GIFT OF \\ f^^ffm. mm^ ^m^m^mf \AnnfmA'A , APPLETONS' NEW HANDY-VOLUME SERIES. LITTLE COMEDIES, BY JULIAN STURGIS, AUTHOR OF " JOHX-A-DREAMS," AND " AN ACCOMPLISHED GENTLEMAN." NEW YORK: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 1, 3, AND 5 BOND STKEET. 1880. CONTENTS. PAOB APPLES .7 FIRE-FLIES 55 PICKING UP THE PIECES . . .83 HALF WAY TOARCADY. . . . 127 MABEL'S HOLY DAY . . . .139 HEATHER 165 438826 " This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorne brake our tyring house." " Like cutler's poetry Upon a knife, Love me, and leave me not" APPLES. CHARACTERS. CLAUD HUKTLEY, Artist. LADY EOEDALE. BETTY TYRKEL. APPLES. It is spring-time in Rome, and one of the first hot days. In the veiled light of his studio CLAUD HUKTLEY is painting LADY ROE- DALE'S picture. He likes to talk as he works. CLAUD. Then why did you offer to sit to me ? LADY EOEDALE. Why ? Why ? It's too hot to give reasons. Perhaps because your studio is the coolest place in Rome. Or shall I merely say that I sit to you because I choose ? CLAUD. That's better. You always did what you chose. And now you are free. You delight in your liberty. 8 LITTLE COMEDIES. LiADY iiGEDALE. " Delight" is a strong word. It is suggestive of violent emotion. I detest violence. CLAUD. You say with Hamlet, " Man delights me not." LADY EOEDALE. I say nothing with Hamlet. Heaven defend me from such presumption ! and besides, Hamlet was a bore, and thought too much of himself. CLAUD. Heaven defend you from presumption ! But any way you agree. You don't like man, and you do like liberty ? LADY EOEDALE. I prefer liberty of the two. A widow can do what she pleases, and and this is far better, she need not do anything which bores her. CLAUD, Ah, there you are wrong. Your liberty is a sham. You are bound by a thousand silk threads of society. Your conduct is modified by the criticism of a dozen tea-tables. Trippet takes your cup, and sees that your eyes are red. By the way, they are red APPLES. 9 LADY EOEDALE. Thank you. If I am looking frightful, we had better postpone the sitting. CLAUD. Your eyes are red : off runs Trippet with the news. Lady Roedale has been crying. Why ? Why ! of course because the Marchese has left Eome says Trippet. LADY EOEDALE. Does he ? Trippet is odious, and so is the Marchese, a Narcissus stuffed and dyed, who has been in love with himself for seventy years. You are all insufferable, all you men. CLAUD. I beg your pardon. LADY EOEDALE. Oh, don't. If you were not so delightfully rude, I should go to sleep. I used to have a snap- pish little dog, such a dear ! that barked when I dozed. He was very good for me but he died. CLAUD. And when I die, I should recommend a par- rot. 10 LITTLE COMEDIES. LADY KOEDALE. A parrot ! A very good idea. A parrot to say, " Wake up, my lady." Will you get him for me? CLAUD. I shall be dead. He is to replace me, you know. LADY KOEDALE. No ; I shouldn't like that. I like you best, after all. CLAUD. That is very kind of you. I believe you do like me when you remember my existence. LADY KOEDALE. You wouldn't have me think of you all day. A man always about is insufferable. CLAUD. Everything is insufferable or odious to-day. LADY ROEDALE. Do you think so ? CLAUD. I mean that you think so. APPLES. 11 LADY EOEDALE. How can you know what I think ? I am sure I don't know what I think. It is so hot. I ought not to have sat to-day, but, after all, as I said, your studio is the coolest place in Kome. CLAUD. My room is better than my company. LADY EOEDALE. I hate jokes in hot weather. They remind me of "laughter holding both his sides," and "tables in a roar," and all sorts of violent things. CLAUD. It's no good. I can't get on. You look so lazy and indifferent. I hate that expression. LADY EOEDALE. I am sorry that my appearance is repulsive. CLAUD. I wish it were. But no matter. We were saying what were we saying ? Oh, I remember. You were saying that you could not bear to have a man always about the house. LADY EOEDALE. I have been married. 12 LITTLE COMEDIES. CLAUD. How can you bear to talk of that ? LADY EOEDALE. I don't know. (She yawns and stretches out her arms lazily.) I am free now. CLAUD. Are you so in love with freedom ? LADY EOEDALE. In love ! I don't like the expression. " In love " is a vile phrase. CLAUD. And you think yourself free. Did not I tell you that you can't move hand or foot without being talked about ; that you can't buy a bonnet without being married to some fool ; that you can't pass a club window without setting flippant tongues wagging, nor stay at home without tea- drinking dowagers finding the reason ? Didn't I tell you LADY EOEDALE. Yes, you did. CLAUD. I wish I had the right to stop their tongues. LADY EOEDALE. You are a very old friend. APPLES. 13 CLAUD. That's not enough. LADY EOEDALE. How hot it is ! CLAUD. Very. Will you be so kind as to turn your head a little more to the left ? LADY ROEDALE. Oh dear, how cross you are ! and you ought to be so happy. You are not like me. You have something to do. You can stand all day and smudge on color. CLAUD. A nice occupation smudging on color. LADY ROEDALE. One can't select one's words in hot weather. I wish I could smudge. CLAUD. You can sit for pictures. LADY ROEDALE. A fine occupation ! To be perched on a plat- form with a stiff neck, and a cross painter, a Heine without poetry. I believe that you are only painting my gown. I shall stay at home to- morrow, and send my gown. 14 LITTLE COMEDIES. CLAUD. Your gown will be less cruel. (He puts down his painting tools.) Why do you play with me like this ? LADY EOEDALE. Play ? I was not aware I was doing anything so amusing. CLAUD. It must end some day. LADY EOEDALE. Everything ends even the hot weather. CLAUD. Clara ! LADY EOEDALE. Now, please, don't quarrel. We have always been good friends, you and I. CLAUD. Friends ! Yes. LADY EOEDALE. Do let well alone. CLAUD. Very well. As you please. The head a little more up. Thanks. (He takes up Ms painting tools.) You don't look well. APPLES. 15 LADY EOEDALE. I am sorry that I look ugly. CLAUD. You don't look ugly. How irritating you are ! LADY KOEDALE. I am sorry that 1 am so disagreeable. CLAUD. Oh ! I shall spoil this picture. Perhaps it will be more like the original. LADY ROEDALE. Spoiled ! Oh, Claud, I do wish you wouldn't be funny till the weather is cooler. It's almost vulgar. Besides, I am not spoiled, not in the least. I am generally slighted. No woman was ever so neglected. I am not fast enough to be a success. But to be fast in this heat ! Oh, dear me ! it's tiresome enough to be slow. CLAUD. I am glad that you are no faster not that it is any business of mine, as you were about to say. The chin a little more up. Thank you. 16 LITTLE COMEDIES. LADY ROEDALE. How kind of you to talk for me ! It saves me so much trouble. Go on ; say what else I am about to say. You amuse me. CLAUD. I am glad to do what I can for you. I will talk for you, walk for you, fetch and carry for you, live for you, die for you, and so LADY KOEDALE. Mocker ! Heine ! CLAUD. " Without the poetry ! " As you please. Take it as mockery. LADY KOEDALE. All romance is mockery. Romance is as much out of date as good manners. CLAUD. Was I rude again ? I beg your pardon. LADY ROEDALE. Only fashionably uncivil. It's quite the thing. The best men talk of women as if they were horses. APPLES. IT CLAUD. And women treat men as if they were don- keys. LADY EOEDALE. Oh, dear me, how quick you are ! I wish I was quick, and modern, and jolly. I wish I was a jolly good fellow, with the last clown-gag : "You'll get yourself disliked, my boy" ; " How ah yah, Sportsman ? " How popular I should be ! But I can't do it naturally. I am not to the manner born. I am bourgeoise. Good heav- ens ! perhaps I am genteel. CLAUD. I thought I was to do your talking for you. As if any woman could be silent for ten minutes ! LADY EOEDALE. Do you think I wish to talk ? I am not equal to the exertion. Time me, then. I won't speak a word for ten no, for five minutes. CLAUD. Keep your head up, please. Thank you. LADY KOEDALE. " How are you to-morrow ? " I never could see the humor of that. 2 18 LITTLE COMEDIES. CLAUD. Just half a minute. LADY BOEDALE. Don't be ridiculous. Ah me ! I shall never be a success. CLAUD. A success ! What do you want ? to be stared at by every booby at the opera to have a dozen fools smiling and looking conscious when your name is mentioned to hear your sayings repeat- ed, and lies told about you, and your gowns de- scribed, and your movements chronicled ? LADY EOEDALE. It is my dream. CLAUD. All women are alike all women, except one, perhaps. LADY KOEDALE. " Except one ! " Who ? who ? Oh, Claud, do tell me ! CLAUD. That's better. Now you look awake. Keep that expression. Ah ! now you've lost it again. LADY EOEDALE. You horrid man, tell me at once ! Who is it ? Oh, Claud, do tell me, please ! APPLES. 19 CLAUD. It's nothing. I spoke without thinking. LADY EOEDALE. Then you meant what you said. I don't care for things which men say after thinking. Then they deceive us, poor simple women that we are ! CLAUD. Simple ! There was never a simple woman since Eve. The best women manage us for our good the worst for our ill. The ends are dif- ferent, but the means the same. LADY ROEDALE. Was the one woman the exceptional woman the paragon was she not simple ? CLAUD. On my soul, I think so. She was not bent on success success in society. Yes, she was simple. LADY ROEDALE. So is bread and butter. CLAUD. And she was clever, too. The innocence of a child and the wit of a woman, with a sweet, whole- some humor not a compound of sham epigram and rude repartee. 20 LITTLE COMEDIES. LADY EOEDALE. I know, I know. A man's woman ! a man's woman ! With a pet lamb frisking before her, and an adoring mastiff at her heels ; childlike gayety in her step and frolic fun ; a gown of crisp white muslin ; an innocent sash ; the hair plain, quite plain ; and the nose a little reddened by cold water. Oh, how I should like to see her ! CLAUD. You are not likely to be gratified. She is buried, as you would say, in the country. LADY KOEDALE. Do the Tyrrels never leave Limeshire ? CLAUD. The Tyrrels ! How do you know ? Why should you think I was talking of them ? Have they a daughter ? LADY EOEDALE. Have they a daughter ! When men try diplo- macy, how they overdo it ! Have they a daugh- ter ! Claud, Claud, how strange that you should not know that the Tyrrels have a daughter, when you spent a whole summer at the Tyrrels' place, from the very beginning of May to the very end of September, and the girl was at home during the whole of your visit ! APPLES. 21 CLAUD. How do you know that ? LADY KOEDALE. Do you think that there is one of your numer- ous lady friends who does not know the history of all your love affairs ? CLAUD. Perhaps you will favor me with this history. It will probably be entirely new to me. LADY EOEDALE. I will try. But it is hard to remember in this hot weather. Now, attend. The scene is laid at Lindenhurst, an ancient house in Limeshire. There dwell the living representatives of the family of Tyrrel, older than the house ; and thither came in early spring a painter bent on sketching a sort of Lord of Burleigh aHeinrich Heine a man not too young, a who was the man who had seen many cities and things ? CLAUD. Odysseus. Ulysses. LADY KOEDALE. And who was the girl who played ball ? The ingenue ? 22 LITTLE COMEDIES. CLAUD. That Nausicaa should be called an ingenue ! LADY KOEDALE. Ulysses, who had been in many societies and seen all sorts of people, was rather tired of it all, and growing a little snappish and cross. So he sketched because he had nothing better to do, and he looked at Nausicaa for the same reason : and so, by degrees, he found himself soothed and refreshed by the girl's artlessness, or apparent art- CLAUD. Apparent ! LADY KOEDALE. She was such a contrast to the weary women of the world. She was so ingenuous, oh, so in- genuous ! When he went to sketch, she went with him, as a matter of course ; and she showed him her favorite bits ; and he made a thousand pretty pictures of cows and pigs and dandelions, and, above all, of the old orchard, full of apple- trees. He developed a passion for painting apple- trees in every stage, from blossom to fruit. And the country seemed very countrified, and the green refreshingly green, and the cows nice and milky, and the pigs unconventional, and the dan- delions a great deal finer than camellias, and everything lazy and industrious and delightful. APPLES. 23 And so the jaded man was very much pleased by the novelty. CLAUD. A very pretty story. Pray go on. Your ex- pression is almost animated, and this picture is coming a little better. LADY EOEDALE. Then came the reaction. CLAUD. That's not so lively. There ! Now you have altered your face entirely. LADY EOEDALE. The novelty ceased to be a novelty. Old Tyr- rel grew grumpy. Mamma had always thought the child might do better if she had a season in London. And then my lord Ulysses got disgust- ed, and the curtain fell and so the idyl ended. There, I have told you how the country miss set her rustic cap at the man of the world, and set it in vain. CLAUD. She was utterly incapable of setting her cap at anybody. LADY EOEDALE. Who ? Miss Lottie Tottie Nelly Milly What's her name ? 24 LITTLE COMEDIES. CLAUD. Betty. Miss Tyrrel. LADY EOEDALE. Then I have succeeded in recalling her to your mind ? The Tyrrels have a daughter. CLAUD. Go on, if it amuses you. LADY EOEDALE. It does amuse me a little. Now it is for you to take up the story. Why did you go away, and leave this Arcadia and Miss Nausicaa ? CLAUD. Because I was afraid of loving her. That is the truth, since you will know it. And now let us drop it. It is as much a thing of the past as the Pyramids. I want to talk of the present of you, Clara, if I may LADY EOEDALE. Things of the past are so seldom past. The Pyramids are about still. I must know why you were afraid of loving this girl. CLAUD. What is the use of talking about that ? APPLES. 25 LADY EOEDALE. It's as bad as suppressing the third volume of one's novel. If you don't tell me, I shall go away. CLAUD. Why should I mind telling you ? It's a tale of the dark ages long ago. Keep your head a lit- tle more to the left. LADY EOEDALE. But I want to look at you. CLAUD. Deny yourself that pleasure, if you can. Thanks. LADY EOEDALE. Well ? Go on, do. CLAUD. A nice fellow I was to win the love of a young girl. LADY EOEDALE. Why ? You are not worse than most men. CLAUD. Will you kindly keep your head turned to the left ? Thanks. There was a girl with all the world about her sweet and bright and young, and 26 LITTLE COMEDIES. a woman's life before her with promise of all good. There was I, a man who had outlived my illusions who had found the world dusty, chokingly dusty. The apples were dust in my mouth. I had tried most things, and failed in most things. My art was of less importance than my dinner. I could still dine, though I didn't eat fruit in the evening. Bah ! The apples turned to dust be- tween my teeth. Why should I link a young creature, fresh as a June rose, to a dry stick ? LADY EOEDALE. They train roses so sometimes. CLAUD. Misleading metaphor ! I came away. It's all over, all well over, long ago. Why you insist on raking up this foolish matter, I can't imagine. Yes, I can. It is to turn the conversation. You know quite well what I wish to say to you, what I have made up my mind to say to you. We have known each other for a long time, Clara : we have always been friends : we have both outlived some illusions : I think we should get on well together. Clara, consult your own happiness and mine. What do you think ? LADY EOEDALE. May I look round now ? APPLES. 27 CLAUD. Do be serious. Don't be provoking. LADY EOEDALE. And you think that two dry sticks supporting each other is a more engaging spectacle than a rose trained on a prop ? CLAUD. Enough of tropes. I deserve a plain answer. LADY EOEDALE. Don't people strike sparks by rubbing two sticks together ? CLAUD. What are you talking about ? LADY EOEDALE. How the sparks would fly ! I suppose that I ought to be very grateful, Claud. I am not quite sure. It's not a magnificent offer. A banquet of lost illusions and Dead Sea fruit. What a pleas- ant household ! " This is my husband, a gentle- man who has outlived his illusions/' "Permit me to present you to my wife, a lady who has everything but a heart." Will you have an ap- ple ? We import them ourselves fresh from the Dead Sea. Fresh ! 28 LITTLE COMEDIES. CLAUD. I wonder you don't find the weather too hofc for comedy. LADY KOEDALE. Do you call that comedy ? It seems to me dreary enough. CLAUD. The thought of joining your lot to mine ? LADY KOEDALE. My lot ! I never was dignified by such a pos- session. I go on by chance, and so do you. We have run along very pleasantly side by side. Hadn't we better leave it like that ? If we were linked together, like two shaky vans in a goods train, which of us would go in front ? CLAUD. You've the most provoking passion for met- aphor. LADY KOEDALE. And you are sure that you have quite got over your admiration for Miss Tyrrel ? CLAUD. Don't talk of that. I tell you it is as much over as youth. I shall never see her again. APPLES. 29 LADY ROEDALE. You think not ? CIAUD. I am sure. The Tyrrels never leave Linden- hurst. LADY EOEDALE. What should you say if I told you that they were in Rome let us say at the hotel opposite ? CLAUD. I should say that you were romancing. If I believed you, I should leave Rome to-day. LADY ROEDALE. Then don't believe me. Couldn't you get me some ice ? CLAUD. I am afraid that my man is out. LADY ROEDALE. You said that you would fetch and carry for me. CLAUD. Oh, you want to be rid of me ! Very well, I'll go. I don't mind appearances. 30 LITTLE COMEDIES. LADY KOEDALE. Why should you ? Don't be long. CLAUD. You mean it ? Oh, very well, I'll go. LADY KOEDALE. Au revoir ! (Hereupon CLAUD goes out, and leaves LADY KOE- DALE alone.) LADY KOEDALE. She is in Kome, nevertheless, Mr. Claud, this Miss Betty of the apple orchard. Shall I tell him, or shall I not ? I am so sleepy that I can't decide on anything. Do I want to marry Claud Huntley ? Ugh ! I don't know. I am too sleepy to think. How tiresome men are ! Why won't they stay good friends, instead of turning into bad lovers ? The age of lovers is past. Love is impossible in so enlightened a generation. I am bored, and he is bored. We shall be twice as bored together. That's mathematics, or logic, or something. Now I dare say that Claud thinks I have sent him away that I may consider his pro- posal. As if it wasn't much too hot to consider anything ! It would be easier to take him than to think about it. Dear old Claud ! I am sure APPLES. 31 he pictures me at this moment striding up and down, twisting my handkerchief like the woman in the play, and muttering, " Oh Claud, Claud, why distract me thus ? Oh cruel man, will you not leave me at peace ? " Shall I say Yes or ISTo ? What would he say if he met Miss Betty ? What would she say? I am very sleepy very, very sleepy. He pictures me in an awful state of ex- citement and agitation. What must be, must. Apples turn to dust cottage and crust. I'll let things drift. It doesn't matter much, not much. Oh Claud ! oh cruel man ! oh sleep ! I'll take a nap just to spite him. (80 she falls asleep, screened from the eyes of Miss BETTY TYRREL, who presently comes in, stepping lightly and quickly.) BETTY. I saw him go out. He's sure not to come back yet. I am so frightened, and it is such fun! What's the good of being in Rome, if you don't do as the Eomans do ? He must have gone for his daily walk. He can't be back yet. And if he does come, why should I care ? I sha'n't be fright- ened. He always said I was very cool. If he comes in, I shall drop him a courtesy, and say, " How do you do, Mr Huntley ? I said I would look in on you some day, and here I am." And he will make me a bow, and but probably he 32 LITTLE COMEDIES. won't know me. He'll take me for a tourist lady visiting his studio, and wanting to buy pictures ; and I shall say, "Yes, thank you, very nice ; put up that, and that ; and would you be so kind as to send them down to my carriage ? yes, and the little one in the corner too, please." Why, what is it ? Yes, it is, it is the old orchard, our orchard, our orchard in May, with all the bright new blos- soms, as it was when he He used to say that it was like the foam of the sea at sunrise. I don't think he ever saw the sun rise. He was awfully lazy. How good of him to keep this near him the orchard, and a little corner of the dear old house ! Oh blossoms, blossoms, you are there now at home, and I wish I was there too, and had never come out and grown wise and old in this horrid world ! It was there that I saw him first, just there. He was following papa through the little gate with the broken hinge, and he bent his head under the blossoms. He looked so tall and so tired. And yet he hadn't been doing anything. Men are very strange. The less they do, the more tired they are. Why, here's another picture of the orchard. How funny ! It must be autumn, for the apples are all ripe. But who is the young man in the funny cap ? And who are the three ladies ? And why does he sit, when they are standing ? I can't make it out. Do they want the apple ? If you please, sir, give it to the lady with the shield and spear. That other one is not APPLES. 33 nice, not nice, I am sure. I don't care much for that picture. Are there any more apple pictures ? No ; no. Yes, here's another. Adam and Eve, I think. Yes, here is one great glittering coil of the serpent. I don't like Eve. What a languid, fine- lady Eve ! Who's face is this ? How handsome. And this ? And this one on the easel ? Every- where the same face, handsome, lazy, indiifereiit. No, no, no, he never would be happy with her. It's Eve's face. Wicked woman ! Wicked wo- man ! LADY ROEDALE, waking. Did you call me ? Ah, what a sweet air ! The day is changed. BETTY. Oh, I beg your pardon. LADY ROEDALE, drowsily. Are you real, or a dream ? BETTY. I am real. No ; I had better say that I am a dream and melt away. LADY ROEDALE. I was just dreaming of you, Miss Tyrrel. 3 34 LITTLE COMEDIES. BETTY. Of me ? You don't know me. How do you know I mean, you called me by some name, I think. LADY ROEDALE. Yes, Miss Innocence, I called you " Miss Tyr- rel." BETTY. How can you know ? LADY ROEDALE. I am a witch, for one thing ; and for another, I saw your picture. BETTY. Has he got a picture of me ? LADY ROEDALE. Of course, my dear. BETTY. And did he show it to you ? LADY ROEDALE. No ; I was looking about for curiosity's sake, and I saw it. APPLES. 35 BETTY. You are often here, then? Oh, I beg your pardon. I have no right to question you. But I don't know who you are. LADY KOEDALE. I am LADY KOEDALE ; I am a widow ; I am sitting for my picture ; I am an old friend of Mr. Huntley's Will that do ? BETTY. A friend. LADY KOEDALE. A friend, my sweet Simplicity. And you? What brings you here ? BETTY. Me ? I I am an old friend, too. LADY KOEDALE. An old friend ! Not quite old enough, I think. BETTY. Oh, Lady Koedale, I didn't think. I ought not to have come. 36 LITTLE COMEDIES. LADY KOEDALE. It's very pretty and unconventional, my dear. Somebody said that you were so simple that you didn't know what was conventional and what wasn't. BETTY. Oh, Lady Roedale, you know you know that women are not like that. LADY KOEDALE. Yes, I know. BETTY. But I didn't think ; I didn't stop to think, or I shouldn't have come. We are living just oppo- site, and I saw him go out, and all of a sudden I thought what fun it would be to see his studio when he was away, and that I could run back, and he would never know. But if I had only known that you were here, I would have died sooner than come. LADY KOEDALE. It is better to live. BETTY. But you won't tell him ? Promise me that you won't tell him. If you will only promise me, I will never come back, I will never see him again never, never. APPLES. 37 LADY EOEDALE. Don't be rash, my dear. You are safe now. You have run into the arms of a chaperon, a duenna, a Gorgon. But, if Mr. Huntley is an old friend of yours, why didn't your father and mother come to see him, too ? BETTY. Because they are hurt. He went away so sud- denly from home, and he never wrote, and they liked. him so much, and they thought it unkind ; but I know he never meant to be unkind, for he was always kind, and I know that he wouldn't be angry even at my coming here, and and that's why. LADY EOEDALE. That's why, is it ? BETTY. You don't think that I am very bad ? LADY ROEDALE. My dear, you are much too good. I have no taste for bread and milk and book muslin ; I don't like men's women ; but I do like you. BETTY. Thank you, thank you. Now I see that he has not nattered you, not a bit. I thought at first that he had. He had his heart in his work when he did this. 38 LITTLE COMEDIES. LADY EOEDALE. Shall I show you the work in which his heart is? BETTY. Yes. (LADY EOEDALE draws aside a curtain and shows a picture.) BETTY. My picture ! LADY EOEDALE. Yours. BETTY. Oh, let me go ! If he should come and find me here ! Oh, let me go, let me go ! LADY EOEDALE. Too late. I hear him on the stairs. BETTY. What shall I do ? LADY EOEDALE. Do as you are bid. Give me your picture, quick ! Now go behind the curtain, and be still. (She draws the curtain carefully. CLAUD enters, bringing ice.) APPLES. 39 CLAUD. I bring you ice, and something better. The heat is passing ; the day is changed. Ah ! the air smells wooingly here. See how I fetch and carry ! Doesn't this convince you that I LADY EOEDALE (studying the picture). Yes, it is pretty. CLAUD. Where did you get that ? LADY ROEDALE. Don't be angry ; I won't hurt it. CLAUD. As you please. It's of no value now. LADY EOEDALE. It is much better than mine. Indeed, it has only one fault. CLAUD. Indeed ? LADY ROEDALE. It is awfully flattered. CLAUD. How can you know, when you never saw the original ? 40 LITTLE COMEDIES. LADY EOEDALE. Ah, that is very true. CLAUD. Put it down, please. I want to talk to you about to go back to what we were saying, when LADY EOEDALE. Shall I throw it down here ? CLAUD. Take care ! What are you doing ? LADY EOEDALE. I thought you said it was of no value ? CLAUD. It isn't. But, then, we are vain, you know, we artists ; we don't like to see our work, even our bad work, destroyed. LADY EOEDALE. Then I won't destroy it. I'll improve it. CLAUD. What are you going to do ? I don't quite understand. Let me put it away. APPLES. 41 LADY KOEDALE. No, don't touch it. I often think of taking up painting again. This is evidently unfinished. Why is it unfinished ? CLAUD. I was afraid of spoiling it. LADY KOEDALE. Ah, that was when it was of some value ; but now CLAUD. Now it doesn't matter. Let me put it away. LADY EOEDALE. I shall finish it myself. CLAUD. You! LADY ROEDALE. Any valueless old thing will do to practice my hand on ; I am just in the mood. You have painted enough this morning. It's my turn. CLAUD. But Clara 42 LITTLE COMEDIES. LADY KOEDALE. Come, take my picture off the easel. There ! There she is in my place. A change for the bet- ter, I think. Stand out of the light. I shall make her lovely. (As she begins to arrange the colors on the palette he gets more and more anxious.) CLAUD. Here, try this. This sketch is much better to work on. LADY KOEDALE. Don't bother. I am bent on improving this young woman. CLAUD. That's a very odd color you are getting. LADY KOEDALE. What can it matter to you ? CLAUD. Clara, what are you at ? Stop ! (He snatches the picture from the easel.) LADY ROEDALE. And the picture is of no value ? APPLES. 43 CLAUD. I beg your pardon, Clara. LADY KOEDALE. Valueless, but too valuable for me. CLAUD. Clara, you won't understand. LADY KOEDALE. Oh, yes, I will. A mere sketch, and absurdly flattered. CLAUD. Flattered ! (He holds the picture in Ms hands, perusing it.) How can you know ? LADY ROEDALE. It is much prettier than Miss Tyrrel. CLAUD. What do you mean ? Well, yes, I believe, if I remember right, that it was taken from Miss Tyrrel. LADY ROEDALE. And I believe, if I remember right, that it is twice as pretty as Miss Tyrrel. 44 LITTLE COMEDIES. CLAUD. You have never seen her. LADY EOEDALE. Indeed, I have. CLAUD. Indeed ! Where ? LADY EOEDALE. Here. CLAUD. In Eome ? LADY EOEDALE. Here. CLAUD. Here ! What do you mean ? LADY EOEDALE. Here, in this room. CLAUD. Clara, I dare say that this is extremely amus- ing to you. I don't see the joke myself. I don't see why you should rake up this old story. Yes, I do see. You wish to quarrel, to find an excuse for not answering me, when I ask you APPLES. 45 LADY ROEDALE. She was here. CLAUD. The Tyrrels never leave Lindenhurst. LADY ROEDALE. The Tyrrels are in Rome. CLAUD. Is this true ? Don't push this joke too far. LADY ROEDALE. It is true. CLAUD. Then I must go. LADY ROEDALE. Why? CLAUD. Is it true that the Tyrrels are here in Rome ? LADY ROEDALE. It is true. CLAUD. I must go, then. Oh, don't imagine anything extraordinary. It is a simple matter. These 46 LITTLE COMEDIES. people were kind to me, kind with a generous hospitality which is rare. I staid and staid in their house, until I thought that I should never go, until I feared that Well, it came to this : Here were people who, in honesty and good faith, had treated me like a king ; people who LADY ROEDALE. Don't dilate upon the Tyrrel character just now. CLAUD. What was I doing in return for all their good- ness ? I found myself trying to win the love of their only child, a girl with no knowledge of the world, who had seen no men to speak of, and who might take me, even me, for a very fine fellow. LADY EOEDALE. You were on the way to get what you wanted. CLAUD. I was not a scoundrel. I knew myself : a man who had knocked about the world, a paint- ing vagabond, and social cynic, not worthy to touch her hand or look into her eyes. High- flown, you think ; but I was not a scoundrel, and I went away. APPLES. 47 LADY KOEDALE. But now ? CLAUD. Now ? Welly now, I don't want to have to do the thing again. LADY KOEDALE. Then it would be hard to see her again and go? CLAUD. Yes. LADY KOEDALE. You loved her ? CLAUD. I suppose so ? LADY KOEDALE. I always thought that you were not a bad fel- low. CLAUD. I am not over-good. I don't wish to open an old wound. That's not extraordinary virtue, is it? LADY ROEDALE. And the girl ? What of her ? 48 LITTLE COMEDIES. CLAUD. By this time she has seen scores of men, in all respects better than me, confound them ! She ? Why she LADY KOEDALE. Stop. Don't say too much about Miss Betty Tyrrel. Put her picture back, and drop the sub- ject. Put the picture back in its place. CLAUD. Very well. I don't want to bore you. (So he goes to replace the picture, and draws aside the curtain. There is BETTY TYRREL. Then there is si- lence in the room for a time.) BETTY. Mr. Huntley, I am very sorry. I did not mean to listen. CLAUD. Betty Miss Tyrrel is it you ? BETTY. Oh, forgive me ! I did not mean to listen. CLAUD. And it is you, indeed ? APPLES. 49 BETTY. But I did not mean it. Oh, you believe that I did not hide myself here to listen ! CLAUD. You! LADY KOEDALE. It was my fault. CLAUD. What do you mean ? LADY KOEDALE. Do attend to me. Miss Tyrrel is my friend. She came to fetch me after my sitting. Finding that the studio belonged to you, of all men in the world, she was frightened ; and I put her there. BETTY. Thank you oh, thank you ! Mr. Huntley, it it so good of her to say that. But I must tell you. We are living just opposite, papa and mamma and I ; and I saw you go out ; and I thought you were going away ; and I never stopped to think ; and I slipped out by myself ; and I did so want to see the place where you worked. I did not stop to think ; that was where I was wrong. And I found her here, and I was frightened. 4 50 LITTLE COMEDIES. LADY KOEDALE. Yes, as I told you, she was frightened, and I put her in the corner. Good heavens, Claud ! ain't you going to say something ? Why do you stand there like a tragedian or a Maypole ! Oh, you men ! BETTY. Won't you forgive me ? CLAUD. Forgive you ! Why ? Can you do any wrong ? You have heard me say what I never dared to say in the old days. I am glad that you have heard me. You will think more kindly of me, some day, when May I see you safe across the street ? Will you say all kind things for me to Mr. and Mrs. Tyrrel ? LADY ROEDALE. Is the man a fool ? BETTY. You are not angry with me, then ? CLAUD. Are you not angry with me for having dared to love you ? APPLES. 51 BETTY. I never was angry with you, not even when you went away so suddenly. CLAUD. Were you sorry ? Oh, take care, take care, child. Don't deceive me or yourself. Were you sorry when I went away ? BETTY. We were all sorry, very sorry. CLAUD. But you, you ? You came here : would you stay here with me ? Oh, child, is it possible that you should care for me ? BETTY. Yes. CLAUD. If I had known this ! LADY EOEDALE. Any one but a man would have known it years ago. (As she looks at CLAUD and BETTY, she be- gins to smile at her own thoughts.') There were only two in Paradise, in the first apple orchard, unless you count the serpent ; and that is a role for which I have neither inclination nor capacity. (LADY ROEDALE goes toward the door ; and so ends the Comedy.) FIRE-FLIES. CHARACTERS. BICE. BINO. FIKE-FLIES. (The long row of windows is yellow with the fes- tive light within, and yields gay music soft- ened to the summer night : before the ivin- dows the broad terrace is mysterious under the rising moon, and far below dreams the old river, and the shadows fade from her. Ancient and grim is the city, with her pal- aces and prisons. Here on the terrace is a young woman, masked and musing: there is a young man, musing and masked. She speaks.) BICE. I am so sorry that I can't feel sad, I parted from Bino this morning. I love Bino. Certain- ly I love him. We are parted. Parted ! Why do I not feel sad ? It is very distressing. The night is so beautiful and the dance so gay. For no woman in the world but the Yera would I dance after a parting from Bino. The Vera sent 56 LITTLE COMEDIES. for me in her old imperious way, and here I am. Here I am in this cruel, cruel city, left alone, in gay attire, and hiding beneath the mask a sad, sad face. Only it is not sad. Ah me ! There is too much joy in the air ; the night is too beauti- ful ; the music is too sweet : it comes to me like fairy music. The river lingers in the moonlight, and I linger. Bino mio, my love what a very pleasant evening it is ! Biisro. It is strange that I should be here, I who should be flying far away. After that parting from Bice, that sweet parting, how have I the heart to linger in this gay scene ? It is gay. Where is that little wretch, our adorable hostess, the Vera ? For no woman else would I linger so near the house, wherein I parted this morning from the sweetest creature of the world. Ah me ! it is a night of stars ; the ancient river grows young in the moonlight ; the air beats with the passion of a thousand mandolines. beautiful night, I bless thee for the sake of my Bice. Per- chance she leans from her window to the fragrant air of her garden, and whispers my name. Now she lays herself upon her little bed, and veils those violet eyes. Sleep little one, sleep while I watch. A sad and lonely vigil. Ah ! the music ! Bice mia, to each cup which I shall quaff to-night, I will whisper one name, thy name. I will go quaff FIRE-FLIES. 57 one now. But who is this ? A lady, masked. If it should be the Vera. I dare swear 'tis she. I know her by a certain imperious trick of the elbow. I am never wrong in such matters. Will she know me ? I think not. Now to go mas- querading. Fair lady ! BICE. Gentle cavalier ! BlKO. What read you in the stars ? BICE. That day is done, sir. BINO. But the light of love eternal. BICE. It may be that the stars are eternal ; it is cer- tain that they are many. BlKO. And so unlike to love, who is but one. BICE. Where did you learn to speak so cunningly ? 58 LITTLE COMEDIES. Bi^o. Here. I was dumb till I saw you. BICE. By my lady's parrot, 'twere a better compli- ment to have been stricken dumb by the sight. BlNO. Alas ! I have no gift of compliment. I can not flatter, no not I, Oh no, not I ; I am all truth, sweet harmony, And love by and by. BICE. Save us from song ! And yet, beyond ques- tion, you and I were born in one rhyming hour. For mark me now. I can not flatter, I am too true ; Oh, much too true ; I like a many, love but few, And love not you. BINO. Shield me, ye sacred Nine, who were every one a woman ! An improvising lady ! I am dumb before genius. FIRE-FLIES. 59 BlCE. I can no more, sir. Once in twenty-four hours I am a poet for five minutes. BINO. And I have known more famous bards who were poets but once in ten years. BICE. Indeed ? Bisro. And that was in their youth. When the hoary head was crowned, there was but prose in the shrunken heart. BICE. Are you a neglected poet ? BlNO. Whether I am a poet, I know not. I know that I am neglected, and chiefly by ladies. BICE. That is a vile manner of boasting your suc- cesses. BINO. Believe me, no. I speak in sober truth. 60 LITTLE COMEDIES. BlCE. Truth and soberness ! And you boasted your- self a poet. BINO. Never. BICE. Have you no imagination ? Speak poetry, as you are a poet. BlKO. You will scorn me, as you are a woman. But stay. I am possessed by the god. Now the di- vine madness works. You draw poetry to you, lady, as the moon the tide. Hush ! dainty mask, like our Italian night, Most beautiful, and hiding all but stars, Whose is the face thou hidest from my sight ? Would I could find some other rhyme than "wars." May wars never come between us ! BICE. My lips were not the first to frame the word. BIKO. Thy lips should frame things sweeter than mere speech. FIRE-FLIES. 61 BlCE. I know no rhyme more gracious than, Ab- surd ! BIND. And I no rhyme less terrible than, Breach ! BICE. In truth, I fear you are but a camp-singer, for war and breach come quickest to your lips. You are no poet for a lady's chamber, to conjure a nap before dressing-time. Eather you should swagger in camp, and be clapped on the shoulder by comrade This and comrade That, with, "A draught of wine, my lad ! " or, "A rousing song, my boy ! " Ah, if you should be less a poet than a swashbuckler ! BINO. For it's ho ! wine ho ! And give me a flagon of wine, Till here and there I go, what ho ! And reeling to and fro, what ho ! Feel all the world is mine. BICE. A kitchen-wench would cry " Good" to those lines. They are well enough to call a tapster . what ho ! 62 LITTLE COMEDIES. BlJSTO. lady of the starry eyes, lady of the bitter tongue, Lips should be taught more sweet replies, While you and I are young. BICE. Are you young ? Many a mask hides wrin- kles. Bisro. Not yours, on my life ! Your mouth is not old. BICE. No younger than my face, I give you my word. BINO. I believe you. BICE. 'Tis a marvel if a man believes a woman. We tell men the truth, they believe the opposite : and so we deceive them very pleasantly, and our conscience is saved. BlBTO. By your lips, you are young. BICE. You wear a mask on your mouth. FIRE-FLIES. 63 BlKO. Nay, 'tis but an indifferent mustache. BICE. A most delicate fringe for fibs. Bisro. I know that you are pretty. Is not that true ? BICE. It is not true that you know it. I wear a mask. BIKO. I know whose face is under it. BICE. No man in the city knows that. BIKO. But we are in fairyland, and I know. A flower city, rose of all the earth, Most naughty city if all tales be*true, To one true woman of true race gave birth That truant true and dainty dame is BICE. Not I, in faith. There is no truth in poetry 64 LITTLE COMEDIES. even when bad. I am not the Vera. I am but that Bice who is known to friendly citizens as Bice of the yellow hair. BIKO. Not you. On my life, you are not she. And pray, how know you the lady ? BICE. So we tell men the truth, and they believe the opposite. most exquisite sweet gulls ! And you know this little Bice then, who I am not ? BIKO. A little. BICE. Is she so sharp of tongue as they say ? BIKO. Her speech is gentle and her eyes soft. BICE. So not like my eyes. Your eyes ! Why, they are afire with all the mischief of Europe ! They twinkle like two naughty stars which love to cheat the mariner. FIRE-FLIES. 65 BlCE. And yet they are the eyes of none other than Bice. BINQ. Let me look closer. BICE. Whose eyes are those that look ? None know better than you, BICE, Whose ? BINO. Ah, the little imperious one ! I will tell you. I am the last man in this assembly who should declare himself to-night, and for that sufficient reason I will incontinently tell you that I am he. BICE. Who? BINO. He who is more famous for his heels than his head ; he who is the sworn comrade and boon companion of the duchess's ape, the prince of im- provising rhymers, the loose ingredients of a poet, 5 66 LITTLE COMEDIES. the pudding that never went into the bag, one who will eat green figs against any man or mule in Italy, the darling of his mother when his hair is dressed, the beloved of all ladies, himself more madman than lover, the one happy idler, and known to all decorous citizens from the father of the senate to the cook's new dog with the liver patch over his right eye as Bino of the merry heart. BICE. No ! on my life you are not he. BINO. And so you know this Bino ? BICE. A little. He left the city to-day. Who bade him stay for this sweet night of revel ? BICE. He did not stay, believe me. BINO. I am he, believe me or not as you will, but you know it. FIRE-FLIES. 67 BlCE. Stand in the moonlight. BINO. Little princess, how you command me ! You bid me do what I ought not, and therefore do I obey you. moon, my lady moon, Sweet lady of the night Lend me thy light, And bid this fairer lady answer soon If I am Messer Bino. Now behold ! Dian doth kiss me, and the tale is told. (He bares his face to the moonlight, and there is silence between them.) BICE. You are not the Bino that I knew. BINO. The only one of the world, the very paragon of philosophers. BICE. My Bino was a truer man. BINO. Thy Bino ! And who gave him to thee ? But he is thine, all thine for an hour or so. 68 LITTLE COMEDIES. BlCE. Good-by. BIHO. You must not go till I have seen thee. The stars have seen my face. Let them see thine and learn to love. BICE. Good-by. Bisro. And if it must be, well. I will not be so un- mannerly to hold a lady here against her will. To our next merry meeting ! BICE. I leave the place to-morrow. Good-by. Bi^ro. The whole city will follow you, from the head of the Council to the cook's dog aforesaid, lean princes and fat citizens, churches, and palaces. Why, the very bridges will run away with the river. The city can not be without you, or I can breathe without breath. To our next merry meeting ! BICE. Good-by. Bisro. By the town-clerk you have no more variety than the cuckoo. Good-by ! Cuckoo ! FIRE-FLIES. 69 BlCE. Good-by. BIKO. Cuckoo ! (As BICE passes away into shadow, one of the big windows is darkened by a band of revelers, who pour forth on to the terrace with laugh- ter and riot. As they flit in the moonlight with snatches of song, they leave the Vera alone in the window. She stands distinct against the yellow glare, which touches her hair with flame, but the moonshine is uncer- tain on her face. Is it she or the tremulous light that is laughing 9 Bino looks at her, and sees a witch or a ghost. As he stands staring, the masks come laughing once more, dancing with arms entwined, and bearing onward in their midst BICE, half unwilling. As BINO goes quickly to them, they wheel away, and leave the lady standing. Once again they darken the yellow light of the window, and when they are gone, the Vera is seen there no more.) BINO. By magic and moonshine, lady, who are you ? BICE. Am I not the Vera ? 70 LITTLE COMEDIES. BltfO. No. BICE. Alas ! no. I am not gay, nor witty, nor pretty. Bisro. I can not see, but I know that you are fairer than she. BICE. You like me, then ? BLNTO. Like ! The word is colder than the breath of Boreas. There is no such word in my language. I adore you. BICE. You will add me to the list ? joy ! Quick with your tablets. List of fair ladies beloved by Messer Bino : 1. TheVera. 2. The unknown of the mask. 3. Bice the biondina. BINO. Bice! BICE. Ay, so they say. But I doubt if she be fair FIRE-FLIES. 71 enough to grace the triumph of so great a con- queror. I have heard that she is crooked. BIKO. It was not true. BICE. That her tongue is too sharp. BIKO. The kindest speech in Europe. BICE. That her hair was not always so yellow. BINO. The angels wove it of sunbeams. BICE. The Graces help us ! He has an attack of poetry. And so this little Bice is still on {he list. Strike out the fair unknown ; and so, once more, Good-by. BIKO. I love all ladies. Leave me not alone. BICE. A devouring monster ! 72 LITTLE COMEDIES. Brsro. Nay, I am but like Cerberus, with three pairs of lips. BICE. A most monstrous similitude. For see how far you must eyer be from the gates of Paradise, BIKO. I am near thee. BICE. Stand back, faithless man. BINO. I am all faith. BICE. For all women. BINO. But I love in degrees, I pray you, let me see your face. BICE. Swear that I have no rival, and I unmask. How can I swear it ? BICE. With your triple mouth, and in each a double FIRE-FLIES. 73 tongue. I am jealous of this Bice, with her hair woven of sunbeams, forsooth. BIHO. Put back your hood, and I will praise your locks more prettily. BICE. It is said that you are promised to this Bice. BIKO. And you believe it ? BICE. It is said that she is beautiful. BINO. Not beside thee. I pray thee, show thy face. BICE. That she is very wise. BIKO. Believe me, no. Unmask. BICE. Then she is ill-favored, foolish, and you love her not. 74 LITTLE COMEDIES. BlNO. Yes, yes. Now let me look on thee. BICE. moon, my lady moon, Sweet lady of the night, Lend me thy light, And bid this exquisite gay masker swoon At sight of hair the angels wove from gold ; Dian doth kiss me, and the tale is told. (She lares her face to the moonlight, and there is silence between them.) BINO. Bice! BICE. Ill-f ayored, foolish, and unloved. BIKO. Bice ! BICE. Most wearisome iteration. Cuckoo .! BINO. What shall I say ? BICE. Nothing. FIRE-FLIES. 75 BlNO. What can I do ? BICE. Nothing but go. BINO. Bice, spare me ! I love none but you. BICE. And the masked lady ? BINO. 1 was but curious, no more. BICE. Have men no vices that they must rob woman of her only fault ? Leave curiosity to us. BINO. Bice, if you love me BICE. I love you not. Bisro. Forgive me. BICE. No. Good-by. 76 LITTLE COMEDIES. BlNO. Good-by. But stay. Something puzzles me. Why are you here ? BICE. I ? Because the Vera sent for me. BINO. And I for the same reason. BICE. No. I came for my pleasure. BIKO. And I for mine. BICE. Most wickedly. BIKO. And you ? BICE AND BINO. How could you think of pleasure on the very day of our parting ? BIKO. I always think of pleasure. I was made so. Is it very wrong to be happy ? FIRE-FLIES. 77 BlCE. Perhaps not. Alas ! I am womanly weak in argument. BIKO. I will reason and you shall love. The head and the heart are best together. BICE. We are young. It is not wrong to be young. BlHO. And we love each other. BICE. To love is one thing, to laugh is another. BIKO. Yet love and laughter fly well together, as the doves of Venus. BICE. Can you laugh with all, and love but one ? BIHO. I have. I do. I will. BICE. I will, too. 78 LITTLE COMEDIES. There are a myriad stars, and but one moon. BICE. There are many nights in the year, but never another like this. BINO. It is a night for dancing. BICE. It is a night for laughter. BLN T O. It is a night for love. BICE. For mandoline, guitar, quick vows, and quick forgetting. For countless ripples of folly and one deep sea of love. BICE. Let us dance. Bi^o. Let us be happy together. FIRE-FLIES. 79 BICE. Joyous together, and not unhappy apart. Never apart and ever happy. Let us dance. (So they flit in the moonlight ; the Vera comes stepping through the window, but they see her not ; behind her the masks are peering. The music swells forth triumphant, and slowly dies to silence; the lights in the palace grow faint and fainter, and die ; a mist creeps up from the river, a cloud goes over the moon; there is night and nothing more.) PICKING UP THE PIECES. CHARACTERS. MRS. MELTON. LORD DAWLISH. PICKING UP THE PIECES. It is morning in MRS. MELTOK'S apartment in Florence. A II the furniture is gathered into the middle of the room, and covered with a sheet. MRS. MELTOK is a widow, and no longer young. LORD DAWLISH, loJio comes to call, has also forgotten his youth. LORD DAWLISH. Good morning, Mrs. Melton. I hope Hol- loa ! There is nobody here. What is all this about ? (After some consideration, he proceeds to in- vestigate the extraordinary erection with the point of his sticlc. After convincing himself of its nature, he lifts a side of the sheet, pulls out an easy-chair, in- spects it, and finally sits on it.) She is an extraordinary woman. I don't know why I like her. I don't know why she likes me. 84 LITTLE COMEDIES. I suppose that she does like me. If not, what a bore I must be ! I come here every day and stay. I suspect that I am an awful fellow to stay. I suppose I ought to go now. This furni- ture trophy don't look like being at home to callers. But perhaps she is out : and then I can go on sitting here. I must sit somewhere. May I smoke ? I dare say : thank ye, I will. Smoke ? Smoke. There is a proverb about smoke. I wonder how I came to know so many proverbs. I don't know much. " There is no smoke with- out fire." Yes, that's it. There is uncommon little fire in a cigarette. Little fire and much smoke. Yes, that's like this I mean Let me what d'ye call it? review my position. Here I sit. Here I sit every day. That is smoke, I suppose plenty of smoke. Is there any fire ? That is the question. I wish people would mind their own business. It is trouble enough to mind one's own business, I should think. But yet there are people there's that Flitterly, for instance damned little snob. Flitterly makes it the busi- ness of his life to go about saying that I am going to be married ; and all because here is a woman who is not such an intolerable bore as as other people. Flitterly is the sort of man who says that there is no smoke without fire. What is this ? That is what I want to know. Is this business of mine all smoke, all cigarette and soda, or con- found Flitterly ! I wonder if I ought to pull his PICKING UP THE PIECES. 85 nose. I am afraid that that sort of thing is out of date. I don't think I could pull a nose, unless somebody showed me how. Perhaps if somebody held him steady, I might. I don't think I could do it. He has got such a ridiculous little nose. I wonder if I ought to give up coming here. I don't know where I should go to. I wonder if I am bound in honor, and all that. Perhaps that is out of date, too. 1 sometimes think that I am out of date myself. (After this he fishes under the sheet with his stick, and brings to light a pho- tograph-booh, which he studies as he continues to meditate. ) I wonder if she would take me if I asked her. I don't believe she would : she is a most extraor- dinary woman. Who is this, I wonder ? I never saw this book before. I suppose that this is the sort of man women admire. He would know how to pull a nose. I dare say he has pulled lots of noses in his day. Does it for exercise. Suburban cad ! A kind of little Tooting lady-killer. I wonder she puts such a fellow in her book. Why, here he is again, twice as big and fiercer. Here is an- other and another. Hang him, he is all over the book ! (He pitches the book under the sheet. Then MBS. MELTON comes in, wearing a large apron, and armed with duster and feather brush.) 86 LITTLE COMEDIES. MRS. MELTON. Lord Dawlish ! What are you doing here ? LORD DAWLISH. Nothing. MRS. MELTON. How well you do it ! LORD DAWLISH. Thank you. MRS. MELTON. But you are doing something : you are smok- ing. LORD DAWLISH. Am I ? I beg your pardon. MRS. MELTON. And you shall do more : you shall help me. I have been up to my eyes in work since seven o'clock. LORD DAWLISH. Seven ! Why don't you make somebody else doit? MRS. MELTON. Because I do it so well. I have a genius for dusting, and Italian servants have not. In this PICKING UP THE PIECES. 87 old city they have an unfeigned respect for the dust of ages. LORD DAWLISH. Have they ? How funny ! But they might help you, I should think. Where are they ? There was nobody to let me in. Where are your servants ? MRS. MELTON. Gone. LOKD DAWLISH. Gone ! MRS. MELTOK. Gone, and left me free. I packed them all off man and maid, bag and baggage. LORD DAWLISH. But who will look after you ? MRS. MELTON. I. I am fully equal to the task. But come, be useful. You shall help me to rearrange the furniture. LORD DAWLISH. Help! I! MRS. MELTON. Yes, help ! You ! I am not quite sure that you can't. 88 LITTLE COMEDIES. (As he proceeds to brush the lack of a chair with a feather brush, it occurs to him to apologize for his intrusion.) LOED DAWLISH. I suppose I ought to apologize for coming so early. Somehow I found myself in the Palazzo and the door of your apartments was open, and so I came in. I took the liberty of an old friend. MKS. MELTON. I believe we have been acquainted for at least a month. LOED DAWLISH. Only a month ! It is not possible. It must be more than a month. MES. MELTON. Apparently our precious friendship has not made the time pass quickly. LOED DAWLISH. No. I mean that it never does pass quickly. MES. MELTON. Work, work, work ! It's work that makes the day go quick. I am busy from morning till night, and time flies with me. PICKING UP THE PIECES. 89 LORD DAWLISH. Then you shorten your life. MRS. MELTOK. And keep it bright. Better one hour of life than a century of existence ! Dear, dear ! how did my best photograph-book get knocked down here ? LORD DAWLISH. I am afraid that that was my awkwardness. I was looking at it, and it it went down there. MRS. MELTOK. Don't let it break from you again. Here, take it, and sit down and be good. You have no genius for dusting. LORD DAWLISH. Nobody ever called me a genius. I have been called all sorts of names ; but nobody ever went so far as to call me a genius. MRS. MELTOST. And yet you ain't stupid. I always maintain that you are not really stupid. LORD DAWLISH. Ain't I ? Thank you. Who is this man this fine-looking man with the frown and whiskers ? 90 LITTLE COMEDIES. MBS. MELTON. He is handsome, isn't he ? LOKD DAWLISH. I don't know. I am not a judge of male beauty. MRS. MELTON. Men never admire each other. They are too envious and too vain. LORD DAWLISH. Are they ? And women ? What are women ? MRS. MELTON. What are women ? What are they not ? Oh, for one word to comprehend the sex ! Women are yes, women are womanly. LORD DAWLISH. That sounds true. And women are effeminate. MRS. MELTON. Only females are effeminate. LORD DAWLISH. Oh ! I wonder what that means. PICKING UP THE PIECES. 91 MRS. MELTON. But John is handsome. Ask any woman. LORD DAWLISH. John ! MRS. MELTOST. Yes, that's John my cousin. LORD DAWLISH. I hate cousins. They are so familiar and so personal. MRS. MELTON. I like them. They are so so LORD DAWLISH. Cousinly. MRS. MELTON. Precisely. LORD DAWLISH. Cousins are cousinly. Does he dye his whisk- ers ? MRS. MELTON. Dye ! Never ! He has too much to do. John is a great man a man of will, a man of force, a man of iron. That's what I call a man. LORD DAWLISH. Do you ? I don't call an iron man a man. 92 LITTLE COMEDIES. MBS. MELTON. He is the first of American engineers. LORD DAWLISH. A Yankee stoker. MRS. MELTON. Dear John ! He is a good fellow. He gave me that little jar by your hand. LORD DAWLISH. Dear John is not a judge of china. I always hated that little jar. I shall break it some day. MRS. MELTON. If you do, I'll never speak to you again. LORD DAWLISH. Please do. Tell me some more about John. Has not he got a fault, not even a little one ? MRS. MELTON. He has the fault of all men vanity. He knows that he is handsome. LORD DAWLISH. I thought he dyed his whiskers. PICKING UP THE PIECES. 93 MBS. MELTON. He does not dye his whiskers. LORD DAWLISH. You seem very keen about the whiskers. Here they are in all sizes, and from all over the world carte-de-visite whiskers, cabinet whiskers, Kembrandt-effect whiskers, whiskers from Naples, from New York, from Baker Street. You must like them very much. MRS. MELTON. I like the man. I like self-respect, bravery, and perseverance. I like honest work. Oh, Lord Dawlish, what a shame it is that you don't do something ! LORD DAWLISH. Do something ? I ? I do do something. I well, I go about. MRS. MELTON. Oh ! you go about. LORD DAWLISH. Yes with a dog in England ; without a dog abroad. 94 LITTLE COMEDIES. MRS. MELTON. Oh ! abroad without a dog. I regret that I shall never have the pleasure of receiving the cur. LOUD DAWLISH. The cur's a collie. MBS. MELTON. And so you think that man fulfills his destiny by going about. LORD DAWLISH. Somebody must go about, you know. MRS. MELTON. Yes, a squirrel in a cage. What you want is work. You ought to take a line. LORD DAWLISH. Go fishing ? MRS. MELTON. Be serious, and listen to me. Here you are in Florence. LORD DAWLISH. I believe I am. PICKING UP THE PIECES. 95 MKS. MELTOK. Yon are in the midst of priceless treasures. The finest works of art are all aronnd yon. LORD DAWLISH. I believe they are. MRS. MELTON. Take a line ; take np something ; for instance, the Greek statnes. LORD DAWLISH. Ain't I rather old to play with marbles ? MRS. MELTON. Not a bit. Nobody is old who isn't old on purpose. Compare, classify, and make a book, or even a pamphlet. LORD DAWLISH. I hate pamphlets. They are always coming by the post. MRS. MELTON. I snppose it's not the thing for a man in yonr position to turn author. 96 LITTLE COMEDIES. LORD DAWLISH. I don't think I ever did hear of one of our lot writing books. But that don't much matter. I should like to take a line, or a course, or a I took a course of waters once at Hombourg, or Kis- singen, or somewhere ; but they came to an end, like other things. MRS. MELTON. Lord Dawlish, are you joking ? LORD DAWLISH. No. MRS. MELTON. Then be serious : take up a subject ; set to work ; produce your pamphlet at least a pam- phlet. It might grow into a book. LORD DAWLISH. Heaven forbid ! I could not do it. MRS. MELTON. Why not ? LORD DAWLISH. Writing a book is so infernally public. I should be talked about. PICKING UP THE PIECES. 97 MRS. MELTON. How dreadful ! The owl, who is modest withal, and shrinks from notoriety, remains at home until sunset. LOKD DAWLISH. You called me a squirrel before. Are you going through all the zoological what-d'ye-call- 'em? MBS. MELTON. Perhaps even I shall be talked about before long. LORD DAWLISH. I should not wonder if you were. MRS. MELTON. Yes, even I, humble individual as I am, may perhaps be talked about when I set up my studio. LOKD DAWLISH. Your what ? MKS. MELTON. My studio. Yes, I've quite made up my mind. There are many worse painters in Flor- ence than myself. I mean to be a real painter, and no longer play with color. 7 98 LITTLE COMEDIES. LORD DAWLISH. And sell your pictures ? MRS. MELTON. For the largest possible prices. LORD DAWLISH. Is not that an odd sort of thing for a lady ? MRS. MELTON. No. We have changed all that. Many women paint nowadays. LORD DAWLISH. I have heard so. MRS. MELTON. I believe that you are making jokes this morn- ing. LORD DAWLISH. I don't think so. I don't like jokes ; they are very fatiguing. It's John's fault. MRS. MELTON. What's John's fault ? PICKING UP THE PIECES. 99 LOED DAWLISH. No man likes to have another crammed down his throat unless he is a confounded cannibal. MES. MELTON. Very well. I will refrain from cramming any- body down your throat. But I won't let you off. I feel that I have a mission. LOED DAWLISH. Good heavens ! MES. MELTON. I have a mission to reform you. LOED DAWLISH. Please don't do it. MES. MELTON. I must. Why don't you do your proper work ? Why not go back to England and take Qare of your property ? LOED DAWLISH. Because my agent takes care of it so much better than I could. I inherited my place, and I can't get rid of it. But, luckily, land can't fol- low me about. That is why I come abroad. m 100 LITTLE COMEDIES. MRS. MELTON. Without the dog ? LORD DAWLISH. He stays with the land. He likes ifc. He hates traveling. MRS. MELTON. So would you, if you traveled in a dog-box, LORD DAWLISH. I wish you would not talk about me. I am so tired of myself. MRS. MELTON. But you interest me. LORD DAWLISH. Thank you. That is gratifying. Don't let us pursue the subject further. MRS. MELTON. I must. It's my mission. I picture the plea- sures of an English country life. You build cot- tages ; you drain fields ; you carry flannel to the old women. LORD DAWLISH. No ; I could not do it. I don't think I could carry flannel to an old woman. PICKING IT? THE PIECFS. 1^1 MRS. MELTON. So much for duties. Then for amusement. Are you fond of shooting ? LORD DAWLISH. Pheasants are all so much alike. I gave up shooting when my sister took to it. MRS. MELTON. Your sister ! LORD DAWLISH. She is a keen sportsman awfully keen. I went out with her once. I feel them still some- times in my back when it's cold weather. MRS. MELTOK. You like hunting better. In this country they shoot the fox. LORD DAWLISH. Do they ? That must be curious. I wonder if 1 could bring myself to try that. I almost think that MRS. MELTON. Go home and hunt. Ip2 LITTLE COMEDIES. LORD DAWLISH. I have given up hunting. Kather rough on Teddie, don't you think ? MRS. MELTON. Who's Teddie ? LOUD DAWLISH. Don't you know Teddie ? MRS. MELTON. Is he the dog ? LORD DAWLISH. No ; he is my brother. I thought that every- body knew Teddie. Teddie knows everybody. Teddie likes me to hunt. He is always bothering me to buy horses with tricks. Or to go by ex- cursion trains. Or to shoot lions in Abyssinia. He is an awfully ambitious fellow, Teddie. Don't you think we might change the subject ? MRS. MELTON. Not yet. I have not done my duty yet. Politics ! Oh for political influence ! Oh for power ! Why, you must be of course you are a thingummy what's-his-name. PICKING UP THE PIECES. 103 LORD DAWLISH. Very likely, if you say so. MKS. MELTON. An hereditary legislator. Think of that. Think of your influence in the country ; of the power you might wield. Go in for politics. LORD DAWLISH. Well, you know, I I inherited my politics with my place, and I can't get rid of them. But Teddie does them for me. He was always rather a muff, Teddie was ; and so they put him into politics. MRS. MELTON. Are there muffs in your family ? Don't inter- rupt me. I must have the last word. Anything else I will give up, hut the last word never. In your position you must sway something. If you won't sway the country, sway the county ; if you won't sway the county, sway a vestry, a workhouse, a something, or anything. Only do something. You would be a great deal happier, and I don't know why I should be afraid to say a great deal better, if you would only do something. LORD DAWLISH. You forget that I am delicate. The doctors 104 LITTLE COMEDIES. say I am delicate, and that is why I come abroad. I do wish you would change the subject. It is a delicate subject, you know. MRS. MELTON. Don't be funny ! You have only one malady idleness. LORD DAWLISH. No, no, no ! All the doctors MRS. MELTON. Quacks ! LORD DAWLISH. As you please. But I have not the rude health of some strong-minded women. MRS. MELTON. Nor I the rude manners of some weak-minded men. But I beg your pardon ; / won't be rude. LORD DAWLISH. Was I rude ? I am awfully sorry. I beg your pardon. But I am so tired of myself. MRS. MELTON. Then work work and be cured. Do some- thing anything. A stitch in time saves nine. PICKING UP THE PIECES. 105 LOED DAWLISH. Oh, if you come to proverbs Look before you leap. MRS. MELTON. Procrastination is the thief of time. LORD DAWLISH. More haste, less speed. If one does nothing, at least one does no harm. MRS. MELTON. Nor does a stuffed poodle. LORD DAWLISH. Another beast ! I have been a squirrel and an owl. And, after all, I did not come here to talk about myself nor poodles. MRS. MELTON. Did you come to speak of the weather ? LORD DAWLISH. I wanted to speak about you. MRS. MELTON. About me ! Here's a turning of the tables. 106 LITTLE COMEDIES. LORD DAWLISH. May I ? MRS. MELTON. If you have energy for so lively a topic. LORD DAWLISH. May I speak plainly, as an old friend ? MRS. MELTON. As a month-old friend. Speak plainly by all means. Fve a passion for plain speaking. LORD DAWLISH. It is an uncommonly disagreeable subject. i MRS. MELTON. Thank you. You were going to talk about me. LORD DAWLISH. I don't mean that; of course not. It does not matter whether I talk about you or not. But there are other people here who talk about you. MRS. MELTON. Talk about me ? What do they say ? PICKING UP THE PIECES 107 LORD DAWLISH. They say things I don't like; so I thought that I MRS. MELTON. Thank you, Lord Dawlish ; but I can take very good care of myself. LORD DAWLISH. Very well. MRS. MELTON. Why should I care what this Anglo-Floren- tine Society say of me ? It doesn't hurt me ; I don't care what they say of me ; I am entirely indifferent ; I am Oh, do not stand there like a stick, but tell me what these people say about me ! LORD DAWLISH. I I It is so awkward for me to tell you. You know Flitterly ? MRS. MELTON. Flitterly ! A sparrow ? LORD DAWLISH. Oh, he is a sparrow ! What is to be done to the sparrow ? MRS. MELTON. Nothing. He is beneath punishment be- 108 LITTLE COMEDIES. neath contempt. A little, chattering, intrusive, cruel I suppose it would not do for me to horeswhip Flitterly ? LOUD DAWLISH. It would be better for me to do that. I thought of pulling his nose : it is a little one ; but I might do it with time. I think I should enjoy it. MRS. MELTON. It's too bad ! It's too bad that a woman of my age should not be safe from these wretches from the tongues of these malicious chatterers. The cowards, to attack a woman ! LOED DAWLISH. I was afraid that you would feel it. MRS. MELTON. I don't feel it. -Why should I ? Why should I feel it ? But, good gracious ! is the man going to stand there all day, and never tell me what this what that that pha ! what lie says of me ? LORD DAWLISH. I don't like to tell you. MRS. MELTON. Do you take me for a fool, Lord Dawlish ? PICKING UP THE PIECES. 109 LORD DAWLISH. No ; for a woman. MRS. MELTOST. What does he say ? LORD DAWLISH. If you will know, you must. He says he says that you and I are going to be married. MRS. MELTON. Married! You and I! Well, at least, he might have invented something less preposterous. LOUD DAWLISH. Preposterous ! MBS. MELTON. You and I ! LORD DAWLISH. I don't see anything preposterous in it. Why should not you and I be married ? By George, I have made an offer ! MRS. MELTON. Are you mad ? You say 110 LITTLE COMEDIES. LORD DAWLISH. Oh, I don't want to hurry you. Don't speak in a hurry. Think it over ; think it over. Take time. MRS. MELTON. But do you mean LORD DAWLISH. Oh, please, don't hurry. Think it over. Any time will do. MRS. MELTON. Will it ? LORD DAWLISH. I am not clever, nor interesting ; but if you don't mind me, I will do anything I can. You shall have any sort of society you like : fast or slow ; literary or swell ; or anything. Of course there would be plenty of money, and jewels, and cooks, and all that. You can have gowns, and check-books, and pin-money, and MRS. MELTON. And find my own washing and beer. Lord Dawlish, are you offering me a situation ? LORD DAWLISH. Yes no I mean that I PICKING UP THE PIECES. m MKS. MELTON. A thousand thanks. The wages are most tempting ; but I have no thought of leaving my present place. LORD DAWLISH. I fear that I have been offensive. I beg your pardon. I had better go. Good morning, Mrs. Melton. MKS. MELTON. Good-by, Lord Dawlish. (So he goes out; straightway her mood changes, and she wishes lyim back again. ) MKS. MELTON (sola). He will never come back. I can't let him go for ever. I can't afford to lose a friend who makes me laugh so much. Flitterly may say what he likes a goose ! a sparrow ! a grass- hopper ! I shall call him back. (So she calls to him down the stair; then from the window ; and as she calls from the window he comes in at the door, ivatches her awhile, then speaks.) LOR^ DAWLISH. Did you call me, Mrs. Melton ? 112 LITTLE COMEDIES. MKS. MELTON. Is the man deaf ? I have been screaming like a peacock ; and all for your sake all because I didn't want you to go away angry. LORD DAWLISH. I thought it was you who were angry. MRS. MELTON. No, it was you. LORD DAWLISH. Very well. MRS. MELTON. You must drop the preposterous subject for ever ; and we will be good friends, as we were be- fore. Sit down and be friendly. LORD DAWLISH. Thank you . That is capital. We will be as we were before as we were before. MRS. MELTON. You are sure you can bear the disappoint- ment ? LORD DAWLISH. Oh, yes. We will befriends, as we were. That is much better. PICKING UP THE PIECES. 113 MRS. MELTON. Lord Dawlish, you are simply delicious ! LORD DAWLISH. Am I ? Thank you. And I may come and sit here sometimes ? MRS. MELTON. In spite of Flitterly. LORD DAWLISH. Flitterly be MRS. MELTON. Yes, by all means. (Then he meditates, and after due deliberation speaks.) LORD DAWLISH. I should like to ask you something, Mrs. Mel- ton something personal. MRS. MELTON. Ask what you like, and I will answer if I choose. LORD DAWLISH. May I ask as a friend only as a friend, you know if you are quite determined never to marry 8 114 LITTLE COMEDIES. again ? I know that it is no business of mine ; but I can't help being curious about you. I don't think I am curious about anything else. But you are such an extraordinary woman. MRS. MELTON. Extraordinary because I have refused to be Lady Dawlish. It is strange, very. Oh, don't be alarmed ; I have refused. But it is strange. I am a woman, and I refused rank and wealth. Wealth means gowns and cooks from Paris, a brougham and a victoria, a stepper, a tiger, and a pug : rank means walking out before other wo- men and the envy of all my sex. I am a woman, and I refuse these luxuries. You were mad when you offered them. LORD DAWLISH. I don't think that I could be mad. MRS. MELTON. Not another word upon the subject. LORD DAWLISH. But won't you satisfy my curiosity ? MRS. MELTON. I never knew you so persistent. PICKING UP THE PIECES. 115 LORD DAWLISH. I never was persistent before. MRS. MELTON. Such ardent curiosity, such desperate per- severance, deserve to be rewarded. I have no- thing to do for the moment, and there is one luxury which no woman can forego the luxury of talking about herself. You needn't listen if the effort is too great: I address the chair, or the universe. You will hardly believe it of me ; but I cherish a sentiment. There ! Years and years ago how many I am woman enough not to specify I lived with an aunt in Paris. You hate cousins ; I am not in love with aunts : how- ever, she was my only relation ; there was no choice, and there I lived with her in Paris, and was finished ; there was nothing to finish, for I knew nothing. Well, it was there, in Paris I was quite a child it was there that I one day met a boy scarcely older than myself. I am in love with him still. Quite idyllic, isn't it ? LORD DAWLISH. Very likely. In Paris ? Paris. MRS. MELTON. There never was any one in the world like 116 LITTLE COMEDIES. him so brave, so good, so boyish : he rejoiced in life, certain of pleasure, and purposing noble work. LOKD DAWLISH (aside). Cousin John ! Cousin John, of course. Con- found Cousin John ! MRS. MELTON. He fell in love with me at once, almost before I had fallen in love with him. We were both so absurdly shy, so silly, and so young. I can see him blush now, and I could blush then. But I shall be sentimental in a minute ; this is egregious folly ; of course it is folly, and it was folly ; of course it was merely childish fancy, boy and girl sentiment, calf-love ; of course a week's absence would put an end to it ; and of course I love him still. But forgive me, Lord Dawlish. Why should I bother you with this worn-out, commonplace romance ? LORD DAWLISH. I like it. It interests me. Go on, if it does not bore you. It reminds me of something of something which I had better forget. MRS. MELTON. You shall hear the rest: there isn't much. He was taken away, and I suppose forgot me. PICKING UP THE PIECES. 117 I came out in Paris, went everywhere, was vastly gay, and terribly unhappy. My aunt was young- ish, and good-looking in a way ; she was dying to be rid of me, and I knew it ; and so things were very uncomfortable at home, until until I married. Oh, I told him the truth, the whole truth : I told him that the love of my life had gone by. I am glad I told him the truth. LORD DAWLISH. He was American, wasn't he ? MRS. MELTON. Yes. I was grateful to him, and proud of him. He was good as man can be. But he made light of my story. He thought, like the rest, that it was a mere girlish fancy ; that I should soon forget that There, you have my story ! Touch- ing, isn't it ? LORD DAWLISH. It is most extraordinary. MRS. MELTON. What is most extraordinary ? LORD DAWLISH. Your story is like my story. 118 LITTLE COMEDIES. MRS. MELTON. It's everybody's story. It's common as the whooping-cough, and dull as a great thaw. But, come, give me the details of your case. LORD DAWLISH. The details ! If I can remember them. MRS. MELTON. If you can remember. Who would be a man ? LORD DAWLISH. It was in Paris MRS. MELTON. In Paris ? LORD DAWLISH. It is just like your story. Suppose that we take it as told. MRS. MELTON. Go on. I must hear it. LORD DAWLISH. I was sent to Paris when I was a boy, with a bear-leader. There I saw a girl a little bread- and-butter miss and and I got fond of her awfully fond of her. She was the dearest little girl the best little thing. She was like like PICKING UP THE PIECES. 119 MBS. MELTON. Go on. What happened ? LORD DAWLISH. Nothing. MBS. MELTON. Nothing ! Nonsense ! Something always hap- pens. LOBD DAWLISH. Nothing came of it. They said boy and girl, and calf-love, and all that, like the people in your story ; and they packed me off to England. MBS. MELTON. Why did you go ? LOBD DAWLISH. I always was a fool. They said that it would try the strength of her feelings ; that, if we were both of the same mind when I had got my degree, the thing should be. MBS. MELTON. And you never wrote ? LOBD DAWLISH. No. 120 LITTLE COMEDIES. MES. MELTON. Nor did he never one line. LOED DAWLISH. They said she wished me not to write. MES. MELTON. How likely ! These men, these men ! They never know what letters are to women. What was the end ? LOED DAWLISH. The usual thing. As soon as my degree was all right I made for Paris. She was gone. MES. MELTON. My poor friend ! She was dead. LOED DAWLISH. Married. MES. MELTON. Married ! how could she be so LOED DAWLISH. It is very like your story, ain't it ? Only in my story the parties were not American. PICKING UP THE PIECES. 121 MKS. MELTON. American ! What do you mean ? I wasn't an American till I married one, and Tom LOED DAWLISH. Then it wasn't Cousin John ? MRS. MELTON. John ! No, no, no ! Lord Dawlish ! Lord Dawlish, what is your family name ? LORD DAWLISH. My family name ? What on earth, my dear Mrs. Melton MRS. MELTON. Quick, quick ! What is it ? LORD DAWLISH. Why er why Dashleigh, of course. MRS. MELTON. And you are Tom Dashleigh ? (As she looks at him the truth dawns on him.) LORD DAWLISH. And you are little Kitty Gray ? 122 LITTLE COMEDIES. MBS. MELTOX. Oh ! my bright boy-lover, you are lost now in- deed. LOKD DAWLISH. I think I have got a chill. ( When they have sat a little while in silence she jumps up. ) MRS. MELTON. No more sentiment, no more folly ! Away with sentiment for ever ! The boy and girl lovers are dead long ago ; and we old folk who know the world may strew flowers on their grave and be gone. Look up, old friend, look up ! LORD DAWLISH. Yet you are you, and I I suppose that I am I. MRS. MELTON. Young fools ! young fools ! why should we pity them, we wise old folk who know the world ? Love is but is but (And she dashes into music at the piano ; soon her hands begin to fail, and she stoops over them to hide her eyes ; then she jumps up in tears* and, moving, PICKING UP THE PIECES. 123 knocks over the little jar which was Cousin John's gift. He would pick it up, but she stops him.) No, no : let it lie there. LORD DAWLISH. ShaVt I pick up the pieces ? MRS. MELTON. Let them lie there. One can never pick up the pieces. LORD DAWLISH. Why not ? I don't think I understand. But I can't bear to see you cry. I thought that you could not cry; that you were too clever and strong-minded to cry. Look here ! You might have made something of me once. Is it too late, Mrs. Melton ? MRS. MELTON. The jar is broken. LORD DAWLISH. Is it too late, Kitty ? MRS. MELTON. Let us pick up the pieces together. HALF WAY TO ARCADY. CHARACTERS. A POET. AJST AucADiAtf GIEL. HALF WAY TO AKCADY- A Poet dressed in evening clothes, but somewhat dusty, meets an Arcadian girl upon the road. HE. Here, child ! Is this the way to Arcady ? SHE. Yes, noble lord. HE. No noble lord am I. I am a poet, and a weary one. Give me a drink of water. Child, the sun Will fleck that dainty skin with golden kisses, Termed freckles by our milk-of-almond misses. Turn from the glaring road a little space : The spreading beech will shade the dimpled face, The frolic face, a light in shady nook : Nay, do not fear ! It has been mine to look 128 LITTLE COMEDIES. On many million women ; therefore I, Or partly therefore, go to Arcady. SHE. But there are women in Arcadia. HE. Are there ? To lead the yokel hearts astray And mine, perhaps. Ah me ! to lie along A little brook, a shepherd from a song, A little babbling brook, and plait the reeds, To watch the dance young Amaryllis leads, To hum a catch of Pan and Nymph and Faun Laughing and leaping on the upland lawn, To taste pure milk, to sleep before the sun, Wake with the sheep and with the sheep-dog run, To plunge in brawling stream, rest on the sod As free and naked as a woodland god Ah, to be there ! How far is't ? SHE. Let me see. Fair sir, since sunrise I've walked steadily HE. You come from Arcady ? SHE. Of course, my lord. HALF WAY TO ARCADY. 129 HE. Poor child ! and you haye left the land adored By sheep and poets. Say, what cruel fate Has sent you thence to wander desolate In this cramped world of license, law, and lie ? SHE. What sent me ? No one sent me, sir ; but I Was grown so weary of the silly sheep And silly shepherds oh, they peer and peep, And sing their songs all to one lazy tune Of ribbons and of roses, and warm June, And bells are always tinkling, breezes sighing For nothing, and the leaves so long a-dying And so, sir, I was tired and ran away. HE. Where do you go ? SHE. To Paris, and to-day, To life, to life ! Oh, pardon me, fair sir, I talk too much. HE. I like those lips astir With funny little fancies, rosebud lips, A rose of dew ; and now a sunbeam slips Through frolic beech leaves for a kiss I ween ; Now the lips part, and so he slips between. 9 130 LITTLE COMEDIES. You sit so meek and pretty in the shade, Were I not tired of women, I'm afraid That I should learn of sunbeams nay, don't fear me, I've seen so many pretty women near me. Fold little hands, turn great grave eyes on mine, And I will teach you wisdom how they shine, Those merry eyes ! and are they blue or brown ? 'Tis good to live afar from noisy town, To live a simple life in woodland wild, Child in a child's world, evermore a child ; 'Tis good to cut the reed and sound the lay, To lead the sheep, and watch the lambkins play. SHE. Oh, sir, I've watched the lambkins, and the game Our lambkins' play is every day the same ; I'm weary of their dance. HE. The lark at morn Leaps, a live song, above the yellow corn ; The hours go by to music ; when the sun Slopes to the west, their day-long pleasures done, The simple souls betake themselves to rest Blest race, indeed, if they but knew how blest. SHE. Ah, sir, but what are days and days like these HALF WAY TO ARCADY. 131 To Paris hours and gaslight in the trees A glare, a maze, a murmur ? HE. Listen, child ! In that old shell of Paris was I styled Prince of misrule, mirth, madness, mockery ; No lord of laughter half so loud as I ; 'No cup so deep as mine ; no heart so gay. Do I look very happy ? SHE. Dare I say ? Dare I speak out my thought ? Fair sir, your face Has in it something that did never grace Our most sweet-smiling shepherd : I can guess That it is what we long for weariness. There's no life to grow weary of at home. HE. Each year the apple orchards break to foam Of sun-tipped blossom, every leaf is new On every tree, and all the sky is blue. Slowly the fresh green turns to deep rich shade, Slowly gnarled boughs with fruit are overweighed, Swell the fair clusters on the swinging vine, The year grows old in beauty. Maiden mine, No charms in dusty Paris will you see One half so sweet as your simplicity. 132 LITTLE COMEDIES. SHE. My poor simplicity ! My silliness ! I pray you do not mock me, sir ; distress Makes my voice fail ; indeed I don't know why, But I am very silly : if I cry You'll laugh again, and I shall cry the more. I pray you do not mock me. HE. Not for store Of moments dear as this, of sweet replies, Of April dawning in those lips and eyes ! I mock you not. I smile because 'tis sweet To see the fretted sunlight at our feet. I smile, because your eyes are large and round ; I smile to think I sit on grassy mound And prattle with a girl ; while far away The huddled crowd of Paris wear the day Uneasy flitting on from sport to sport, Stabbing with jest, and wringing quick retort, Playing and playing, lest they see pass by Young Pleasure's drear-eyed mate, Satiety. Fever of life, absinthe, cigarette ! endless theatre where, in order set, A dull-eyed people all the long night through Sit without hope of seeing something new ! dullness smartly uttered ! paradox ; hired applause, bought flowers from the box ! acres of stretched canvas, where with skill The painter shows new forms of every ill HALF WAY TO ARCADY. 133 Historic bloodshed, new-distorted dress, And unimagined, undraped ugliness ! pleasure without laughter, strange disease Of mad amusments that can never please ! storm and stress of gold, and fuss, and feather ! hollow Paris, you and I together Have run the weary round of mirth ! But now ! Now the quick air comes wooing ; on the bough A squirrel stops to listen ; one small bird Is talkative, and naught besides is heard, Save murmur of wise bees amid the bloom ; While far away the dim, musk-scented room Is shut from sunlight, and the ear is full Of clatter, and the restless eye grows dull. pretty girl ! of laughter all compact, Of little fancy, and of simple fact, Maid o' the milking, queen of holiday, My brier-rose from the close hedge astray, My heart can beat again, my eyes can see ; 1 sought Arcadia, and she came to me. Here will we rest. SHE. But, sir, is Paris near ? HE. Take me, take Paris ; I have Paris here, Here in my shriveled heart, my weary face, Here in my tailor's artificial grace, In scorn of joys which can no more delay me, 134 LITTLE COMEDIES. In arrogance which bids you thus obey me. I am all Paris, spoiled child of the sun, And I am at your feet, my little one. SHE. Oh, sir, I dare not sir, I can not speak ! HE. Then kiss for answer, for all words are weak. Tip, little heart ! an altar quick prepare Of well-trimmed turf entwined with flowers fair The buds are tame in Paris : here will I Dwell with my love half way to Arcady : Free from fierce joys and more abiding pain, Clear to Lord Hymen raise the simple marriage strain. SONG. JSTow together let us sing, Hymen, Hymen ! Hours take wing. Hours quick-winged with our delight Gone like smoke that's blue and bright In the happy morning air. Quick, then, with flowers fair ! Flowers to the altar bring Simple, sweet our offering And both together sing Hymen, be propitious, Hymen ! Hymen, Hymensee ! HALF WAY TO ARCADY. 135 (He sings.) "Where the altar turf is set, Smoke of perfumed cigarette Melts to air, and flame springs high From the liquor fierce that I Pour from this my silver flask. (They both sing.) Thus we end our easy task, And the happy rite is done. Now westward slopes the sun All the sky, as he goes down, Takes the glow of saffron gown, As far from noisy town We raise our song of Hymen, Hymen, Hymen, Hymenaee ! Thus sang the two together sweet and low, And days went by in order sweet and slow ; And sweet and low birds chattered 'mid the bloom ; And sweet and slow was life to bride and groom Lo ! life was sweet to her and slow to him. The whimsical had gratified his whim. Morn brings the cows, at eve they homeward go, But no morn brings the far-off Figaro ; And yet 'tis good to sit with lazy feet Dropped in the stream, and think of dusty street ; To milk the evening cow, nor care for haste, Eecalling absinthe and less lacteal taste. 136 LITTLE COMEDIES. gay the chatter of Arcadian lass ! gay the boulevard all aglare with gas ! g a J> gay ! Once at that calm abode, Was dropped a last years' paper in the road ; And one wild day a stray Arcadian swain Grinned through the leaves, and went away again. MABEL'S HOLY DAY. CHARACTERS. MABEL. ARTHUE. EALPH. MABEL'S HOLT DAT. In a Garden. ARTHUR. He came, saw, and was conquered. Lady mine, You can not choose but conquer ; in mere sport You triumph, and your prize a human heart. Where others strive, you take your ease and win Win, for you must ; and so our friend was won Tamed to the rose-chain which I've worn so long. Was never victory more swift and sure ! MABEL. Never. ARTHUR. A week, day, hour nay, not so much ; He came, he saw, was conquered. Victory ! Glory to you and me ! MABEL. Take all the glory. 140 LITTLE COMEDIES. AKTHUE. No though 'twas I that dragged him from his books, 'Twas you that tamed him. Bent o'er dusty books There was my friend, my Kalph, my dear sworn brother, After some hundred years or so turned poet, Spoiling his eyes- the boy has pleasant eyes Gnawing a weighty tome, grub, scholar, mole, Philosopher of dusk and dust and poet. I found him, and I dragged him forth to light. MABEL. To gaslight. AETHUE. Yes, to gaslight best of lights. There he sat blinking 'twas the rarest sport The innocent had never seen a play, Never ! He knew his Shakespeare, loved the book; But not the boards ; they said the modern stage Was all unworthy ; so he only came Because I prayed him, and we had been friends. MABEL. You had been friends ? MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 141 ARTHUR. Friends ? Yes, the closest friends. Oh, but to see the change ! There he sat dazed, Puzzled, disdainful ; and the play began. What's this ? The dazed eyes open, round and bright. What's this ? Black-letter ? parchment ? manu- script ? A student's prize ? Newest old-fashioned verse, Or old verse new the fashion ? Yes, by Love, By the great little master ! Such a scroll As not all libraries on earth can match, Parchment of living words, live manuscript, Most old, most new, the very fount of song, The world writ small in poetry a woman. He did not know the kind. MABEL. And does he know it ? ARTHUR. He learns his lesson daily at your feet. MABEL. What shall you do ? Where do you go to-day ? ABTHUR. I am to go ? I weary you ? 142 LITTLE COMEDIES. MABEL. Not much. ARTHUR. I can not comprehend you ? MABEL. I hope not. ARTHUR. I can but leave you. MABEL. You are very kind. ARTHUR. Sphinx though you be, you make your mean- ing clear. Adieu, most potent lady : Queen, farewell ; Give my respects to Master Kalph ; farewell. Most arbitrary lady, queen of hearts, Queen of the stage MABEL. Don't speak about the stage : I would forget this is my holiday Let me forget the actress so good-by ! ARTHUR. Good-by. The gate grates on the gravel walk ; MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 143 He comes, I go all pass ; he goes, I come ; We are two buckets at one well. Good-by. You'll educate my friend. MABEL. Your friend ! And mine ? (ARTHUR goes away. Presently RALPH comes through the shrubbery ; as MA- BEL gives him her hand, he 'begins to speak quickly.} RALPH. Oh, what a day ! Are you at last content ? My lady, did you ever see such a day ? MABEL. I have seen many days. RALPH. But none like this. Why, all the land to-day is fairyland. I came by the upland common all ablaze With gorse from end to end, and met the breeze Full in the face, and the gray morning clouds Rolled northward, rent, and the great sun shone through : But that was nothing. Where the road dips down 144 LITTLE COMEDIES. Steep from rough common to the wide grass- lands, I found a world of blossom ; by my side The May-trees stood so thick with bloom, me- thought No space was there for song o 5 the thrush, that shook The heart o' the bush with rhapsodies of love : But that was nothing ; for each blade of grass Had its rain-jewel ; short-lived buttercups Wealth of the meadow, fairy merchants' gold Thronged to my feet ; then field and hedgerow, elms All newly green, and golden youth of oaks, And great horse-chestnut with imperial plumes ; Far trees, and farther in the farther fields, Till I saw dimly the fair silver coils, Where the full Thames lay dreaming. All the land Was one broad flood of blossom ; all the air Was scent of blossom. Down the road I came, Like a winged creature who but walks for whim, Half stifled by the songs I could not sing : But that was less than nothing ; for I came Under your garden wall, the old red wall, Eough -stained and beautiful ; and there I stood. Delaying my delight, and looking up, I looked close in and through laburnum bloom, And through the bloom light slanted to my eyes, Sunshine and blossom dazzling, golden shower, MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 145 Quivering, with beauty breathless : but that's nothing, For when I pushed your gate, my dusty feet Were ankle-deep in daisies ; nothing still, For round the overflowing lilac bush I stole Breathless, and here are you. MABEL. Yes, here am I ; And is that something ? RALPH. Crown o' the day to me, Music that makes all music's meaning clear, The master-touch interpreting all lights, Color of colors, heart o' the living rose MABEL. Enough ! enough ! Would you, too, flatter ? RALPH. No. I pray you pardon me. I am mad to-day : Drunken with spring : this morning on the road I could not sing, for all the world was poem, The world was poet, I was dumb ; but now, Beholding you, I speak I know not what, The pent stream flows, and I am rhapsodist. I pray you pardon me. 10 146 LITTLE COMEDIES. MABEL. You need no pardon : I think your liking for these things is real. You really like the country. KALPH. Keally like it ! To-day I love it. MABEL. Arthur loves the town. RALPH. Arthur? Where is he? Will he come to-day ? MABEL. Yes, he is here ; he's somewhere in the house Helping my maid perhaps to plan a gown For the next part I play KALPH. Don't talk of plays. Is not this better than the playhouse ? MABEL. Yes: Oh, so much better ! This is holiday, My holiday amid the birds and bloom, My holiday with flowers. MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 147 KALPH. You love flowers. MABEL. I hate them. KALPH. What ? MABEL. I hate them. So would you If they were hurled at you, each on its wire, Falling with a thud on the boards, stirring the dust, Formal and scentless, dull, inevitable As gloves or fans a bouquet ! KALPH. Bloom is bloom. May I not choose some flowers for my lady ? MABEL. No, let them live ; I am so modest, I, One daisy shall suffice me ; thanks, my poet. KALPH. Your poet ! If I dared that was my dream The night when I first saw you ; on that night I was so full of poetry, or verse Which would be poetry, so full of song, 148 LITTLE COMEDIES. That, as I walked home through the London crowd Crowd that was but a murmur in my ears, A shadow world I heard no single word Of Arthur's talk, who will be critical. The moon shone fair above base yellow lights, And my lips babbled song ; the moon shone fair And touched my lips with madness, till I thought That I was poet, fit to be your poet : I broke from Arthur, and ran home ; my brain Was burning ; " It is the god," I cried, " The god inspires me " : so I seized my pen And wrote : and by the morning light I read Page after page of broken, scribbled verse, Poor verse Yes, you may laugh. MABEL. I do not laugh. Show me this verse. RALPH. Then you love poetry ? MABEL. I hate it. Verses have been flung at me To fall with a thud like flowers : poetry Is but cheap flowers, jewelry* that's cheap, Cheap as my life. KALPH. Why will you talk like that ? MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 149 MABEL. I talk as I feel. I am not good, you know ; Not good and somewhat weary of my life ; At least I can be honest bad, but true Show me your verse. EALPH. My lady, speak no more These cruel words against yourself. You know I can't believe them even if I would. MABEL. You would believe them, then ? EALPH. I wished to once ; Once ; long ago. MABEL. We have been friends one week. EALPH. I was a fool, a prejudiced, poor fool, And I knew nothing. MABEL. A week ago ! Poor boy ! 150 LITTLE COMEDIES. RALPH. I am a boy no longer. As a boy I lived with boys, and loved my friends, my dreams, And did not hate my books ; I worked and played, Glad both of work and play. Then I saw you : Now I see naught but you. MABEL. Naught but each cloud, Each summer cloud, each tree, each blade of grass. EALPH. I saw all these because I came to you, Because I came to you, all beautiful ; They had but mocked me else. MABEL. As they mock me. Would I could see their beauty ! for this land, Your dainty land of spring, is laid in flats ; The carpenters are barely out of sight ; Smell o' the lamp, glare o' the gas ; and soon, Not without jolt and creak, the play's next scene Will be presented. I foresee the scene. EALPH. What is that scene ? MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 151 MABEL. A dainty scene enough ; A room, a bijou, boudoir, lady's bower ; A wall of satin, save where Cupids leer From panels ; two long windows draped in lace Through which the rose-colored, pale sunlight faints To die on flowered carpet ; all things there Which women love, for which Let's hear your verse. BALPH. There are tears in your eyes. MABEL. No, no. My eyes are dazed By too much lime-light. Let me hear your verse. KALPH. There are tears in your eyes : why do you cry ? Poor child ! MABEL. Child ! I am laughing now : are you content ? Child ! I suppose that I was once a child, Knowing no harm i' the world, a little child, I must have been but it was long ago. KALPH. Tell me about yourself. 152 LITTLE COMEDIES. MABEL. With pleasure, sir ; The subject interests me : I was born Some five-and-twenty years ago, and more. I think that I was born before the Flood : I lived in a farm : Now mark the pretty scene ! To Eight a cottage porch o'ergrown with roses ; Eight Center pump or pigeon-house on pole, Then practicable gate o' the old pasture, And Left a bit of barn-door. On this scene Enter a young girl singing ; that was I. "Dost like the picture ?" as they ask i' the play. But come, recite ! You did not tear them all, Not all your pretty verses ? EALPH. All, I think : There's something I remember but I will not, You are so strange to-day. MABEL. You like me not : You like me not to-day ; and that is well ; You must not like me. It is too late. EALPH. Stop ; don't tell me that ; MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 153 MABEL. Poor boy ! EALPH. Not poor, but rich ; Rich with a kingdom that I would not yield To be an emperor. MABEL. And that's not much. Don't talk like a young lover on the stage ! This is my garden, this my holiday ; Keep the stage lover from me : be my Siebel ; Cull me some flowers. RALPH. Let the flowers live ; Is not the whole world nosegay for my lady ? MABEL. Pestilent vapors. RALPH. No. MABEL. Disperse them, then. Come, let me have my hour ; come, if you love me : 154 LITTLE COMEDIES. Sit by my feet and speak your verse to me ; Here at my feet ! That's right ; and now the verses ! KALPH. They are so weak. MABEL. The better ! Who am I, That I should make men poets ? Quires of verse Have been discharged at me ; they were all weak. Begin ! EALPH. I can not. MABEL. If you love me, Ralph. RALPH. I must. I can remember but few lines. Night's flower, child of night and perfumed air Star o' the night, lone star as pure as pale- Night's bird whose mere discourse is music rare- Bird, star and flower, lovelorn nightingale- Lightning of wrath, passion fierce and frail ! Heart o' the rose, heart of love's own heart ! Air, fire, life, death and woman too thou art. I have obeyed you, lady. MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 155 MABEL. Thanks, my poet. And when I played, you saw all this in me ? KALPH. You were so much to me. MABEL. And it was real ? Was this play real to you ? Did you believe ? KALPH. The woman that you played was real to me, Now shadow of a shade, since you are real, Since I am by your feet, and this is you. MABEL. Shadow of a shade, ay, shadow of a shade is play And woman too. KALPH. Then naught be real to me But this dear shade. MABEL. No ; have no faith in me. 156 LITTLE COMEDIES. EALPH. I have no choice. MABEL. Poor boy ! EALPH. Nay, not so poor ! Now, when I felt your hand light on my hair, A blessing fell on me : Oh, to sit here For ever, that this moment might be time, Dream with no waking after ! dreamful sleep, Or death of all thought save that you are near. MABEL. Yes, dream ; you are safe in dreams but never wake. EALPH. Dream, and I dream this day will ne'er be done. MABEL. The butterfly outlives it, but not love. EALPH. One night falls dark, dark night on love and life. MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 157 MABEL. Oh, this is poetry, folly, player's rant ; You dream and wake to-morrow. A week ago We two were strangers ; let some few days pass And we are strangers. RALPH. But a week ago I had not lived. MABEL. Stage fever is not life ; Stage fever's quick. RALPH. Yes, quick to cure or kill. MABEL. You must not talk like that. RALPH. What need to talk ! Let the air talk in the lilac ; you and I, Sit silent breathing spring-time you and I. MABEL. And are you happy ? 158 LITTLE COMEDIES. EALPH. I am rich with joy, And yet not wholly happy. MABEL. Lover's mood ! lover's luxury of sighs long-drawn ! Immortal dead at sundown ! Is 't not sweet To taste the day's delight, and sorrow too, Sorrow in the thought that you and I must part ? RALPH. Why must we part ? MABEL. Why ! Wake and see the world, The world on which I make my player's round, A star how runs it ? star that's pale and pure, Star o' the troupe, a comet with faint tail, With somewhat musty followers not with you. Child, would you journey round this dusty world Tied to my apron-string ? EALPH. Yes, that would I. MABEL. No, be a man and burst these idle bonds, These apron-strings. MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 159 RALPH. Who tied me here but you ? You bound me, and I will not loose the bonds. You bid me be a man ; be woman you, To pity me : "I would I were thy bird." MABEL. Don't quote from plays. KALPH. 'Tis real enough to me. MABEL. I've seen so many love-sick Montagues ; I've stepped from windows with no house behind, Leaned from sham balconies to lisp sham love The powder's thick on the child Juliet's cheek ; She's dead i' the first scene, dead, stark, analyzed, Dissected Now I shock you ! You see now How dull to feel I am, how cold, how bad, How tired of life ! A live, warm-blooded man Had better crash his heart against a stone Than look for love in me. Be warned in time. All is cold here at my heart, all is cold here. See me, not Juliet in me : push her back, This Juliet of your fancy, to the tomb ; To the tomb with her, if you love me, Ralph. RALPH. If I love ! 160 LITTLE COMEDIES. MABEL. Child, poor child, you must not love, You shall not love me. RALPH. I am not a child I love you, Mabel. MABEL. Hush ! you shall not love me. You will not : do you mark me ? Arthur ! here ! Where is my loving playmate ? Ho, boy, ho ! Come to me, Arthur. ARTHUR (coming to them). I salute you both. Good morning, Ealph, a happy day to you ! Is it not happy, man ? MABEL. Oh, much too happy ! I triumph, Arthur ! ARTHUR. May I kiss your hand ? MABEL. My lips if you will ; I am right royal to-day. MABEL'S HOLY DAY. 161 ARTHUR (to 7ier). What are you saying ? You will spoil it all. MABEL. Look how the boy stares, boy who dares not think Of woman's lip, who dares not lift his eye When trembling sore he takes her finger-tips Boy ! child ! a woman's wine is made of grapes ; Virtue ! a fig's end ! oh, how runs the stuff ? lago knew us. ARTHUR. Good ! Brava ! brava ! Was ever such an actress ! Ralph, applaud ! I'll swear he half believes her. What an actress ! EALPH (to her). And is this acting ? MABEL. No, I tell you, no. (Be silent, Arthur,, do not cross my whim.) I have been acting, acting for a week, A long, dull week, seven days of sentiment Heaven bless us all ! of sentiment and song, " Sighing like furnace," of young grass and lambs, Young grass, young lambs, young love, love of a boy. 11 162 LITTLE COMEDIES. But now good-by ingenuous charm of youth, Good-by to love, good-by to love and lamb, And back to town ! I am free, I am true, myself, I am myself again. Good-by, dear boy ; We meet in town ? No. Then good-by again. RALPH. Good-by. (Ralph goes away. Mabel will not look at him. When he is out of sight, and Mabel still stands and looks the other way, Arthur comes to her doubtfully.} ARTHUR. What means this, Mabel ? Won't you speak ? MABEL. Go. ARTHUR. What have / done ? I've done nothing wrong. MABEL. Nothing but torture me ! Go ! ARTHUR. Very well ! I never yet have crossed a lady's whim. (Arthur goes away.) MABEL. I am alone ; this is my holiday. HEATHER. CHARACTERS. JULIUS. ELFKIDA. HEATHER. JULIUS. Hi, good dog ! Here ! Come out of the sun, you four-legged idiot ! Many years in my com- pany, and still so little wisdom. Eh ? What ? "Dogs and Englishmen walk in the sun." Very true, but I am an Englishman who likes shade ; you are my dog, and should like what I like. Sit here under my left arm. That is better. You are much to be pitied in that you can not lean your back against the smooth trunk of a pine, and stretch out your legs before you. I too can lie on my stomach, if it please me, but you can not, for all your aspirations, lean your back against a tree in comfort. Nor, though you cock your ear like a critic, do you care a jot for that faint sighing overhead, which even on this stillest of summer days is sweet to hear. Nor do those bright in- telligent eyes perceive the beauty of heather. See how my right arm, half sunken, lies along this 166 LITTLE COMEDIES. tuft, which is springy as the very finest smoking- room sofa, and beautiful yes, by the immortali- ty of humbug ! more beautiful than the last crea- tion of the last aesthetic upholsterer ! But heather is healthy, irrepressible, and vulgar ; it rebounds, it asserts itself ; it is vulgar, vivid, and healthy as those reapers out beyond the wood, where the sun smites the wide field golden. Heather is vul- gar, and probably its color is voyant to the well- ordered eye. In truth, this England has become a strange place, Aurelian, while you and I have been knocking about the world. Here lie you in the shade of the old pine-wood, and wag your tail a smiling mongrel and an incurable Philistine. Here lie I happy in the heather, and wag my jaw a Philistine but perchance to be cured and be- come oblivious of Ascalon. And the strange thing is that you and I were wont to value our- selves on our taste. In this very spot have we reposed side by side, as now, and been well pleased with ourselves. Were I as once I was, I should hug myself with joy of that broad corn-land, all Danae to the sun, of the blue through the dark fir-tops ; I should turn an idle eye to the hard whiteness of the road away on the right, where you delayed in the glare and ran the risk of mad- ness, and then bless myself that I could feel the entire charm of a bed of heather spread in the shade for me. But now I am beset by doubts. What if heather be vulgar ? It pushes, it re- HEATHER. 167 bounds, it asserts itself ; it is decked with purple bells. It is not a sun-flower ; it does not even wish to be a sun-flower ; it is not wasted by one passionate, sweet desire to become a sun-flower ; it seems to be content with itself content as a thriving grocer. Has Elfrida become a sun- flower ? She used to be great fun. She was once a little girl, but now a young lady. She would not agree with the heather. Under the dark pine- trees her gown of olive hue would be but a bit of the shadow, and she unseen but for the sunshine of her hair. sunny hair ! wheat, out in the happy field, where the reaper is singing, or ought to be ! Oh ! but rhapsody is out of date. Elfrida has changed, my dog, since the days when she was Elf, and rode the old horse bare-back, and played cricket with the boys, princess and witch of the schoolroom, elf of this wood, and utter fairy ! She is a beauty now, and her gowns are as the dead leaves of the forest for number and color, and her head is a little bowed on one side as the head of the lily, and her face is a comely mystery. These are brave words, Aurelian ! I improve apace. Yet there is none like her. What does she think of me ? Were I a lover, thus idle in the sweet shade, I would solve the question by some pretty test, as thus : She loves me she loves me not ; she loves no ; she but I perceive that you do not like me to pluck hairs from your tail ; and yet I have called you friend 168 LITTLE COMEDIES. these many years. Let the question remain un- answered. Or let us be wise, and know she loves us not. u Sing little bird in the tree, But not because my love loves me, For she does no such thing; Therefore, for your good pleasure only sing." Thank you. And now for luncheon. Now is the hour when, in eating-houses all the world over, there is clink of knives and small change, clatter of plates, and hum of talking and eating. Here there is no bustling waiter nor scent of roast joint, but only a crust of bread, an apple, and pure air. Were this my last crust you should share it. It is well, however, that you have no taste for apples. He would have tempted you with tea and a chop. Steady ! Don't bolt your bread, and I will find a biscuit in my pocket. Be dignified, as becomes a traveler, and one who has had losses. Have I had my losses ? Have I lost something rare ? I can not say. But if I had not so longed to see the world, I might have gained something, when an Elf was tenant of this old wood. What ? Enough? Why these extravagant demonstrations, this wag- ging of the tail, and, indeed, of the entire body ? What do you see ? Who is it ? Elfrida ! I did not think you would come out to-day. ELFRIDA. Is it not beautiful ? HEATHER. 169 JULIUS. Yes " The valleys stand so thick with corn that they do laugh and sing." ELFRIDA. " Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean Tears from the depth of some divine despair, Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields." JULIUS. It is scarce autumn yet. Let it be summer still ; and let us laugh with the valleys. Consider that broad beauty in the sun. ELFRIDA. Is it not exquisite, pathetic ? JULIUS. Is it? You like it? ELFRIDA. Oh, yes ! JULIUS. It's not too bright, too garish ? ELFRIDA. Perhaps it is. I did not think that you would feel that. 170 LITTLE COMEDIES. JULIUS. Oh, not too bright for me ! I like to sit in shadow and stare into the sun. But for you ? I thought that you would resent the shining of the blue, the gleaming of the yellow corn, the cheer- fulness of all things. ELFRIDA. Are you laughing at me ? I never know. JULIUS. I laugh because you are here. It brings back other days. Oh, don't sigh ! They were jolly, but none so jolly as this. Jolly ! Let me say jocund. ELFEIDA. I think it is all too bright. It hurts the eyes a little. JULIUS. Are they weak, those eyes ? ELFRIDA. I think not. JULIUS. I think not. ELFKIDA. But I like soft colors best ; don't you ? HEATHER. 171 JULIUS. Tender gray skies, tender green grass, and tone. ELFRIDA. Oh, yes ! That is good. That is like Lacave. It is only by studying the French painters that one can learn to love our gray-green English land- scapes, to comprehend their infinite tenderness. JULIUS. It is hard, even for a French painter, to com- prehend the infinite. ELFRIDA. Is it so hard ? I wish you could see his pic- tures. I know so little, and I can't explain my- self ; but he is so clever, and it is all so true I should like you to know him, Julius. JULIUS. Let it be so. I don't hate a Frenchman. What does he paint ? ELFEIDA. Oh, wonderful still things, all rest and brood- ing calm ; a level, gray-green sea ; long, level, level sands all gray with wan sea water ; and far-off creeping mist and low gray sky. 172 LITTLE COMEDIES. JULIUS. Always that ? ELFKIDA. Yes, I think so ; but with infinite variety in the monotone. JULIUS. He must have a merry heart to keep him warm, or an endless cold in the head. Is he jocund, this painter ? ELFKIDA. Oh, Julius ! He is always very still. JULIUS. And gray ? But I will learn to like the right things. Am I too old to learn ? Will you teach me? ELFKIDA. I can't teach anything, as you know, Julius. You must ask M. Lacaye. JULIUS. " The owl in the sunlight sat and said, 4 1 hate your vulgar blue and red ; Oh, better the gray of a wan twilight, Or a black nocturne at the dead of night ! ' M. Hibou, A word with you ! Pray, how can one gain so keen a sight?" HEATHER. 173 But in sober prose, sweet coz, I will to school again, and learn to love gray weather a taste much to be desired in this old land of ours. Only let this day be holiday. Let us be happy to-day happy as sunburned reapers in the field. I give the day to vulgar joy, for I am at home again, and the hour is fair. Joy is vulgar, is it not ? ELFRIDA. Oh, no ! Joy is good. JULIUS. Good, and sweet, and sad, and so evil. ELFRIDA. You are mocking me again, I think. But surely it is true that joy and sorrow are very near together, are one in some sort ; are for us so blended and intermingled that we can no more sever one from another than the tuberose from its scent. JULIUS. I knew it. Evil is sad, and sad is sweet, and sweet is good. But no more gladness, which is scarce better than jollity. We must be sweetly, sadly, seriously joyous. It shall be so to-morrow. To-morrow I will begin to learn. To-morrow to school ; to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow. But 174 LITTLE COMEDIES. to-day ! To-day I am so deeply, unutterably glad of the goodly earth, where angels might gather in the corn. Think of me as one who will do bet- ter, as one who has kept bad company for years : do you wag your tail at me, sir ? I said bad com- pany, Aurelian ; nay, pat him not, Elfrida, for he is a Philistine, and must be chastened. He is happy with a bone, sorry with a beating. To- morrow will I give him a bone and a beating at the same time, thus complicate his emotions, thus begin his education. He, too, shall learn how subtly pleasure and pain are interwoven. Down, you fantastic pup ! Elfrida, this grove intoxi- cates me. It is not long since an Elf ran wild here, leaping in the heather, laughing to the air, darting through the shadows like a truant sun- beam fresh from heaven. ELFRIDA. Do you remember those old days ? JULIUS. That is better. There is the old color in your cheeks. Do you ever run now ? ELFRIDA. Sometimes, but not now. M. Lacave is paint- ing me, and he likes me to be pale. HEATHER. 175 JULIUS. Would he were pale, very pale ! You are too rare to fade, too ELFRIDA. Julius, what is the matter with the dog ? JULIUS. He has found a mare's nest. I know that air of preternatural sagacity. Lead on, Aurelian ! we follow thee. Hush ! Look here ! Scarce ten yards from where we sat ! Is not this a day of enchantment ? ELFKIDA. Hush ! Poor child, how sound he sleeps. JULIUS. A little tramp of Italy, and a jolly little fel- low. ELFRIDA. He has crept in here from off the hard road of life. Don't wake him, Julius. JULIUS. Not I. Do you think I would mar such slum- ber ? Look how evenly the breath stirs the torn shirt on his breast ; and how easily he lies, his knees a little bent, as if he would curl himself 176 LITTLE COMEDIES. like some soft-coated animal, warm in the heather. Did an eagle let him fall ? ELFEIDA. How beautiful is the soft, olive face lying on the outstretched arm ! and look at the lashes how long they are on the cheek ! Poor child ! The path before him must be rough for those lit- tle feet. Poor child, poor child ! JULIUS. Not so poor, neither. Is sleep like that worth nothing ? See how he smiles, and the humorous wrinkle between the eyebrows, and the warm blood in the cheek. It it a child's cheek, round and soft ; but the jaw is firm enough. Such a one moves well and cheerily among the chances of life. No fear for him. He was born in a happy hour. ELFKIDA. How beautiful he is, astray from a poet's Italy, fragrant of the wine-press, and eloquent of most delicate music ! JULIUS. Yet should he wake, that rustic bag-pipe would be doubtless discordant. Sleep, little one, in good sweet Northern heather ; sleep, little Ampelus, out of the swinging vines ! Sleep, vagrant poem ! HEATHER. 177 not Ampelus ; for now I bethink me, Elfrida, this is the very god of love. ELFRIDA. Poor little child of the South. JULIUS. Bad grandchild of the Southern sea lovely and capricious grandam, with malice in her smiles. Wake him not or tremble. Elves of the wood a-many have confessed his power. See how the dog trembles. Away ! ELFRIDA. Can we do nothing for him, Julius ? JULIUS. Nothing. But stay. There is a book of an- tique lore that says to those who chance to find Eros asleep, that, be they many or few, one or two, each must sing the god a song, and cross his palm with silver. I therefore in this upturned little brown hand place this half-crown. Do you take this, its fellow, and do likewise. ELFRIDA. I shall never pay you, Julius ? 12 178 LITTLE COMEDIES. JULIUS. I am paid with hope. So half the charm is done. Now, sit you here upon this tiny knoll. I will lie here on the other side. So our theme is between us. Do you begin the song. ELFRIDA (sings.) Love lies asleep Deep in the pleasant heather ; Wake him not lest ye weep Through the long winter weather ; And sorrow bud again in spring, With apple-blossoming, And bloom in the garden close, With blooming of the rose, And ye, ere ye be old, Die with the brief pale gold, And when the leaves are shed, Ye too lie dead. JULIUS. No fear of waking this vagrant Love. How fast he sleeps ! ELFRIDA. What utter weariness ! JULIUS. What splendid health ! HEATHER. 179 (Sings.) Oh, merry the day in the whispering wood, Where the boy Love lies sleeping ; And clad in artistic ladyhood An Elf her watch is keeping ! Oh, she was a queen of the elfin race, And flower of fairy land ! The squirrel stood to look in her face, And the wild dove came to her hand ; But her fairies have given a gift more fair Than any that elves or ladies wear, Unbought at any mart A woman's heart. Boys and maidens passing by, Be ye wise, and let Love lie ! There's never a word than this more wise In all the old philosophies. Hush your song this summer day, Lest he wake and bid you stay ; Hush and haste away, Haste away, Away ! ELFKIDA. And we too must be going, for look how long the shadows of the reapers lie along the land. How sad so sweet a day must end ! JULIUS. And are not others coming better than this ? 180 JJTTLE COMEDIES. ELFRIDA. Who can say ? Ah, yes ! I will believe that they are coming. JULIUS. That is wise, Elfrida. That is bravely said. Look how the sunlight comes like a conqueror, slanting through the dark firs ! It touches the poor child's cheek, and you stoop to kiss the place. That is well done. Did you see how he smiled and moved in sleep ? He will wake soon wifch the evening light about him, to find wealth in his little brown hand, and in his heart the dream of a young queen's kiss. ELFRIDA. Come. It is time to go home. JULIUS. And after our many journeys by land and sea, is there still a home for us ? Arise, Aurelian ! come, good pup, and follow our gracious lady home. THE END. UNIVEESITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, BERKELEY THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW expiration of loan period. WAR 2 1956 1956 LU Y/\ 0^52 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY