Enter Festus, l., in evening costume.
Festus. “Thus far into the bowels of the land have we marched on without impediment.” Here am I once more in the place from which, but one short week ago, I made an unceremonious exit as the rejected suitor of a young, lovely, and talented lady. Rejected suitor!—those words slip very smoothly from the lips, as pleasantly as though they were associated with some high-sounding title of nobility. There is nothing in the sound of them to conjure up the miserable, mean, contemptible, kicked-out feeling which a man experiences who has received at the hands of lovely woman that specimen of feminine handicraft—the mitten. All my own fault, too! I’m a bashful man. Modesty, the virtue which is said to have been “the ruination of Ireland,” is the rock against which my soaring ambition has dashed itself. I have sat in this room, evening after evening, upon the edge of a chair, twirling my thumbs, and saying—nothing. I couldn’t help it. I have brought scores of compliments to the door, and left them in the hall with my hat. I wanted to speak; I kept up “a deuce of a thinking;” but somehow, when I had an agreeable speech ready to pop out of my mouth, it seemed to be frightened at the sight of the fair object against whom it was to be launched, and tumbled back again. It’s no use: when a man is in love, the more he loves, the more silent he becomes; at least it was so in my case. And when I did manage, after much stammering and blushing, to “pop the question,” the first word from the lady set me shivering; and the conclusion of her remarks set me running from the house utterly demoralized,—“I shall always be happy to see you as a friend, your conversation is so agreeable.” Here was a damper, after six weeks of unremitting though silent attention. But she likes me, I’m sure of that. It is my silence which has frightened her. I only need a little more variety in my style of conversation to make myself agreeable to her. I have an original idea; and I advise all bashful men to take warning from my past experience, and profit by my future. I will borrow language in which to speak my passion. There’s nothing very original in borrowing, financially speaking; but to borrow another man’s ideas by which to make love, I call original. And, as luck would have it, I have an excellent opportunity to test my new idea. Lounging in the sanctum of my friend Quill, the editor of “The Postscript,” a few days ago, he called my attention to an advertisement which had just been presented for insertion. It ran thus: “Wanted, a reader,—a gentleman who has studied poetic and dramatic compositions with a view to delivery, who has a good voice, and who would be willing to give one evening a week to the entertaining of an invalid. Address, with references, ‘Stella,’ Postscript Office.” I recognized the handwriting as that of the lady to whom I had been paying attentions, the signature as the nom de plume under which she had written several poetic contributions for the press; and I had no trouble in guessing the meaning of the advertisement, knowing she has an invalid uncle. “There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.” I felt that it was high tide with me, and boldly launched my canoe; answered the advertisement under the assumed name of “Festus,” and waited for a reply. It came: “Stella is satisfied with the references of Festus, and will give him an opportunity to test his ability as a reader Tuesday evening next,”[2] etc. You will naturally conclude that my heart bounded with rapture on receiving this favorable answer. It did nothing of the sort: on the contrary, the rebound almost took away my breath. I began to shiver and shake, and felt inclined to retreat. But “love conquers all things.” I determined to persevere; and here I am, by appointment, to test the practicability of my original idea. The lady is a fine reader. I am well acquainted with her favorite authors; and, if I can but interest her in this novel suit, may at least pass a pleasant evening if I am not unspeakably happy. I was told to wait for Stella. (Takes a book from table, and sits l. of table, with his back to r.) Shakspeare, ah! Let me draw a little courage from the perusal of this. (Enter Stella, r., in evening costume, with flowers in her hair.)
Stella. My maid said Festus was in this room. Ah! there he is, deep in a book: that’s so like these literary gentry! No sooner are their roving eyes fastened on a book than it is seized with the avidity with which a starving man grasps a loaf of bread. He seems happy: I will not disturb him. (Sits on tête-à-tête.) What a strange idea! Here am I to pass the evening listening to the voice of one whom I never saw before. This is one of my uncle’s whims: he fears I am working too hard to entertain him with readings from his favorite authors, and so determines to employ a reader to relieve me. Dear uncle, with all his pain and suffering he has a sharp eye: he notices my want of spirit, and thinks it is caused by weariness. He little knows that the true cause is that stupid lover of mine, who sat here evening after evening as dumb as an oyster, until, out of spite, I started him off. What could have ailed the man? Nothing could he say but “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am,” “Fine evening,” “Good-night.” I never was so plagued in all my life, for I should have liked the fellow if he had only tried to make himself agreeable; but he was as silent and stupid as—Festus here. (Festus rises, gesticulating with his hand, his eyes fastened on the book.) What can the man be about?
Festus. (Reading.) “Is this a dagger which I see before me? the handle towards my hand? Come, let me clutch thee! I have thee not, and yet I see”—(Turns and sees Stella. Drops book, and runs behind chair very confused.)
Stella. Good gracious! you here again?
Festus. I beg your pardon. You are—I am—
Stella. I thought, sir, I was to have no more of your agreeable society.
Festus. I beg your pardon, madam: you seem to be in error. I am Festus,—Festus.
Stella. You Festus?
Festus. Oh, yes: I’m Festus! I came here by appointment.