack the courage? Sir Oscar, Perhaps I lack both — I don't know. You see there is nothing to try me; I have always done what I wished to do; and when you are an idle Colonel of Guards, nobody expects you to have any *^ views." Dorothy (with interest). The Guards! Did vou go to Egypt? Sir Oscar. Oh yes — Kossassin and Cairo, and all the rest of it. It was over too soon; that was the worst of it. If only Arabi had destroyed the Canal we should have had a great deal more fun; we might have been there now. To be sure {lowering his voice) I should not have had the happiness of meeting dear Tom Claremont's charming daughter. 108 IN PITTI. Dorothy (bncsquely). Please do not pay me compli- ments. Eemember I cannot get away from them. Sw Oscar, I beg your pardon for the hundredth time; and it wasn't a compliment. Did your father teach you to draw? Dorothy, No; but he encouraged me to study in the galleries. He thought I should be able to support myself. He knew he could only leave us a hundred and fifty pounds a year in English money. Sir Oscar. Good heavens! what one gives for a weight- carrier! Dorothy, A weight-carrier? Sir Oscar. A horse that can carry twelve stone over plow. I forget you are not used to the English we talk at home. Claremont, I am sure, reared you on Shake- speare and Ford and Marlowe? Dorothy. Why do you talk that other English? Sir Oscar, I don't know why. In the world one gets a sort of jargon. It is the same thing in French; what we say on the Boulevards and in the Oercles would sound like high Dutch to Voltaire or Marmontel or Madame de Sevigne. Fashion always has its patois. You know it is a law to itself. Dorothy. I know nothing about it. Fashion and I have never been introducod to each other. Sir Oscar (thinJcs). And yet what a charming creat- ure you would look if one handed you over to Worth, and put five rows of pearls round your throat, and gave you tan gloves up to your elbow, and a big fan with sapphires in the handle — you would take to it in five seconds. You have the eternel feminin in you, though you work away so bravely with your dyes and your varnishes at that ugly coarse cloth. What an amusement it would be to teach you everything — to show you your own powers, to make you understand all there is in yourself — and one must never try to do it, because you are Tom Claremont's daughter! If one could hurt his daughter one would de- serve hanging without court-martial. {Aloud.) Might I ask — you spoke of your mother — did my old friend marry an Italian? Dorothy. My mother is a German; she was Countess Hedenige von Brander. She met my father in Rome. Her IX PITTI. 109 own people have refused to know her since her marriage; they leave us quite to ourselves. She is blind. iSir Oscar. Blind I Good heavens, my poor child! what have you done to Fate that you should be so perse- cuted? Dorothy. Fate might be much more cruel. I have my blessings. My mother is not at all unhappy. She is of the sweetest temper. She has a beautiful voice and sings beautifully. If she could be reconciled to her own people she would desire nothing more; but they are very hard of heart. They thought the marriage beneath her because my father was not noble and was poor; but if you knew him you knew that he was worthy of an empress. Sir Oscar. Most surely. (ThinJcs to himself.) So that is where you get your blond curls and your little air of hauteur. You are a German aristocrat at bottom, though you have Claremont's brown eyes, and Claremont's simple good sense. You are really very interesting; and how innocently you accept me for your father's friend, though for aught you could know I might be only telling you a heap of falsehoods! Dorothy {restlessly). Is it not very strange this custode does not come? He left me here once until six; but then it was only myself — now he knows that you are here. Sir Oscar. I ought to have refreshed his memory with five francs. But if you are not in a hurry I am not; if he had come at the regulation hour I should never have found out you were Claremont's daughter. Now you will let me call on you, won't you? Dorothy {hesitating). Yes — I suppose — I don't know — I will ask my mother. She does not wish people to call; she dislikes new acquaintances. Sir Oscar (sotto voce). Afraid of the hawks for her dove — one can understand; and she can't see what's going on, poor soul. But I sha'n't do the child any harm; I should always feel Tom Claremont's ghost after me. Dorothy [uneasily). What time is it? Perhaps my "watch has stopped. Sir Oscar. Mine's half -past six, but it may be to*o fast; I haven't listened to the town clocks lately. Do tell me more about your father. Did he suffer greatly? Ah! how sad that is! Where did you say he died? At Camaldoli? Where is Camaldoli? liO IJS" flTII. Dorothy. It is a monastery in the hills which has been ehaiiged into an hotel; it stands in the midst of pine for- ests. The physicians ordered him to go to Davos Phitz; but we could not afford to move so far. He was so pa- tient, so quiet; it seems only yesterday — please do nut speak of it Sir Oscar, If only he had accepted my living! It is the living of Rivaux — my own place. I should have seen yoti as a little child; you would have had all an English child's playtime, archery, lawn-tennis, pony-riding, boat- ing; Rivaux would please you, I think. It's an old Stuart place buried in very deep woods; you can ride thirty miles on turf. I used to call it beastly dull, bat of late I've got fond of it; after the glare and scorch of Egypt last year it looked so cool and green and pleasant I was glad to see it again. Dorothy. If I had a place like that I should never leave it. Sir Oscar. Well, you know, I think it was much bet- ter for the country when the people didn't leave their places. In the last century it was a mere liandful of peo- ple who could afford Court life in London or in Paris, and the country-houses in England and the chateaux in France benefited proportionately; the territorial nobility and gentry lived in their own county or their own province all their lives. Now we've changed all that; even the little bits of folks think they must have their town season, and never go near their places except when they have a house- party at Easter, or for the shooting in autumn. They play' right into the hands of the Socialists; it is ridiculous that heaps of great houses and great parks should all be monopolized by people who are scarcely in them six whole weeks out of the year. Dorothy, Why are you in Florence in April? Sir Oscar, Well, because I have the disease of the time; the French call it peregrinomanie. Besides, you know, a man alone — if I were married I would live more thap half my time at Rivaux. As it is, I'm a good deal there. Dorothy, But if you are a soldier? Sir Oscar. Oh, yes, I am in the First Life; but that doesn't tie one much. I did go to Egypt; I would go any- where else if they sent us anywhere else; but they don't. li^" PITTI. Ill Sometimes I think your father was right. I ought not to have gone in the Guards; I might have studied, and that .sort of thing; instead, I let all my best years slip away in that idle London life which makes one good for nothing €lse. Dorothy, Have you no relatives at all? — no mother or sisters? Sir Oscar, My mother died long ago; I have two sis- ters; entirely fine ladies; they don't care a hang about me, nor I a rap about them; they are larky women, both of them, more than I like. Dorothy, That is the English which is not Shake- -speare's. What does it mean? Sir Oscar, It is hardly worth while to tell you. I only meant to say that my siscers both married whilst I was at Eton, and there is no sort of sympathy between us. Oh, I have lots of relations — about five hundred; bub I see as little of them as possible; they are always wanting something — my county borough, or my lord-lieutenancy, or my tenants' votes, or a hundred guineas for a charity; they are always wanting something, if it's only to be asked to dine at Hurlingham. Dorothy. You are honey, and the flies eat you. Sir Oscar. Oh, I assure you, I am not honey; I can be very bitter sometimes, especially if I feel people want to get over me. Dorothy, To get over? That means ? Sir Oscar, Well, in our language, it means cheat one, use one for their own purposes. Dorothy, Is it not just as easy to say " cheat " as ^' get over"? Sir Oscar, I suppose it would be. That slipshod lan- guage is a habit — a bad habit, like smoking cigarettes. I hope you don't smoke, do you? Dorothy, I! Smoke. I ! Sir Oscar, How dreadfully scandalized you look! I was sure you didn't. If you knew how sick one gets of seeing the women smoke, and making believe they like it, and spoiling their lips and their breath! Dorothy, I did not know women ever smoked. In /what country do they. Sir Oscar, In that very queer country which you hap- pily have never traversed — Society. If you had smoked. 112 IK PITTI. however, I have some cigarettes with me, and it might iiave made you feel less hungry. Dorothy, Thanks, I am not hungry, I have eaten my buns. Bat you must want your dinner terribly, Colonel Sir Oscar — I am not sure what you are called? Sir Oscar, My men call me the first; society the seo- ond. You can call me whatever you like, so long as yoti don't call me de trop or impertinent. You did think me impertinent, didn't you? Dorothy, Yes, a little. You see, when one is work- ing, as I am, one is so much at the mercy of those who passs through; and my mother is always so anxious that ( should speak to no strangers, I cannot help answering now and then, because they ask me questions about my work or about the pictures, and sometimes they are very kind and agreeable — sometimes they are rude. Sir Oscar, I was in the latter category, but I shall never be so again. Your mother is quite right; you are much too — young — to speak to people you see in these- places that are open to the public. Dorothy {gayly). But when one works for the public? Sir Oscar, I can't believe you do. I mean, you know, it seems awfully wrong that you should need to work hard, whilst here am I Dorothy, What has that got to do with it? There is nothing wrong about it. That is the sort of thing the Communists say; but an English gentleman Sir Oscar, May feel ashamed of himself, mayn't he? I mean you know, that to see a little lady of your years, and your — your appearance — shutting herself up all day and toiling away for her mother, makes one's own selfish, idle, self-indulgent life seem the most hateful thing under the sun. Dorothy, I do not see it at all. I am not the least bib of a radical. I am sure it is all these inequalities which make life picturesque; if it were all a dead level, there would be no hills to climb, no valleys to repose in; I think it delightful that there sliould be people rich enough and happy enough to enjoy themselves all their lives long. If I were living near Eivaux, I should be the better for Rivaux every time I walked through it; I should not want to own it. To hear the birds sing, to see the primroses come out IN PITTI. 113 Sir Oscar {admiringly). What a philosopher you are! I recognize Claremont's spirit in that admirable selfish- ness, in that absolute absence of envy; he was always like that. He came to Eivaux once in my father's time, and I remember that he enjoyed it just in your spirit; he said he made it his own through his eyes. Are you his only child? Dorothy, Yes. He taught me all I know. Were I only more like him! Sir Oscar, I think you are very like him. Perhaps the best gift of all he gave you has been that of his cheer- ful content and sweet ungrudging justice to all men. It is such a rare quality in private as in public life; no doubt it is so rare because it is only possible to the highest nat- ures. Dorothy. How well you understood him! Sir Oscar. Perhaps I understand him better by my memories of him than I did when I was a lad, too eager to enjoy myself to care much for anything else. If I had followed his example and his counsels, I should have been a very different man and a much more useful one in my generation. Dorothy, You have been fighting in Egypt. Sir Oscar. Is that usefnl? Well, anybody could have done what I did — lost three chargers and hunted down a few poor beasts of fellahs. I made some sketches cer- tainly, but they're not worth much. Those marvelous sunsets, and hard white moons— one could not reproduce them if one were Turner himself. Dorothy {in awe). Did you really hill an Egyptian? Sir Oscar. I really did — three or four, I believe. One was there to do it, you know. I would rather they had been Germans or Kussians. It seemed a little too like mowing down grass. Dorothy. I suppose it had to be done, as you say; but it is horrible — to see any one sit there — drawing — and to think that they, have killed others a few months ago; you cannot fancy how terrible it seems! It frightens me Sir Oscar {smiling). Desdemona was frightened, but she liked it. Women always do like it. Dorothy. I do not like it. Sir Oscar, Oh yes, you do. You are not quite so sin- cere as usual when you say you don't. 114 IK PITTI. Dorothy {coloring). Perhaps — I do not know — yes, perhaps in a way T like it. It seems wonderful to think you have killed men last year and would not hurt me; but still it is terrible to think of it. 8i7^ Oscar. Precisely; it was terrible to Desdemona. Dorothy. Desdemona! Sir Oscar. Yes; you remember she loved him for the perils he had passed, and I dare say a little also for the damage he had done. Dorothy (hurriedly). I don't see — I mean How very strange it is that the custode does not come; the light seems growing less; it will soon be dusk. Sir Oscar (cheerfully). Of course the old fellow will come when night falls. They are sure to shut the palace up carefully. Do you know that I am beginning to be- lieve in fate? Dorothy. Indeed? Because an Italian door-keeper has forgotten his keys? Sir Oscar. Well, yes, and for other things. Oddly enough, I hated coming into Italy. I had got together a nice lot of people for Easter down at my place; and after that I meant to spend May in Paris; I like Paris im- mensely, and my horses are running there; but an old friend of mine telegraphed to me that he was dying in Eome. He had set his heart on seeing me, meant to make me guardian to his boy, and all that; a nice sort of guard- ian, you will say; but, however, he'd got that idea in his head, and he was down with typhoid, and the boy all alone with him; so I went. He didn't die, not a bit of it; and he's going home next week. But he would have died, I am sure, if I'd stayed in London, out of the very perversity of things. So as he got well and I found my- self in Italy I stopped a few days here on my way back just to*ee the pictures and things, and I thought I'd take a sketch of the Arazzi rooms for Eivaux, for I recollected them; and so — and so, you see — you know now why I be- gin to believe in fate. Dorothy. I really do not. You say your friend would have died if you had stayed at home; so there can't be any fate at all — only a rigmarole con trad ic 1:0 ry set of chances. Sir Oscar. That is very unkind; I only meant that things go like that. As I set off to see him die, he didn't IN" PITTI. 115 die; if I had stayed at home, he would have died inevita- bly, so that I should have been full of self-reproach all the rest of my days. I believe in fate, though you refuse to see its hand. Dorothy, I cannot see anything except a natural se- quence of circumstances. Sir Oscar. Well, but why is it that one '^sequence of circumstances" leaves a man just where he was before, and another alters everything and brings him across some- body who changes the face of things for him? Dorothy (with a little emlarrassment). A custode, for instance, who keeps one without luncheon and makes one late for dinner! Well, it is to be hoped he is not met with every day. You must be very hungry. Sir Oscar. 8ir Oscar. I am, I grant; but it don't matter; we were awfully huns'ry at times in Egypt. The cook was all there, but the food wasn't. Here we are like those poor brutes that the Chinese kill by hanging them up in a cage in sight of a meat-shop. There is food all round us in Florence, but we can't get at it. There is a kind of scent of dinner in the air, isn't there? Dorothy. I hardly perceive it. Do you hear the night- ingales in Boboli? Sir Oscar. Ah! you see that is the difference between our ages. Sunset to you suggests nightingales, and to me dinner. Dorothy. But you must hear the nightingales. Listen! Sir Oscar. Very pretty. Where are they? Dorothy, In Boboli, the gardens yonder. Are your gardens at Rivaux equal to ours, with their dark ilexes and their moss-grown marbles? Sir Oscar. They are another sort of garden altogether. Italian gardens are meant for moonlight nights and Romeo and Juliet, and perhaps a dagger glistening some- where under the white lilies; ours are made rather for sunny afternoons and lawn-tennis, and tea in Worcester cups, and Kate Greenaway's little girls, and all kinds of cigars. There is an old Dutch garden though at Rivaux, very prim and shady, and full of sweet-scented flowers, which might please you, and where you would sit under clipped walls of box and read old Herrick. Do you think you will come to England this year? 116 IN" PITTI. Dorothy, This year! we never go there or anywhere. I have never even seen England. I was born here. Sir Oscar, Florence has always been a fortunate city! I should be so glad if you and your mother would come to Eivaux. I have lots of ladies who honor me there. Dorothy {laughs a little). Fancy me in my gray gown amongst a number of grand people. Do you know that I have never been to a party of any kind in all my life, nor to any theater, even though we are in the land of Mimi f Sir Oscar. How delightful! How I should like to be the first to drive you down the Champs-Elysees at the retour du Bois, or take you on a Saturday to Hurlingham or Eanelagh, and to the opera afterward ! I wonder if it would strike you as bewilderingly enchanting or pre- posterously absurd. Sometimes the whole thing seems to me the hugest farce under the sun. Dorothy, Listen! {The nightingales sing louder in the gardens on the other side of the court helotv. ) Sir Oscar. The last nightingales I heard were at Mar- low. We had sailed down the river and dined; they chaffed me about going out to Egypt, said I and my charger should sink overhead down in the sand, like the Master of Kavenswood, you know. What trash we all talked; and when we were a minute silent there was the shouting of the birds — for they do shout, you know — and little ^N'essie Hamilton said that Nilsson wasn't a patch on them. (Is silent, thinhing,) What a beast I am to speak of Nessie Hamilton to her! — to be sure it don't hurt her, she don't know what brutes we were at Marlow that night while the nightingales sang on through it all just outside the windows. How pretty she looks, the little gray frock is enchanting, it makes her look as if she had dressed up as a boy -monk for a freak. These dusky rooms with all their tapestries, and just that fair curly hair in the midst of them, and the birds trilling away in the distance — it's much better than Marlow; it's a scene out of some old drama of Massinger or Ford. How reverent she looks as she listens to those birds, she has the face of a girl at prayer. I should like her to think of me in her prayers. Somehow one fancies it would do one good if there be any- thing better than this life. IJ^ PITTI. 117 ]_The dig dell of S. Maria dei Fiori rings for the Avs Maria, DorotJiy {rising with agitation). That is the Ve^iti ire! and they do not come! What shall I do? What- ever will my mother think? Can we make no one hear? Sir Oscar, Won't the nightingales console you? Dorothy. Oh, pray do not jest of it! Only think how wretched my mother will be, expecting me hour after hour — I am never later than five — and nobody is with her but our stupid Teresina; and they do not dream I am here, because I went out to paint in the Spanish cloister jmd came here instead because the church was shut up. Oh, cannot you make them hear? Do call — shout out — as if you were telling the Life Guards td charge! Sir Oscar. I will do my very best. I do shout a good deal, especially on a field-day, and still more when my yacht's shipping heavy seas and the skipper's a duffer; here goes! [Leans out of the windoio andhalloos; there is no res;ponse save from an echo. DorotJiy {in des])air). l^o one hears! Oh, how terri- ble it is! What ever can I do? Sir Oscar. I fear there is nothing to be done. I would get down the wall somehow or another, but these confounded French windows — French windows in an Italian palace!— are too narrow for me to squeeze through them; you see, unluckily, I'm the big Guardsman of FuncWs pictures. If I only knew what to do! I'm afraid I must bore you horribly. Dorothy. Oh no! you are so kind, and I am so selfish. I forget how you must want your dinner. Sir Oscar. That is a minor ill; I have been hungry ere now and have survived it. What concerns me is the worry for yourself and your mother at home. Of course it will end all right; we are not shut up here to endure the fate of the Ugolini; somebody will come some time; but meantime you must be beginning to hate the sight of me. Dorothy {naively). No, indeed, you have made me for- get the time; you have been very kind. Sir Oscar {to himself). How sweetly she says that! and not an idea of any suspicion of me. Good heavens! 118 IN PITTI. what capital Nessie Hamilton, or any of them, would have- made out of this as a ^' situation." Wliat affected fears, what nasty modesties, what suggestive attitudes tliey would have got out of it! This child only thinks that her mother is crying at home, and that I want my dinner. (He makes the tour of the three apartme7its which are open, and returns.') I have tried to force each of the doors, but they defy me. There is no exit of any sort possible. What can I do? You know the place. Command me. I will do the possible and the impossible. Dorothy [groiving pale), I think there is nothing you can do, as you can make no one hear. It is quite inex- plicable. The man must have drank too much and gone to sleep — and it is nearly dark. Sir Oscar, How those nightingales do go on; their little voices penetrate where mine is lost — the superior power of sweetness over volume. It looks darker here than it is outside, because of all these tapestries. To think you have had nothing to eat all day! Dorothy, I do not mind that; I often eat nothing all day. Would you like to smoke? I think you said you had cigars. jSir Oscar. No, thanks; I don't care about it. It would only bother you. Dorothy. Indeed, no; I do not mind. You say if you smoke you feel less hungry. JSir Oscar. Well, I'll go and light up in the next room to show you how I appreciate your kindness. (He goes and smokes and reflects.) On my honor if there be such a thing as love at first sight, I am in love! After all what could one find better than Tom Olaremont's daughter? He was the finest fellow that ever lived; beggared himself for sake of being honest to his Church and loyal to his opinions; he was a scholar and a gentleman, every inch of him. If I've anything decent in me, it is to Claremont that 1 owe it. I was a horrid little spoilt bumptious ass when I went to him, and he made a man of me. If I fell away from his teachings afterward it was nobody's fault but my own. She's infinitely charming, she is so utterly innocent, and yet you can see she could hold her own very bravely. What a pretty voice too! and what a complexion, like a roseleaf ! After all, Piver can't give them anything^ that looks like the real thing. I wonder what she would IN PITTI. 119 say if she were told I thought of her seriously — box my ears, I fancy, metaphorically. It sounds awfully ridicu- lous, when I've been afraid of being caught by women ever since I was twenty, and when I've seen her just a few hours ago in these rooms; but I think one might do worse. I'd always an idea of finding somebody out of the common run; I'm dead sick of all our women, they are so terribly alike; and then, one knows those girls would marry the devil himself if he made good settlements. Now, this one I believe would go on painting linen to the end of her days rather than sell herself. What immense fun it would be to show her the world; I am sure she's got it in her to enjoy herself; shut up with a blind mother, and forced to drudge in galleries for her livelihood, she must be like a bird in a cage. If one had her with one, and just took her to Paris, and gave Worth carte Manclie, what a pict- ure she'd be in a month! and it would do one s^ood to hear her laugh; yet I think she'd hate it all, and like to get to the greenery and the roses down at Eivaux — at least, I fancy so. I fancy she'd always like the country best, and perhaps she'd like riding, she's the figure that ought to ride well. Good heavens! to be tied down here in the heat, painting saints and goddesses and landscapes on cloth for a lot of dealers and Yankees! It is atrocious! Andromeda and the rock was nothing to it. And so brave and so quiet and so grateful as she is about it! and only thinking of her mother, never a bit of herself. It seems a shame to make love to her shut up alone with me as she is, it would only frighten her; and it's growing dark as pitch. It will be very horrid for her; one must not say anything that would scare her; it would be too unfair. {He fhroios the end of the cigarette in a corner ^ and looks around the room.) If only one could find a bit of light it would comfort her; it's odious for her, poor child, to be alone with a stranger like this. If she weren't so unsus- picious she would think I'd bribed the custode. {Sees on a marlle console an end of wax candle; tahes it and goes to her.) Here's an a,tom of wax candle, I found it in that inner room. I'll try and light it, though I've only fusees, and stick it in one of those candelabra; it will be better than nothing. Perhaps they will see a light in those win- dows, and come up, some of them. There! A feeble il- lumination, but still it will serve to keep ghosts away. If 120 11^ PITTI. they imprison people here they ought to leave a lamp or two and something in the cupboard to eat. Pray don't he alarmed at— at — about anything, Miss Ckiremont. Fll go in the furthest room, if you like^ and you can pile the furniture between us Dorothy {simjjly). Why should I do that? I should be more alarmed if I were alone, I am a little — just a little — afraid of being in the dark. My father was always angry with me for being so; he said it was to distrust Nat- ' ure^ to limit the power of God; of course it is if one rea- son about it; but one can't always reason; at least, I can't. Sir Oscarm No pretty woman ever should! Don't be angry with me. It slipped out unawares. You see, it was such a natural reply to you. {TImihs to himself.) You are adorable! It never enters your head that I might be a brute to you. On my soul, I will be the lion to your Una. I don't think I've led a very decent life; but na old woman could be more careful of you than I will be. Only there will be the mischief to pay if we do stay here all night and the gossips get hold of my name in the morn- ing. They will damn you, poor child, for all the rest of your days. The world don't believe in Una. What a blackguard world it is! (Aloud,) Hark at your night- ingales! Did your father ever recite to you Ford's *' Lutist and Nighti^igale "? I almost think it is the finest poem in the English language. Dorothy, It is very beautiful — I know it by heart. Only there is one fault in all the poets when they write of nightingales. They speak of her as sad. Now, it is h& who is most joyous. Sir Oscar. To be sure; you are quite right. That blunder comes from ^don. Hark at them! What a flood of song! What rivalry! Dorothy, Do they sing like that in England? Sir Oscar, I think not. Dorothy. Perhaps in England they cannot see their notes; there are no fireflies to light them! {She meets his glance, and colors and looks away.) Tell me all about Egypt; that will pass the time. I am so fond of stories; my father used to tell me so many. Sir Oscar. Ah, I haven't your father's talent. I've talked what you call bad English so many years that I've lost all power of speaking in the sort of language you like* IN" PITTI. 121 I can tell you what I saw myself, but I'm afraid I shall tell it ill. The thing that hurt me most was the death of poor Blacl<: Douglas, my best horse; I bred him myself at Rivaux six years ago; an Arab stabbed him, in a thicket of reeds, and he carried me five miles home, to camp, with the knife sticking in him, and then dropped. [He tells her about Egyi^t for half an hour; the iells sound half -^mst eight; it groius darh outside; the candle burns loiv. Sir Oscar (aloud.) That fellow hasn't twenty minutes more life in him; perhaps there are some other bits of wax somewhere. Kassassin, do you say? Oh no, it wasn't anything wonderful; it was a melee; we cut and thrust and charged and recharged, but we didn't know very well what we were doing. It is always so with us English, you know; we go into the thing as if it were polo, and we get out of it, God knows how. I wish we could get out of this for your sake; you begin to look so tired. It's quite shocking for you to have gone all day on those two buns, and not even a drop of water, Dorothy. If I could let my mother know I am safe! She will imagine every dreadful accident under the sun, and they will never think to come here — at least, I fear not. Sir Oscar. Perhaps they may, later on; I always fan- cied there was nothing money couldn't do for one, but this is certainly a facer. (He thinhs.) I should like to tell her all I think of her; but I suppose it would be brutal when she is shut up like this; it might frighten her, she wouldn't understand. On my honor, I never felt so inclined to marry a woman before! but she might be frightened or angry; she can't get away from me; it won't do to embarrass her. It's likely enough we sha'n't get out till morning; it will be awfully cruel for her. What ^ tale they'd make of it in the clubs if it were to get wind; I suppose they'd chaff me and call me Scipio for the rest of my days. Dorothy (with distress). How can ^they possibly treat me like this! — they know me so well, I come here so continually. Of course it is not like the galleries, which they must close; but still they ought to shut up the palace at sunset. 122 liif piTTi. Sir Oscar, They have forgotten this particular corner of it. Pray don't fret; if I could get them to come by breaking my neck I assure you I wouldn't hesitate a min- ute; but when I can't get out of any one of the windowsl ■ — there are moments^ and these are one of them^ in which one feels that it may occasionally be better to be a midge than a giant. Dorothy, If you could get out of the windows you could do nothing; they are an immense height. Sir Oscar, I would chance it for your sake. Dorothy {smiling). Or — to dine? Sir Oscar, That is very cruel. Have I shown any re- membrance that I have not dined? Indeed, after that cigarette which you so kindly allowed me, I am quite re- freshed body and spirit. But that you should not even have a glass of water distresses me infinitely. Dorothy {the tears coming to her eyes). Oh, all that does not matter in the least. It is to think how unhappy my poor mother must be! And you know everything is so much worse to those who are blind. They feel they can do nothing. Sir Oscar {fnoves restlessly). Pray, pray, don't cry. I never can stand seeing a woman cry. I know it's awful for you, and one feels such a fool not to be able to do- something. Perhaps I could smash the door if I put my shoulder to it. Shall I try? Dorothy, ]S"o, I think you could not move it; these doors are so strong; and they would put you in prisott afterward. Sir Oscar. I would chance that. If it won't frighten you I'll try if I can't smash the panels in; I'm about as strong as most men. I see nothing else for it. Here goes? Dorothy. Oh! pray don't; you may hurt yourself, and they will be so angry. * Sir Oscar {smiling). My dear, I'm more likely to hurt the wall. The worst of it is, that these things they made in the dark ages arc so confoundedly well made that they'd almost resist artillery. If it were a door in my house in London, we'd send it flying into splinters in two seconds.. Stand out of the way and let me have a try before the can- dle goes out; you won't mind my taking my coat off?' Why, how pale yoa are! Do you think the thing will I]^ PITTI. 123 tumble on me like the gates of Gaza? Pray don't be frightened. I tlionght you were such a cool cou- rageous little lady. I assure you the only damage done will be to these very handsome panels, and money will repair that. 'Now, see here, I am going to try. If I fail, you will be no worse off; if I succeed, you can run away, as soon as the door's down, and they'll never know that you have been shut up here with me, don't you see? (Thinks.) What an innocent it is! She don't dream that people might say horrid things! Here is the real inno- cence — Una's innocence — too pure even to imagine evil, and knowing no fear. I always wished to find that sort of thing, but I thought it was the four-leaved shamrock! (Aloud,) Will you please stand out of the way and hold the candle while I try? Here goes! l^Puts his shoulder to the door; heaves and pushes vainly for ten minutes; pauses to take hreath. Dorothy (with clasped hands). Oh, pray do not try to do it, you will hurt yourself; you must be bruised and strained already; and if you did knock it down they would put you in the Bargello. You know this is the king's palace ! 8ir Oscar (laughing). They won't behead me; perhaps they'll behead the custode. Don't think I'm going to give in, I haven't got safe out of Egypt only to go down before a wooden door. (He tries again; and sends the panels fying in splinters.) There! I knew I should beat the confounded thing. Now you are free, my bonny bird. Will you run down the stairs and leave me here, or will jou prefer me to go and call them? Dorothy. Oh, how strong you are! How beautiful to be as strong as that! Sir Oscar (srniling), Hercules always wins by a head with you ladies. That unhappy door! it is only good to split up for matches; but I know all theEoyal household; they'll make it right. Why, you are paler than you were before! What is the matter? Dorothy (gathering up her colors and Irushes). I am only so glad, and it seems so wonderful to be as strong as you are! You rent the door as* I sliould paper. Sir Oscar, Not quite; it took me fifteen minutes. 124 IN PITTI. Don't be in sucli a tremendous hurry. I — I — want to ask you something. Dorothy. I cannot wait a moment, indeed I cannot. I shall run all the way home. It must be nearly nine o'clock. Think of mamma! Sir Oscar, Yes; but I want a word, just a word, with you first before any one comes upstairs. They must have heard that row down below. Do wait one second; you can run off afterward as soon a3 j^ou please; but I must say it if I die for it. Half a day like this counts more than half a year, don't you think so? I don't know what you feel about me; I can't hope that you feel anything; but what I feel is just this — you please me more than any woman that ever lived. AVill you come and live at Rivaux? By G-eorge, there is the candle gone out! well, it served our time. My dear, don't be frightened; give me your hand; we will feel our way downstairs. But before we go out do answer me. Dorothy (agitated). It is quite dark! Sir Oscar, It is quite dark; but the nightingales find their tongues in the darkness, and so can you. Dorothy. We must speak to the custode. Sir Oscar, We must certainly speak to the custode — at least, I will, and forcibly — but first please speak to me. Of course you know very little about me, but your mother shall know everything. All you have to do, my dear, is: to tell me you don't dislike me! Dorothy. Dislike you? Sir Oscar. May I take you home? Dorothy {in a ivhisper). If you wish. THE ElirD. The Seaside Library. ORI>INARY EDITION. GEORGE MUNRO, Publisber, p. O. Box 3751. 17 to S7 Vandewater Sti'eet, New York. The following wor^s contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition, are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for double numbers, by tha publisher. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. j,o MRS. ALEXANDER'S WORKS. p^icb. 80 Her Dearest Foe 20 86 The Wooing O't 20 46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 370 Ralph Wilton's Weir4 10 400 Which Shall it Be? 20 532 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 1281 The Freres 20 1259 Valerie's Fate 10 1391 Look Before You Leap 20 1502 The Australian Aunt 10 1595 The Admirars Ward 20 WILLIAM BLACK'S WORKS. 13 A Princess of Thule 20 28 A Daughter of Heth 10 47 In Silk Attire , 10 48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 51 Kilmeny 10 53 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 242 The Three Feathers 10 390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 417 Macleod of Dare 20 451 Lady Silverdale's Sweetheart 10 568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 950 Sunrise: A Storv of These Times 20 1025 The Pupil of Aurelius , la 1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 1161 The Four MacNicols 10 1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 X429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People.. . , . 10 1556 Shandon Bells. ...... ,.o..oc.o. ,. 20 1683 Yolande .......... o., c » = . c o c c c o o ... c . c. ...,, e . 2© n THE SEASIDE LIBBABT.— Ordinary Edition, CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE'S WORKS. 3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) , 20 163 Shirley 20 311 The Professor 10 329 Wuthering Heights 10 438 Villette 20 967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 ^098 Agnes Grey c 20 MISS M. E. BRADDON'S WORKS. 26 Aurora Floyd 20. 69 To the Bitter End * 20 89 The Lovels of Arden 20 95 Dead Men's Shoes '20 109 Eleanor's Victory , , 20 114 Darrell Markham. . . c 10 140 The Lady Lisle 10 171 Hostages to Fortune 20 190 Henry Dunbar ^. 20 215 Birds of Prey 20 235 An Open Verdict , 20 251 Lady Audley's Secret 20 254 The Octoroon 10 360 Charlotte's Inheritance o 20 287 Leighton Grange 10 295 Lost for Love 20 322 Dead-Sea Fruit , 20 459 The Doctor's Wife .20 469 Eupert Godwin 20 481 Vixen 20 482 The Cloven Foot 20 500 Joshua Haggard's Daughter 20 519 Weavers and Weft 10 525 Sir Jasper's Tenant , 20 539 A Strange World : 20 550 Feuton's Quest 20 562 John Marchmont's Legacy 20 572 The Lady's Mile .. 20 579 Strangers and Pilgrims ; 20 581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss K E. Braddon) 20 619 Taiceu at the Flood 20 641 Only a Clod 20 649 Publicans and Sinners 20 656 Geor2:e Caulfield's Journey 10 665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh , 20 701 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery 20 705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 734 Diavola; or, Nobody's Daughter. Part 1 20 ^34 Diavola; or, Nobody's Daughter. Part IL ..,,.... 20 TEE 8EASLDS! LIBBAUY.—Ordinary Edition. m MISS M. E. BKADDON'S WORKS.-Continued. 811 Dudley Carleon IC 828 The Fatal Marriage IG 837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 942 Asphodel 20 1154 The Misletoe Bough 20 J265 Mount Roval 20 1469 Flower and Weed , 10 1553 The Golden Calf 20 1638 Married in Haste (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 EHODA BEOUGHTONS WORKS. 186 " Good-Bye, Sweetheart " „ 10 269 Red as a Rose is She 20 S85 Cometh Up as a Flower , 10 402 '♦ Not Wisely, But Too Well" 20 458 Nancy 20 526 Joan 20 762 Second Thoughts ,.... 20 WILKIE COLLINS' WORKS. 10 The Woman in White „ 20 14 The Dead Secret 20 22 Man and Wife 20 82 The Queen of Hearts 20 38 Antonina 20 42 Hide-and-Seek 20 76 The New Magdalen 10 94 The Law and The Lady 20 180 Armadale 20 191 My Lady's Money 10 225 The Two Destinies IQ 250 No Name 20 286 After Dark 10 409 The Haunted Hotel 10 433 A Shocking Story 10 487 ARogue'sLife 10 551 The Yellow Mask. 10 583 Fallen Leaves 20 654 Poor Miss Finch , 20 675 The Moonstone 20 696 Jezebel's Daughter , 20 713 The Captain's Last Love 10 . 721 Basil..' 20 745 The Mas ic Spectacles 10 905 Duel in Heme Wood 10 928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 971 The Frozen Deep - .... 10 &90 The Black Robe c.^*... 20 3164 Your Money or Your Life , , . 10 1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time. ..,,,.. ^ J JT TBE SF£ ASIDE LIBRARY.— Ordinary Edition. J. FENIMORE COOPER'S WORKS. 222 Last of the Mohicans 20 224 The Deerslayer 20 226 The Pathfinder 2d 229 The Pioneers 20 231 The Prairie , 20 233 The Pilot - , 20 585 The Water- Witch 20 590 The Two Admirals ,.., 20 615 The Red Rover 20 761 Wingand-Wing ...., 20 940 The Spy 20 1066 The Wyandotte 20 1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to "Afloat and Ashore") 20 1569 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 1605 The Monikins 20 1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of the Rhine 20 1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan's Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS. 20 The Old Curiosity Shop. , 20 100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 102 Hard Times .10 118 Great Expectations 20 187 David Copperfield 20 200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 ~ 313 Barnaby Rudge 20 218 Dombey and Son 20 239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 347 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 284 Oliver Twist 20 289 A Christmas Carol 10 297 The Haunted Man 10 304 Little Dorrit 20 308 The Chimes 10 317 The Battle of Life , 10 325 Our Mutual Friend 20 337 Bleak House 20 352 Pickwick Papers . . 20 359 Somebody's Luirgage 10 367 Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings 10 372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 375 Mugby Junction. 10 403 Tom Tiddler's Ground 10 498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 521 Master Humphrey's Clock 10 625 Sketches by Boz 20 639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 837 The Mudfog Papers, «fcc , ,.,.,...,,,., 10 The Seaside Library. POCKET EDITION. NO PRICE. 1 Yolande. By William Black :^0 2 Mollv Bawn. By " The Duchess ". . . . 20 3 Tlie Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 20 4 Under Two Flags. By '• Ouida " 20 5 Admiral's Ward. By Mrs. Alexande^^^m-^':^^':: ^^A^^M^j "^^m^fsf^^^^ ^^f^m .fms,mm^0^^ 4 .5 ::m^m^f^fWMr\rn^^' LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 014 434 717 1 f I