THE LECTURE.
"Francesca," I said, "will you do me—I mean, will you accept a favour from me?"
"If," she said, "your Majesty deigns to grant one there can be no question of my accepting it. It will fall on me and I shall have to submit to it."
"Well," I said, "it's this way. You know I'm going to—a-hem!—deliver a lecture at Faringham next Monday?"
"I gathered," she said, "that you were up to something from the amount of books you were piling up on your writing-table. Besides you've been complaining of the ink a good deal, and that's always a bad sign."
"Hadn't I mentioned Faringham and the lecture?"
"You had distantly alluded to something impending and you had looked at the A.B.C. several times, but it stopped at that."
"How careless of me!" I said. "I know I meant to tell you all about it."
"You didn't make your meaning clear. It's all part of the secretiveness of men. They tell one nothing and then they're offended if we don't anticipate all their movements."
"We will," I said, "let that pass. It is an unjust remark, but I will not retaliate. Anyhow, I now inform you formally and officially that I am going to Faringham on Monday in order to deliver a lecture on 'Poetry in its Relation to Life,' before the Faringham Literary Association. It is one of the most famous Associations in the world and has a large lecture-hall capable of seating one thousand people comfortably."
"But why," she said, "did they ask you to lecture?"
"They must," I said, "have heard of me somewhere and guessed that I had wonderful latent capacities as a lecturer. Some men have, you know."
"Well," she said, "let's hope you're one of that sort, and that you'll bring all your capacities out on Monday. Aren't you nervous?"
"No," I said, "not exactly nervous; but I shall be glad when it's well over."
"So shall I," she said. "The ink will be gradually getting better now, and there won't be so many troubles about the A.B.C. being mislaid."
"No book," I said, "was ever so much mislaid as that. I put it down on the sofa two minutes ago and it has now vanished completely."
"It has flown to the window-seat," she said.
"Ah," I said, "and if we give it two minutes more it will fly into the dining-room."
"Never mind," she said; "there shall be A.B.C.'s in every room till you depart for Faringham. That's poetry."
"But it has no relation to life," I said. "It is not sincere, as all true poetry must be."
"'At this point,'" she said in a quoting voice, "'the lecturer was much affected, and his audience showed their sympathy with him by loud cheers.' Will there be much of that sort of thing?"
"There will be a good deal of it," I said with dignity. "The lecture is to last for an hour exactly."
"A whole hour?" she said. "Isn't that taking a mean advantage of the Faringham people?"
"They," I said, "can go out if they like, but I must go on. Francesca, may I read the lecture to you, so as to see if I've got it the right length?"
"So that's what you've been driving at," she said. "Well, fire away—no, stop till I've fetched the children in. You'll have a better audience with them."
"Need those innocent ones suffer?" I said.
"They are young," she said, "and must learn to endure."
The consequence was that all the four children, from Muriel aged sixteen, to Frederick aged eight, were fetched in and told they were going to have a treat such as few children had ever had; that they were going to hear a lecture on "Poetry in its Relation to Life"; that they must cheer loudly every now and then, but not interrupt otherwise, and that there would be a chocolate for each of them at the end. In addition Frederick was told that if he felt he really couldn't stand any more of it he was to leave the room very quietly, and that this wouldn't interfere with the chocolate. Thereupon the lecture started. At the end of the seventh minute Frederick rose, bent his body double and tiptoed out of the room. He was a great loss, for, as Muriel remarked afterwards, he represented two hundred of the audience of a thousand. The rest, however, stuck it out heroically, and danced for joy when it came to an end in one hour exactly. Frederick was afterwards discovered writing poetry on his own account in the school-room. As an illustration of the far-reaching influence of a lecture I may cite two of his stanzas:—
Summer is coming,
Then the bees will be humming,
Birds will be flying,
And girls will be buying,
And boys will be running;
Oh, hail! Summer is coming.
Summer is coming,
Then the fox will be cunning,
And all will be glad,
And none will be sad,
And I hope none will be mad,
And I hope none will be bad;
Oh, hail! Summer is coming!
This may be premature and, as to the fox, incorrect, since he requires but little cunning in the summer; but there is a good Browning flavour about it which redeems all errors.
R. C. L.