LYRE AND LANCET.
(A Story in Scenes.)
PART II.—SELECT PASSAGES FROM A COMING POET.
Scene II.—The Morning Room at Wyvern. Lady Rhoda Cokayne, Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris, and Miss Vivien Spelwane are comfortably established near the fireplace. The Hon. Bertie Pilliner, Captain Thicknesse, and Archie Bearpark have just drifted in.
Miss Spelwane. Why, you don't mean to say you've torn yourselves away from your beloved billiards already? Quite wonderful!
Bertie Pilliner. It's too horrid of you to leave us to play all by ourselves! We've all got so cross and fractious we've come in here to be petted!
[He arranges himself at her feet, so as to exhibit a very neat pair of silk socks and pumps.
Captain Thicknesse (to himself). Do hate to see a fellow come down in the mornin' with evenin' shoes on!
Archie Bearpark (to Bertie Pilliner). You speak for yourself, Pilliner. I didn't come to be petted. Came to see if Lady Rhoda wouldn't come and toboggan down the big staircase on a tea-tray. Do! It's clinkin' sport!
Capt. Thick. (to himself). If there's one thing I can't stand it's a rowdy bullyraggin' ass like Archie!
Lady Rhoda. Ta muchly, dear boy, but you don't catch me travellin' downstairs on a tea-tray twice—it's just a bit too clinkin', don't you know!
Archie (disappointed). Why, there 's a mat at the bottom of the stairs! Well, if you won't, let's get up a cushion fight, then. Bertie and I will choose sides. Pilliner, I'll toss you for first pick up—come out of that, do.
Bertie (lazily). Thanks, I'm much too comfy where I am. And I don't see any point in romping and rumpling one's hair just before lunch.
Archie. Well, you are slack. And there's a good hour still before lunch. Thicknesse, you suggest something, there's a dear old chap.
Capt. Thick. (after a mental effort). Suppose we all go and have another look round at the gees—eh, what?
Bertie. I beg to oppose. Do let's show some respect for the privacy of the British hunter. Why should I go and smack them on their fat backs, and feel every one of their horrid legs twice in one morning? I shouldn't like a horse coming into my bedroom at all hours to smack me on the back. I should hate it!
Mrs. Brooke-Chatteris. I love them—dear things! But still, it's so wet, and it would mean going up and changing our shoes too—perhaps Lady Rhoda——
[Lady Rhoda flatly declines to stir before lunch.
"I'll read you a regular rouser called 'A Trumpet Blast.'"
Capt. Thick. (resentfully). Only thought it was better than loafin' about, that's all. (To himself.) I do bar a woman who's afraid of a little mud. (He saunters up to Miss Spelwane and absently pulls the ear of a Japanese spaniel on her knee.) Poo' little fellow, then!
Miss Spelw. Poor little fellow? On My lap!!!
Capt. Thick. Oh, it—ah—didn't occur to me that he was on your lap. He don't seem to mind that.
Miss Spelw. No? How forbearing of him! Would you mind not standing quite so much in my light, I can't see my work.
Capt. Thick. (to himself, retreating). That girl's always fishin' for compliments. I didn't rise that time, though. It's precious slow here. I've a good mind to say I must get back to Aldershot this afternoon.
[He wanders aimlessly about the room; Archie Bearpark looks out of window with undisguised boredom.
Lady Rhoda. I say, if none of you are goin' to be more amusin' than this, you may as well go back to your billiards again.
Bertie. Dear Lady Rhoda, how cruel of you! You'll have to let me stay. I'll be so good. Look here, I'll read aloud to you. I can—quite prettily. What shall it be? you don't care? no more do I. I'll take the first that comes. (He reaches for the nearest volume on a table close by.) How too delightful! Poetry—which I know you all adore.
[He turns over the leaves.
Lady Rhoda. If you ask me, I simply loathe it.
Bertie. Ah, but then you never heard me read it, you know. Now, here is a choice little bit, stuck right up in a corner, as if it had been misbehaving itself. "Disenchantment" it's called.
[He reads.
"My Love has sicklied unto Loath,
And foul seems all that fair I fancied—
The lily's sheen a leprous growth,
The very buttercups are rancid!"
Archie. Jove! The Johnny who wrote that must have been feelin' chippy!
Bertie. He gets cheaper than that in the next poem. This is his idea of "Abasement."
[He reads.
"With matted head a-dabble in the dust,
And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust,
I lie all loathly in my rags and rust—
Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust."
Now, do you know, I rather like that—it's so very decadent!
Lady Rhoda. I should call it utter rot, myself.
Bertie (blandly). Forgive me, Lady Rhoda. "Utterly rotten," if you like, but not "utter rot." There's a difference, really. Now, I'll read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, I suppose. "Stanza written in Depression near Dulwich."
[He reads.
"The lark soars up in the air; The
toad sits tight in his hole;
And I would I were certain which of
the pair Were the truer type of my soul!"
Archie. I should be inclined to back the toad, myself.
Miss Spelw. If you must read, do choose something a little less dismal. Aren't there any love songs?
Bertie. I'll look. Yes, any amount—here's one. (He reads). "To My Lady."
"Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe,
Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green,
Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe,
Then—kiss me, Lady Grisoline!"
Miss Spelw. (interested). So that's his type. Does he mention whether she did kiss him?
Bertie. Probably. Poets are always privileged to kiss and tell. I'll see ... h'm, ha, yes; he does mention it ... I think I'll read something else. Here's a classical specimen.
[He reads.
"Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,
Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;
Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,
Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing."
And so on, don't you know.... Now I'll read you a regular rouser called "A Trumpet Blast." Sit tight, everybody!
[He reads.
"Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, (One for you, dear Archie!)
Blink your blearèd eyes. (Blink, pretty creatures, blink!)
Behold the Sun—
—Burst proclaim, in purpurate effulgence,
Demos dawning, and the Darkness—done!"
[General hilarity, amidst which Lady Culverin enters.
Lady Culverin. So glad you all contrive to keep your spirits up, in spite of this dismal weather. What is it that's amusing you all so much, eh, dear Vivien?
Miss Spelw. Bertie Pilliner has been reading aloud to us, dear Lady Culverin—the most ridiculous poetry—made us all simply shriek. What's the name of it? (Taking the volume out of Bertie's hand.) Oh, Andromeda, and other poems. By Clarion Blair.
Lady Culv. (coldly). Bertie Pilliner can turn everything into ridicule, we all know, but probably you are not aware that these particular poems are considered quite wonderful by all competent judges. Indeed, my sister-in-law——
All (in consternation). Lady Cantire! Is she the author? Oh, of course, if we'd had any idea!
Lady Culv. I've no reason to believe that Lady Cantire ever composed any poetry. I was only going to say that she was most interested in the author, and as she and my niece Maisie are coming to us this evening——
Miss Spelw. Dear Lady Culverin, the verses are quite, quite beautiful; it was only the way they were read.
Lady Culv. I am glad to hear you say so, my dear, because I'm also expecting the pleasure of seeing the author here, and you will probably be his neighbour to-night. I hope, Bertie, that you will remember that this young man is a very distinguished genius; there is no wit that I can discover in making fun of what one doesn't happen to understand.
[She passes on.
Bertie (plaintively, after Lady Culverin has left the room). May I trouble somebody to scrape me up? I'm pulverised! But really, you know, a real live poet at Wyvern! I say, Miss Spelwane, how will you like to have him dabbling his matted head next to you at dinner, eh?
Miss Spelw. Perhaps I shall find a matted head more entertaining than a smooth one. And if you've quite done with that volume, I should like to have a look at it.
[She retires with it to her room.
Archie (to himself). I'm not half sorry this Poet-johnny's comin'; I never caught a Bard in a booby-trap yet.
Capt. Thick. (to himself). She's coming—this very evening! And I was nearly sayin' I must get back to Aldershot!
Lady Rhoda. So Lady Cantire's comin'; we shall all have to be on our hind legs now! But Maisie's a dear thing. Do you know her, Captain Thicknesse!
Capt. Thick. I—I used to meet Lady Maisie Mull pretty often some time ago; don't know if she'll remember it, though.
Lady Rhoda. She'll love meetin' this writin' man—she's so fearfully romantic. I heard her say once that she'd give anythin' to be idealised by a great poet—sort of—what's their names—Petrarch and Laura business, don't you know. It will be rather amusin' to see whether it comes off—won't it?
Capt. Thick. (choking). I—ah—no affair of mine, really. (To himself.) I'm not intellectual enough for her, I know that. Suppose I shall have to stand by and look on at the Petrarchin'. Well, there's always Aldershot!
[The luncheon gong sounds, to the general relief and satisfaction.