"WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS."
ARGUMENT.—EDWIN has taken ANGELINA, his fiancée, to an entertainment by a Mesmerist, and, wishing to set his doubts at rest, has gone upon the platform, and placed himself entirely at the Mesmerist's disposition. On rejoining ANGELINA, she has insisted upon being taken home immediately, and has cried all the way back in the hansom—much to EDWIN's perplexity. They are alone together, in a Morning-room; ANGELINA is still sobbing in an arm-chair, and EDWIN is rubbing his ear as he stands on the hearthrug.
Edwin. I say, ANGELINA, don't go on like this, or we shall have somebody coming in! I wouldn't have gone up if I'd known it would upset you like this; but I only wanted to make quite sure that the whole thing was humbug, and—(complacently)—I rather think I settled that.
Ang. (in choked accents). You settled that?—but how?... Oh, go away—I can't bear to think of it all! [Fresh outburst.
Ed. You're a little nervous, darling, that's all—and you see, I'm all right. I felt a little drowsy once, but I knew perfectly well what I was about all the time.
Ang. (with a bound). You knew?—then you were pretending—and you call that a good joke! Oh!
Ed. Hardly pretending. I just sat still, with my eyes shut, and the fellow stroked my face a bit. I waited to see if anything would come of it—and nothing did, that's all. At least, I'm not aware that I did anything peculiar. In fact, I'm certain I didn't. (Uneasily.) Eh, ANGELINA?
Ang. (indistinctly, owing to her face being buried in cushions). If you d-d-d-on't really know, you'd bub-bub-better-not ask—but I believe you do—quite well!
Ed. Look here, ANGIE, if I behaved at all out of the common, it's just as well that I should know it. I don't recollect it, that's all. Do pull yourself together, and tell me all about it.
Ang. (sitting up). Very well—if you will have it, you must. But you can't really have forgotten how you stood before the footlights, making the most horrible faces, as if you were in front of a looking-glass. All those other creatures were doing it, too; but, oh, EDWIN, yours were far the ugliest—they haunt me still.... I mustn't think of them—I won't! [Buries her face again.
Ed. (reddening painfully). No, I say—did I? not really—without humbug, ANGELINA!
Ang. You know best if it was without humbug! And, after that, he gave you a glass of cuc-cod-liver oil, and—and pup-pup-paraffin, and you dud-drank it up, and asked for more, and said it was the bub-bub-best Scotch whiskey you ever tasted. You oughtn't even to know about Scotch whiskey!
Ed. I can't know much if I did that. Odd I shouldn't remember it, though. Was that all?
Ang. Oh, no. After that you sang—a dreadful song—and pretended to accompany yourself on a broom. EDWIN, you know you did; you can't deny it!
Ed. I—I didn't know I could sing; and—did you say on a broom? It's bad enough for me already, ANGELINA, without howling! Well, I sang—and what then?
Ang. Then he put out a cane with a silver top close to your face, and you squinted at it, and followed it about everywhere with your nose; you must have known how utterly idiotic you looked!
Ed. (dropping into a chair). Not at the time.... Well, go on, ANGELINA; let's have it all. What next?
Ang. Next? Oh, next he told you you were the Champion Acrobat of the World, and you began to strike foolish attitudes, and turn great clumsy somersaults all over the stage, and you always came down on the flat of your back!
Ed. I thought I felt a trifle stiff. Somersaults, eh? Anything else? (With forced calm.)
Ang. I did think I should have died of shame when you danced?
Ed. Oh, I danced, did I? Hum—er—was I alone?
Ang. There were four other wretches dancing too, and you imitated a ballet. You were dressed up in an artificial wreath and a gug-gug-gauze skirt.
Ed. (collapsing). No?? I wasn't!... Heavens! What a bounder I must have looked! But I say, ANGIE, it was all right. I suppose? I mean to say I wasn't exactly vulgar, or that sort of thing, eh?
Ang. Not vulgar? Oh, EDWIN? I can only say I was truly thankful Mamma wasn't there!
Ed. (wincing). Now, don't, ANGELINA it's quite awful enough as it is. What beats me is how on earth I came to do it all.
Ang. You see, EDWIN, I wouldn't have minded so much if I had had the least idea you were like that.
Ed. Like that! Good Heavens. ANGIE, am I in the habit of making hideous grimaces before a looking-glass? Do you suppose I am given to over-indulgence in cod-liver oil and whatever the other beastliness was? Am I acrobatic in my calmer moments? Did you ever know me sing—with or without a broom? I'm a shy man by nature (pathetically), more shy than you think, perhaps,—and in my normal condition, I should be the last person to prance about in a gauze skirt for the amusement of a couple of hundred idiots? I don't believe I did, either!
Ang. (impressed by his evident sincerity). But you said you knew what you were about all the time!
Ed. I thought so, then. Now—well, hang it, I suppose there's more in this infernal Mesmerism than I fancied. There, it's no use talking about it—it's done. You—you won't mind shaking hands before I go, will you? Just for the last time?
Ang. (alarmed). Why—where are you going?
Ed. (desperate). Anywhere—go out and start on a ranche, or something, or join the Colonial Police force. Anything's better than staying on here after the stupendous ass I've made of myself!
Ang. But—but, EDWIN, I daresay nobody noticed it much.
Ed. According to you, I must have been a pretty conspicuous object.
Ang. Yes—only, you see, I—I daresay they'd only think you were a confederate or something—no, I don't mean that—but, after all, indeed you didn't make such very awful faces. I—I liked some of them!
Ed. (incredulously). But you said they haunted you—and then the oil, and the somersaults, and the ballet-dancing. No, it's no use, ANGELINA, I can see you'll never get over this. It's better to part and have done with it!
Ang. (gradually retracting). Oh, but listen. I—I didn't mean quite all I said just now. I mixed things up. It was really whiskey he gave you, only he said it was paraffin, and so you wouldn't drink it, and you did sing, but it was only about some place where an old horse died, and it was somebody else who had the broom! And you didn't dance nearly so much as the others, and—and whatever you did, you were never in the least ridiculous. (Earnestly). You weren't, really, EDWIN!
Ed. (relieved). Well. I thought you must have been exaggerating a little. Why, look here, for all you know, you may have been mistaking somebody else for me all the time—don't you see?
Ang. I—I am almost sure I did, now. Yes, why, of course—how stupid I have been! It was someone very like you—not you at all!
Ed. (resentfully). Well, I must say, ANGELINA, that to give a fellow a fright like this, all for nothing—
Ang. Yes—yes, it was all for nothing, it was so silly of me. Forgive me, EDWIN, please!
Ed. (still aggrieved). I know for a fact that I didn't so much as leave my chair, and to say I danced, ANGELINA!
Ang. (eagerly). But I don't. I remember now, you sat perfectly still the whole time, he—he said he could do nothing with you, don't you recollect? (Aside.) Oh, what stories I'm telling!
Ed. (with recovered dignity). Of course I recollect—perfectly. Well, ANGELINA, I'm not annoyed, of course, darling; but another time, you should really try to observe more closely what is done and who does it—before making all this fuss about nothing.
Ang. But you won't go and be mesmerised again, EDWIN—not after this?
Ed. Well, you see, as I always said, it hasn't the slightest effect on me. But from what I observed, I am perfectly satisfied that the whole thing is a fraud. All those other fellows were obviously accomplices, or they'd never have gone through such absurd antics—would they now?
Ang. (meekly). No, dear, of course not. But don't let's talk any more about it. There are so many things it's no use trying to explain.