No. VIII.
SCENE—A Bridge over the Pegnitz, at Nuremberg. Time, afternoon. The shadows of the old gabled and balconied houses are thrown sharply on the reddish-yellow water. Above the steep speckled roofs, the spires of St. Lorenz glitter against the blue sky. CULCHARD is leaning listlessly upon the parapet of the bridge.
Culchard (to himself). How mediæval it all is, and how infinitely restful! (He yawns.) What a blessed relief to be without that fellow PODBURY! He's very careful to keep out of my way—I've scarcely seen him since I've been here. He must find it dreadfully dull. (He sighs.) I ought to find material for a colour-sonnet here, with these subdued grey tones, those dull coppery-greens, and the glowing reds of the conical caps of those towers. I ought—but I don't. I fancy that half-engagement to MAUD TROTTER must have, scared away the Muse. I wonder if PODBURY has really gone yet? (Here a thump on the back disposes of any doubt as to this.) Er—so you're still at Nuremberg? [Awkwardly.
Podbury (cheerfully). Rather! Regular ripping old place this—suits me down to the ground. And how are you getting on?
Culch. Perfectly, thanks. My mind is being—er—stimulated here in the direction most congenial to it.
Podb. So's mine. By the way, have you got a book—don't mean a novel, but a regular improving book—the stodgier the better—to lend a fellow?
Culch. Well, I brought an Epitome of Herbert Spencer's Synthetic Philosophy away with me to dip into occasionally. It seems a very able summary, and you are welcome to it, if it's of any use to you.
Podb. SPENCER, eh?—he's a stiff kind of old bird, ain't he? He'll do me to-rights, thanks.
Culch. It strikes me, PODBURY, that you must find the time rather long, to want a book of that kind. If you wish to resume our—ah—original relations, I am quite ready to overlook what I am sure was only a phase of not unnatural disappointment.
Podb. (cheerily). Oh, that's all right, old fellow. I've got over all that business. (He colours slightly.) How soon did you think of moving on?
Culch. (briskly). As soon as you please. We might start for Constance to-morrow, if you like.
Podb. (hesitating) Well, you see, it's just this: there's a fellow staying at my hotel—PRENDERGAST, his name is—rattling good sort—and I've rather chummed up with him, and—and he's travelling with a relation of his, and—well, the fact is, they rather made a point of my going on to Constance with them, don't you see? But I daresay we could work it so as to go on all together. I'll see what they say about it.
Culch. (stiffly). I'm exceedingly obliged—but so large a party is scarcely—however, I'll let you know whether I can join you or not this evening. Are you—er—going anywhere in particular just now?
Podb. Well, yes. I've got to meet PRENDERGAST at the Café Noris. We're going to beat up some stables, and see if we can't hire a couple of gees for an hour or two before dinner. Do you feel inclined for a tittup?
Culch. Thanks, but I am no equestrian. (To himself, after PODBURY's departure.) He seems to manage well enough without me. And yet I do think my society would be more good for him than—. Why did he want to borrow that book, though? Can my influence after all— (He walks on thoughtfully, till he finds himself before an optician's window in which a mechanical monkey is looking through a miniature telescope; the monkey suddenly turns its head and gibbers at him. This familiarity depresses him, and he moves away, feeling lonelier than ever.)
On the Terrace of the Burg. Half an hour later.
Culch. (on a seat commanding a panorama of roofs, gables, turrets, and spires). Now this is a thing that can only be properly enjoyed when one is by oneself. The mere presence of PODBURY—well, thank goodness, he's found more congenial company. (He sighs.) That looks, like an English girl sketching on the next seat. Rather a fine profile, so regular—general air of repose about her. Singular, now I think of it, how little repose there is about MAUD. (The Young Lady rises and walks to the parapet.) Dear me, she has left her india-rubber behind her. I really think I ought— (He rescues the india-rubber, which he restores to the owner.) Am I mistaken in supposing that this piece of india-rubber is your property?
The Y.L. (in musically precise tones). Your supposition is perfectly correct. I was under the impression that it would be safe where it was for a few moments; but I am obliged to you, nevertheless. I find india-rubber quite indispensable in sketching.
Culch. I can quite understand that. I—I mean that it reduces the—er—paralysing sense of irrevocability.
The Y.L. You express my own meaning exactly.
[CULCHARD, not being quite sure of his own, is proportionately pleased.
Culch. You nave chosen an inspiring scene, rich with historical interest.
The Y.L. (enthusiastically). Yes, indeed. What names rise to one's mind instinctively MELANCHTHON, JOHN HUSS, KRAFT, and PETER VISCHER, and DÜRER, and WOHLGEMUT, and MAXIMILIAN THE FIRST, and LOUIS OF BAVARIA!
Culch. (who has read up the local history, and does not intend to be beaten at this game). Precisely. And the imperious MARGRAVE OF BRANDENBURG, and WALLENSTEIN; and GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS, and GOETZ VON BERLICHINGEN. One can almost see their—er—picturesque personalities still haunting the narrow streets as we look down.
The Y.L. I find it impossible to distinguish even the streets from here, I confess, but you probably see with the imagination of an artist. Are you one by any chance?
Culch. Only in words; that is, I record my impressions in a poetic form. A perfect sonnet may render a scene, a mood, a passing thought, more indelibly than the most finished sketch; may it not?
The Y.L. That is quite true; indeed, I occasionally relieve my feelings by the composition of Greek or Latin verses, which I find, on the whole, better adapted to express the subtler emotions. Don't you agree with me there?
Culch. (who has done no Greek or Latin verse since he left school). Doubtless. But I am hindering your sketch?
The Y.L. No, I was merely saturating my mind with the general effect. I shall not really begin my sketch till to-morrow. I am going now. I hope the genius of the place will inspire you.
Culch. Thank you. I trust it will—er—have that effect. (To himself, after the Young Lady has left the terrace.) Now, that's a very superior girl—she has intellect, style, culture—everything the ideal woman should have. I wonder, now, whether, if I had met her before—but such speculations are most unprofitable! How clear her eyes looked through her pince-nez! Blue-grey, like Athene's own. If I'd been with PODBURY, I should never have had this talk. The sight of him would have repelled her at once. I shall tell him when I take him that book that he had better go his own way with his new friends. I shall spend most of to-morrow on this terrace.
SCENE—The Conversations-Saal at the Wurtemburger-Hof. Evening. PODBURY at the piano; BOB PRENDERGAST and his sister HYPATIA seated near him.
Podb. (chanting dolefully)—
Now then, this party as what came from Fla-an-ders,
What had the com-plex-i-on rich and rare,
He went and took and caught the yeller ja-aun-ders—
And his complexion isn't what it were!
Mr. and Miss Prendergast (joining sympathetically in chorus). And his complexion isn't what it were!
[There is a faint knock at the door, and CULCHARD enters with a volume under his arm. None of the three observes him, and he stands and listens stiffly as PODBURY continues,—
Well, next this party as what came from Fla-an-ders,
Whose complex-shun was formi-ally rare,
Eloped to Injia with ELIZA SA-AUN-DERS,
As lived close by in Canonbury Square.
Culch. (advances to piano and touches PODBURY's arm with the air of his better angel). Er—I have brought you the philosophical work I mentioned. I will leave it for an occasion when you are—er—in a fitter frame of mind for its perusal.
Podb. Oh, beg pardon, didn't see you, old fellow. Awfully obliged; jam it down anywhere, and (whispering) I say, I want to introduce you to—
Culch. (in a tone of emphatic disapproval). You must really excuse me, as I fear I should be scarcely a congenial spirit in such a party. So good night—or, rather—er—good-bye. [He withdraws.
Miss Hypatia P. (just as C. is about to close the door). Please don't stop, Mr. PODBURY, that song is quite too deliciously inane!
[CULCHARD turns as he hears the voice, and—too late—recognises his Athene of that afternoon. He retires in confusion, and, as he passes under the window, hears PODBURY sing the final verse.
The moral is—Now don't you come from Fla-an-ders,
If you should have complexions rich and rare;
And don't you go and catch the yaller ja-aun-ders,
Nor yet know girls in Canonbury Square!
Miss Hypatia P. (in a clear soprano). "Nor yet know girls in Canonbury Square!"
[CULCHARD passes on, crushed.
