Chapter VII: Part 7

"You infernal liar!--I know. I shall be done for by the end of February--ha! ha!"

Seizing a vase of flowers, she flung it into the grate. The crash and the shrivelling of the leaves in the flames brought her an instant's relief. Then she said quietly:

"There--I've made an idiot of myself; but" (weakly) "I didn't know--I didn't know--I thought it was different."

He hesitated, embarrassed by his own emotion. Presently he went up to her and put his hands round her cheeks.

"No," she said, "that's no good, I don't want that. Get me something to drink. I feel bad."

He hurried to the cupboard and fumbled with the cork of a champagne bottle. It flew out with a bang. She started violently.

"You clumsy fool!" she exclaimed.

She drank off the wine at a gulp.

"Daisy," he began.

She was staring stonily at the empty glass.

"Daisy," he repeated.

She tapped her toe against the fender-rail.

At this sign, he went on:

"How did you know?"

"I sent Liz to listen," she answered mechanically.

He looked about him, helpless.

"I think I'll smoke," he said feebly.

She made no answer.

"Here, put the glass down," she said.

He obeyed.

He lit a cigarette over the lamp, sat down opposite her, puffing dense clouds of smoke.

And, for a long while, neither spoke.

"Is that doctor a good man?"

"I don't know. People say so," he answered.

Two Songs

By John Davidson

I--London

Athwart the sky a lowly sigh
From west to east the sweet wind carried;
The sun stood still on Primrose Hill;
His light in all the city tarried:
The clouds on viewless columns bloomed
Like smouldering lilies unconsumed.

"Oh, sweetheart, see, how shadowy,
Of some occult magician's rearing,
Or swung in space of Heaven's grace,
Dissolving, dimly reappearing,
Afloat upon ethereal tides
St. Paul above the city rides!"

A rumour broke through the thin smoke
Enwreathing Abbey, Tower, and Palace,
The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares,
The million-peopled lanes and alleys,
An ever-muttering prisoned storm,
The heart of London beating warm.

II-Down-a-down

Foxes peeped from out their dens,
Day grew pale and olden;
Blackbirds, willow-warblers, wrens,
Staunched their voices golden.

High, oh high, from the opal sky,
Shouting against the dark,
"Why, why, why must the day go by?"
Fell a passionate lark.

But the cuckoos beat their brazen gongs,
Sounding, sounding so;
And the nightingales poured in starry songs
A galaxy below.

Slowly tolling the vesper bell
Ushered the stately night.
Down-a-down in a hawthorn dell
A boy and a girl and love's delight.

The Love-Story of Luigi Tansillo

By Richard Garnett

Now that my wings are spread to my desire,
The more vast height withdraws the dwindling land,
Wider to wind these pinions I expand,
And earth disdain, and higher mount and higher
Nor of the fate of Icarus inquire,
Or cautious droop, or sway to either hand;
Dead I shall fall, full well I understand;
But who lives gloriously as I expire?
Yet hear I my own heart that pleading cries,
Stay, madman! Whither art thou bound? Descend!
Ruin is ready Rashness to chastise.
But I, Fear not, though this indeed the end;
Cleave we the clouds, and praise our destinies,
If noble fall on noble flight attend.

The above sonnet, one of the finest in Italian literature, is already known to many English readers in another translation by the late Mr. J. Addington Symonds, which originally appeared in the _Cornhill Magazine_, and is prefixed to his translation of the sonnets of Michael Angelo and Campanella (London, 1878), under the title of "The Philosopher's Flight." In his preface Mr. Symonds says: "The sonnet prefixed as a proem to the whole book is generally attributed to Giordano Bruno, in whose Dialogue in the 'Eroici Furori' it occurs. There seems, however, good reason to suppose that it was really written by Tansillo, who recites it in that dialogue. Whoever may have been its author, it expresses in noble and impassioned verse the sense of danger, the audacity, and the exultation of those pioneers of modern thought, for whom philosophy was a voyage of discovery into untravelled regions." Mr. Symonds's knowledge of Italian literature was so extensive that he must have had ground for stating that the sonnet is generally attributed to Giordano Bruno; as it certainly is by De Sanctis, though it is printed as Tansillo's in all editions of his works, imperfect as these were before the appearance of Signor Fiorentino's in 1882. It is, nevertheless, remarkable that he should add: "_There seems good reason to suppose_ that it was really written by Tansillo," as if there could be a shadow of doubt on the matter. "Eroici Furori" is professedly a series of dialogues between Luigi Tansillo the Neapolitan poet, who had died about twenty years before their composition, and Cicero, but is in reality little more than a monologue, for Tansillo does nearly all the talking, and Cicero receives his instructions with singular docility. The reason of Tansillo's selection for so great an honour was undoubtedly that, although born at Venosa, he belonged by descent to Nola, Bruno's own city. In making such free use of Tansillo's poetry as he has done throughout these dialogues, Bruno was far from the least idea of pillaging his distinguished countryman. In introducing the four sonnets he has borrowed (for there are three besides that already quoted) he is always careful to make Tansillo speak of them as his own compositions, which he never does when Bruno's own verses are put into his mouth. If a particle of doubt could remain, it would be dispelled by the fact that this sonnet, with other poems by Tansillo, including the three other sonnets introduced into Bruno's dialogue, is published under his name in the "Rime di diversi illustri Signori Napoletani," edited by Lodovico Dolce at Venice, in 1555, when Bruno was about seven years old!

Mr. Symonds's interpretation of the sonnet also is erroneous--in so far, at least, as that the meaning assigned by him never entered into the head of the author. It is certainly fully susceptible of such an exposition. But Tansillo, no philosopher, but a cavalier, the active part of whose life was mainly spent in naval expeditions against the Turks, no more thought with Mr. Symonds of "the pioneers of modern philosophy," than he thought with Bruno of "arising and freeing himself from the body and sensual cognition." On the contrary, the sonnet is a love-sonnet, and depicts with extraordinary grandeur the elation of spirit, combined with a sense of peril, consequent upon the poet having conceived a passion for a lady greatly his superior in rank. The proof of this is to be found in the fact that the sonnet is one of a series, unequivocally celebrating an earthly passion; and especially in the sonnet immediately preceding it in Dolce's collection, manifestly written at the same time and referring to the same circumstance, in which the poet ascribes his Icarian flight, not to the influence of Philosophy, but of Love:

Love fits me forth with wings, which so dilate,
Sped skyward at the call of daring thought,
I high and higher soar, with purpose fraught
Soon to lay smiting hand on Heaven's gate.
Yet altitude so vast might well abate
My confidence, if Love not succour brought,
Pledging my fame not jeopardised in aught,
And promising renown as ruin great.
If he whom like audacity inspired,
Falling gave name immortal to the flood,
As sunny flame his waxen pinion fired;
Then of thee too it shall be understood,
No meaner prize than Heaven thy soul required,
And firmer than thy life thy courage stood.

The meaning of the two sonnets is fully recognised by Muratori, who prints them together in his treatise, "Della perfetta poesia," and adds: "_volea dire costui che s'era imbarcato in un'amor troppo alto, e s'andava facendo coraggio_."

This is surely one of the most remarkable instances possible to adduce of the infinite significance of true poetry, and its capacity for inspiring ideas and suggesting interpretations of which the poet never dreamed, but which are nevertheless fairly deducible from his expressions.

It is now a matter of considerable interest to ascertain the identity of this lady of rank, who could inspire a passion at once so exalted and so perilous. The point has been investigated by Tansillo's editor, Signor F. Fiorentino, who has done so much to rescue his unpublished compositions from oblivion, and his view must be pronounced perfectly satisfactory. She was Maria d'Aragona, Marchioness del Vasto, whose husband, the Marquis del Vasto, a celebrated general of Spanish descent, famous as Charles the Fifth's right hand in his successful expedition against Tunis, and at one time governor of the Milanese, was as remarkable for his jealousy as the lady, grand-daughter of a King of Naples, was for her pride and haughtiness. Fiorentino proves his case by showing how well all personal allusions in Tansillo's poems, so far as they can be traced, agree with the circumstances of the Marchioness, and in particular that the latter is represented as at one time residing on the island of Ischia, where del Vasto was accustomed to deposit his wife for security, when absent on his campaigns. He is apparently not aware that the object of Tansillo's affection had already been identified with a member of the house of Aragon by Faria e Sousa, the Portuguese editor of Camoëns, who, in his commentary on Camoëns's sixty-ninth sonnet, gives an interminable catalogue of ladies celebrated by enamoured poets, and says, "Tansillo sang Donna Isabel de Aragon." This lady, however, the niece of the Marchioness del Vasto, was a little girl in Tansillo's time, and is only mentioned by him as inconsolable for the death of a favourite dwarf.

The sentiment, therefore, of the two sonnets of Tansillo which we have quoted, is sufficiently justified by the exalted station of the lady who had inspired his passion, and the risk he ran from the power and jealousy of her husband. It seems certain, however, that the Marquis had on his part no ground for apprehension. Maria d'Aragona does not seem to have had much heart to bestow upon anyone, and would, in any case, have disdained to bestow what heart she had upon a poor gentleman and retainer of Don Garcia de Toledo, son of the Viceroy of Naples. She would think that she honoured him beyond his deserts by accepting his poetical homage. Tansillo, on his part, says in one of his sonnets that his devotion is purely platonic; it might have been more ardent, he hints, but he is dazzled by the splendour of the light he contemplates, and intimidated by the richness of the band by which he is led. So it may have been at first, but as time wore on the poet naturally craved some proof that his lady was not entirely indifferent to him, and did not tolerate him merely for the sake of his verses. This, in the nature of things, could not be given; and the poet's raptures pass into doubt and suspicion, thence into despairing resignation; thence into resentment and open hostility, terminating in a cold reconciliation, leaving him free to marry a much humbler but probably a more affectionate person, to whom he addresses no impassioned sonnets, but whom he instructs in a very elegant poem ("La Balia") how to bring up her infant children. These varying affections are depicted with extreme liveliness in a series of sonnets, of which we propose to offer some translated specimens. The order will not be that of the editions of Tansillo, where the pieces are distributed at random, but the probable order of composition, as indicated by the nature of the feeling expressed. It is, of course, impossible to give more than a few examples, though most deserve to be reproduced. Tansillo had the advantage over most Italian poets of his time of being in love with a real woman; hence, though possibly inferior in style and diction to such artists in rhyme as Bembo or Molza, he greatly surpasses them in all the qualities that discriminate poetry from the accomplishment of verse.

The first sonnet which we shall give is still all fire and rapture:--

I

Lady, the heart that entered through your eyes
Returneth not. Well may he make delay,
For if the very windows that display
Your spirit, sparkle in such wondrous wise,
Of her enthroned within this Paradise
What shall be deemed? If heart for ever stay,
Small wonder, dazzled by more radiant day
Than gazers from without can recognise.
Glory of sun and moon and silver star
In firmament above, are these not sign
Of things within more excellent by far?
Rejoice then in thy kingdom, heart of mine,
While Love and Fortune favourable are,
Nor thou yet exiled for default of thine.

Although, however, Tansillo's heart might well remain with its lady, Tansillo's person was necessitated to join the frequent maritime expeditions of the great nobleman to whom he was attached, Don Garcia de Toledo, against the Turks. The constant free-booting of the Turkish and Barbary rovers kept the Mediterranean in a state of commotion comparable to that of the Spanish Main in the succeeding age, and these expeditions, whose picturesque history remains to be written, were no doubt very interesting; though from a philosophical point of view it is impossible not to sympathise with the humane and generous poet when he inquires:--

Che il Turco nasca turco, e 'l Moro moro,
È giusta causa questa, ond'altri ed io
Dobbiam incrudelir nel sangue loro?

With such feelings it may well be believed that in his enforced absence he was thinking at least as much of love as of war, and that the following sonnet is as truthful as it is an animated picture of his feelings:--

II

No length of banishment did e'er remove
My heart from you, nor if by Fortune sped
I roam the azure waters, or the Red,
E'er with the body shall the spirit rove:
If by each drop of every wave we clove,
Or by Sun's light or Moon's encompassèd,
Another Venus were engenderèd,
And each were pregnant with another Love:
And thus new shapes of Love where'er we went
Started to life at every stroke of oar,
And each were cradled in an amorous thought;
Not more than now this spirit should adore;
That none the less doth constantly lament
It cannot worship as it would and ought.

Before long, however, the pangs of separation overcome this elation of spirit, while he is not yet afraid of being forgotten:--

III

Like lightning shining forth from east to west,
Hurled are the happy hours from morn to night,
And leave the spirit steeped in undelight
In like proportion as themselves were blest.
Slow move sad hours, by thousand curbs opprest,
Wherewith the churlish Fates delay their flight;
Those, impulses of Mercury incite,
These lag at the Saturnian star's behest.
While thou wert near, ere separation's grief
Smote me, like steeds contending in the race,
My days and nights with equal speed did run:
Now broken either wheel, not swift the pace
Of summer's night though summer's moon be brief;
Or wintry days for brevity of sun.

IV

Now that the Sun hath borne with him the day,
And haled dark Night from prison subterrene,
Come forth, fair Moon, and, robed in light serene,
With thy own loveliness the world array.
Heaven's spheres, slow wheeled on their majestic way,
Invoke as they revolve thy orb unseen,
And all the pageant of the starry scene,
Wronged by thy absence, chides at thy delay.
Shades even as splendours, earth and heaven both
Smile at the apparition of thy face,
And my own gloom no longer seems so loth;
Yet, while my eye regards thee, thought doth trace
Another's image; if in vows be troth,
I am not yet estranged from Love's embrace.

Continual separation, however, and the absence of any marked token that he is borne in memory, necessarily prey more and more on the sensitive spirit of the poet. During the first part, her husband's tenure of office as Governor of the Milanese, the Marchioness, as already mentioned, took up her residence in the island of Ischia, where she received her adorer's eloquent aspirations for her welfare--heartfelt, but so worded as to convey a reproach:

V

That this fair isle with all delight abound,
Clad be it ever in sky's smile serene,
No thundering billow boom from deeps marine,
And calm with Neptune and his folk be found.
Fast may all winds by Æolus be bound,
Save faintest breath of lispings Zephyrene;
And be the odorous earth with glowing green
Of gladsome herbs, bright flowers, quaint foliage crowned.
All ire, all tempest, all misfortune be
Heaped on my head, lest aught thy pleasure stain,
Nor this disturbed by any thought of me,
So scourged with ills' innumerable train,
New grief new tear begetteth not, as sea
Chafes not the more for deluge of the rain.

The "quaint foliage" is in the original "Arab leaves," _arabe frondi_, an interesting proof of the cultivation of exotic plants at the period.

The lady rejoins her husband at Milan, and Tansillo, landing on the Campanian coast, lately devastated by earthquakes and eruptions, finds everywhere the image of his own bosom, and rejoices at the opportunity which yawning rifts and chasms of earth afford for an appeal to the infernal powers:--

VI

Wild precipice and earthquake-riven wall;
Bare jagged lava naked to the sky;
Whence densely struggles up and slow floats by
Heaven's murky shroud of smoke funereal;
Horror whereby the silent groves enthral;
Black weedy pit and rifted cavity;
Bleak loneliness whose drear sterility
Doth prowling creatures of the wild appal:
Like one distraught who doth his woe deplore,
Bereft of sense by thousand miseries,
As passion prompts, companioned or alone;
Your desert so I rove; if as before
Heaven deaf continue, through these crevices,
My cry shall pierce to the Avernian throne.

The poet's melancholy deepens, and he enters upon the stage of dismal and hopeless resignation to the inevitable:

VII

As one who on uneasy couch bewails
Besetting sickness and Time's tardy course,
Proving if drug, or gem, or charm have force
To conquer the dire evil that assails:
But when at last no remedy prevails,
And bankrupt Art stands empty of resource,
Beholds Death in the face, and scorns recourse
To skill whose impotence in nought avails.
So I, who long have borne in trust unspent
That distance, indignation, reason, strife
With Fate would heal my malady, repent,
Frustrate all hopes wherewith my soul was rife,
And yield unto my destiny, content
To languish for the little left of life.

A lower depth still has to be reached ere the period of salutary and defiant reaction:--

VIII

So mightily abound the hosts of Pain,
Whom sentries of my bosom Love hath made,
No space is left to enter or evade,
And inwardly expire sighs born in vain,
If any pleasure mingle with the train,
By the first glimpse of my poor heart dismayed,
Instant he dies, or else, in bondage stayed,
Pines languishing, or flies that drear domain.
Pale semblances of terror keep the keys,
Of frowning portals they for none displace
Save messengers of novel miseries:
All thoughts they scare that wear a gladsome face;
And, were they anything but Miseries,
Themselves would hasten from the gloomy place.

Slighted love easily passes from rejection into rebellion, and we shall see that such was the case with Tansillo. The following sonnet denotes an intermediate stage, when resignation is almost renunciation, but has not yet become revolt:--

IX

Cease thy accustomed strain, my mournful lute;
New music find, fit for my lot forlorn;
Henceforth be Wrath and Grief resounded, torn
The strings that anciently did Love salute,
Not on my own weak wing irresolute
But on Love's plumes I trusted to be borne,
Chanting him far as that remotest bourne
Whence strength Herculean reft Hesperian fruit.
To such ambition was my spirit wrought
By gracious guerdon Love came offering
When free in air my thought was bold to range:
But otherwhere now dwells another's thought,
And Wrath has plucked Love's feather from my wing,
And hope, style, theme, I all alike must change.

This, however, is not a point at which continuance is possible, the mind must go either backward or forward. The lover for a time persuades himself that he has broken his mistress's yoke, and that his infatuation is entirely a thing of the past. But the poet, like the lady, protests too much:--

X

If Love was miser of my liberty,
Lo, Scorn is bounteous and benevolent,
Such scope permitting, that, my fetter rent,
Not lengthened by my hand, I wander free.
The eyes that yielded tears continually
Have now with Lethe's drops my fire besprent,
And more behold, Illusion's glamour spent,
Than fabled Argus with his century.
The tyrant of my spirit, left forlorn
As vassal thoughts forsake him, doth remove,
And back unto her throne is Reason borne,
And I my metamorphosis approve,
And, old strains tuning to new keys, of Scorn
Will sing as anciently I sang of Love.

Several solutions of this situation are conceivable. Tansillo's is that which was perhaps that most likely in the case of an emotional nature, where the feelings are more powerful than the will. He simply surrenders at discretion, retracts everything disparaging that he has said of the lady (taking care, however, not to burn the peccant verses, which are much too good to be lightly parted with), and professes himself her humble slave upon her own terms:--

XI

All bitter words I spoke of you while yet
My heart was sore, and every virgin scroll
Blackened with ire, now past from my control,
These would I now recall; for 'tis most fit
My style should change, now Reason doth reknit,
Ties Passion sundered, and again make whole;
Be then Oblivion's prey whate'er my soul
Hath wrongly of thee thought, spoke, sung, or writ.
Not, Lady, that impeachment of thy fame
With tongue or pen I ever did design;
But that, if unto these shall reach my name,
Ages to come may study in my line
How year by year more streamed and towered my flame,
And how I living was and dying thine.

There is no reason to doubt the perfect sincerity of these lines at the period of their composition; but Tansillo's mistress had apparently resolved that his attachment should not henceforth have the diet even of a chameleon; and it is small wonder to find him shortly afterwards a tender husband and father, lamenting the death of an infant son in strains of extreme pathos, and instructing his wife on certain details of domestic economy in which she might have been supposed to be better versed than himself. His marriage took place in 1550, and in one of his sonnets he says that his unhappy attachment had endured sixteen years, which, allowing for a decent interval between the Romeo and the Benedict, would date its commencement at 1532 or 1533.

Maria d'Aragona died on November 9, 1568, and Tansillo, whose services had been rewarded by a judicial appointment in the kingdom of Naples, followed her to the tomb on December 1. If her death is really the subject of the two poems in terza rima which appear to deplore it, he certainly lost no time in bewailing her, but the interval is so brief, and the poems are so weak, that they may have been composed on some other occasion. With respect to the latter consideration, however, it must be remembered that he was himself, in all probability, suffering from disabling sickness, having made his will on November 29. It is also worthy of note that the first sonnets composed by Petrarch upon the death of Laura are in general much inferior in depth of tenderness to those written years after the event. "In Memoriam" is another proof that the adequate poetical expression of grief, unlike that of life, requires time and study. Tansillo, then, may not have been so completely disillusioned as his editor thinks. If the poems do not relate to Maria d'Aragona, we have no clue to the ultimate nature of his feelings towards her.

A generally fair estimate of Tansillo's rank as a poet is given in Ginguéné's "History of Italian Literature," vol. ix., pp. 340-343. It can scarcely be admitted that his boldness and fertility of imagination transported him beyond the limits of lyric poetry--for this is hardly possible--but it is true that they sometimes transcended the limits of good taste, and that the germs may be found in him of the extravagance which so disfigured Italian poetry in the seventeenth century. On the other hand, he has the inestimable advantage over most Italian poets of his day of writing of genuine passion from genuine experience. Hence a truth and vigour preferable even to the exquisite elegance of his countryman, Angelo di Costanzo, and much more so to the mere amatory exercises of other contemporaries. After Michael Angelo he stands farther aloof than any contemporary from Petrarch, a merit in an age when the study of Petrarch had degenerated into slavish imitation. His faults as a lyrist are absent from his didactic poems, which are models of taste and elegance. His one unpardonable sin is want of patriotism; he is the dependant and panegyrist of the foreign conqueror, and seems equally unconscious of the past glories, the actual degradation, or the prospective regeneration of Italy. Born a Spanish subject, his ideal of loyalty was entirely misplaced, and he must not be severely censured for what he could hardly avoid. But Italy lost a Tyrtæus in him.

A Book Plate for
J. L. Propert, Esq.
By Aubrey Beardsley

A Book Plate for
Major-General Gosset
By R. Anning Bell

_Reproduced by Messrs. Carl Hentschel & Co._

The Fool's Hour

The First Act of a Comedy

By John Oliver Hobbes
and George Moore

CHARACTERS OF THE COMEDY

Lord Doldrummond
Cyril, _his Son_ (Viscount Aprile)
Sir Digby Soame
Charles Mandeville, _a tenor_
Mr. Banish, _a banker_
The Hon. Arthur Featherleigh
Mr. Samuel Benjamin, _a money-lender_
Lady Doldrummond
Julia, _an heiress_
The Hon. Mrs. Howard de Trappe, _her mother, a widow_
Sarah Sparrow, _an American prima donna_

Act I

Scene--_The Library in_ Lord Doldrummond's _house at Brighton. The scene represents a richly-furnished but somewhat oppressive room. The chairs and tables are all narrow, the lamp-shades stiff, the windows have double glasses._ Lord Doldrummond, _a man of middle-age, handsome, but with a dejected, browbeaten air, sits with a rug over his knees, reading "The Church Times." The_ Butler _announces_ "Sir Digby Soame." Sir Digby _is thin and elderly; has an easy smile and a sharp eye; dresses well; has two manners--the abrupt with men, the suave with women; smiles into his beard over his own witticisms._

_Lord Dol._ Ah, Soame, so you are here at last?

_Soame._ [_Looking at his watch._] I am pretty punctual, only a few minutes late.

_Lord Dol._ I am worried, anxious, irritable, and that has made the time seem long.

_Soame._ Worried, anxious? And what about? Are you not well? Have you found that regularity of life ruins the constitution?

_Lord Dol._ No, my dear Soame, no. But I am willing to own that the existence which my wife enjoys, and which I have learnt to endure, would not suit everyone.

_Soame._ I am glad to find you more tolerant. You used to hold the very harshest and most crude opinions. I remember when we were boys, I could never persuade you to accept the admirable doctrine that a reformed rake makes the best husband!

_Lord Dol._ [_Timidly._] Repentance does not require so large an income as folly! This may explain that paradox. You know, in my way, I, too, am something of a philosopher! I married very young, whereas you entered the Diplomatic Service and resolved to remain single: you wished to study women. I have lived with one for five-and-twenty years. [_Sighs._]

_Soame._ Oh, I admit at once that yours is the greater achievement and was the more daring ambition.

_Lord Dol._ I know all I wish to know about women, but men puzzle me extremely. So I have sent for you. I want your advice. It is Cyril who is the cause of my uneasiness. I am afraid that he is not happy.

_Soame._ Cyril not happy? What is he unhappy about? You have never refused him anything?

_Lord Dol._ Never! No man has had a kinder father! When he is unreasonable I merely say "You are a fool, but please yourself!" No man has had a kinder father!

_Soame._ Does he complain?

_Lord Dol._ He has hinted that his home is uncongenial--yet we have an excellent cook! Ah, thank heaven every night and morning, my dear Digby, that you are a bachelor. Praying for sinners and breeding them would seem the whole duty of man. I was no sooner born than my parents were filled with uneasiness lest I should not live to marry and beget an heir of my own. Now I have an heir, his mother will never know peace until she has found him a wife!

_Soame._ And will you permit Lady Doldrummond to use the same method with Cyril which your mother adopted with such appalling results in your own case?

_Lord Dol._ It does not seem my place to interfere, and love-affairs are not a fit subject of conversation between father and son!

_Soame._ But what does Cyril say to the matrimonial prospect?

_Lord Dol._ He seems melancholy and eats nothing but oranges. Yes, Cyril is a source of great uneasiness.

_Soame._ Does Lady Doldrummond share this uneasiness?

_Lord Dol._ My wife would regard a second thought on any subject as a most dangerous form of temptation. She insists that Cyril has everything which a young man could desire, and when he complains that the house is dull, she takes him for a drive!

_Soame._ But _you_ understand him?

_Lord Dol._ I think I do. If I were young again----

_Soame._ Ah, you regret! I always said you would regret it if you did not take your fling! The pleasures we imagine are so much more alluring, so much more dangerous, than those we experience. I suppose you recognise in Cyril the rascal you might have been, and feel that you have missed your vocation?

_Lord Dol._ [_Meekly._] I was never unruly, my dear Soame. We all have our moments, I own, yet--well, perhaps Cyril has inherited the tastes which I possessed at his age, but lacked the courage to obey.

_Soame._ And so you wish me to advise you how to deal with him! Is he in love? I have constantly observed that when young men find their homes unsympathetic, it is because some particular lady does not form a member of the household. It is usually a lady, too, who would not be considered a convenient addition to any mother's visiting-list!

_Lord Dol._ Lady Doldrummond has taught him that women are the scourges of creation. You, perhaps, do not share that view!

_Soame._ Certainly not. I would teach him to regard them as the reward, the compensation, the sole delight of this dreariest of all possible worlds.

_Lord Dol._ [_Uneasily._] Reward! Compensation! Delight! I beg you will not go so far as that. What notion would be more upsetting? Pray do not use such extreme terms!

_Soame._ Ha! ha! But tell me, Doldrummond, is it true that your wife insists on his retiring at eleven and rising at eight? I hear that she allows him nothing stronger than ginger ale and lemon; that she selects his friends, makes his engagements, and superintends his amusements? Should he marry, I am told she will even undertake the office of best man!

_Lord Dol._ Poor soul! she means well; and if devotion could make the boy a saint he would have been in heaven before he was out of his long clothes. As it is, I fear that nothing can save him.

_Soame._ Save him? You speak as though you suspected that he was not such a saint as his mother thinks him.

_Lord Dol._ I suspect nothing. I only know that my boy is unhappy. You might speak to him, and draw him out if occasion should offer--but do not say a word about this to Lady Doldrummond.

[_Enter_ Lady Doldrummond.--_She is a tall, slight, but not angular
woman. Her hair is brown, and brushed back from her temples in the
simplest possible fashion. Self-satisfaction (of a gentle and ladylike
sort) and eminent contentment with her lot are the only writings on her
smooth, almost girlish countenance. She has a prim tenderness and charm
of manner which soften her rather cutting voice._]

_Lady Dol._ What! Cyril not here? How do you do, Sir Digby? I am looking for my tiresome boy. I promised to take him to pay some calls this afternoon, and as he may have to talk I must tell him what to say. He has no idea of making himself pleasant to women, and is the shyest creature in the world!

_Soame._ You have always been so careful to shield him from all responsibility, Lady Doldrummond. Who knows what eloquence, what decision, what energy he might display, if you did not possess these gifts in so pre-eminent a degree as to make any exertion on his part unnecessary, and perhaps disrespectful.

_Lady Dol._ Ah! mothers are going out of fashion. Even Cyril occasionally shows a certain impatience when I venture to correct him. As if I would hurt anyone's feelings unless from a sense of duty! And pray, where is the pleasure of having a son if you may not direct his life?

_Lord Dol._ Cyril might ask, where is the pleasure of having parents if you may not disobey them.

_Lady Dol._ [_To_ Soame.] When Herbert is alone with me he never makes flippant remarks of this kind. [_To_ Lord Doldrummond.] I wonder that you like to give your friends such a wrong impression of your character. [_Turning to_ Sir Digby.] But I think I see your drift, Sir Digby. You wish to remind me that Cyril is now at an age when I must naturally desire to see him established in a home of his own.

_Soame._ You have caught my meaning. As he is now two-and-twenty, I think he should be allowed more freedom than may have been expedient when he was--say, six months old.

_Lady Dol._ I quite agree with you, and I trust you will convince Herbert that women understand young men far better than their fathers ever could. I have found the very wife for Cyril, and I hope I may soon have the pleasure of welcoming her as a daughter.

_Soame._ A wife! Good heavens! I was suggesting that the boy had more liberty. Marriage is the prison of all emotions, and I should be very sorry to ask any young girl to be a man's gaol-keeper.

_Lord Dol._ Sir Digby is right.

_Lady Dol._ The presence of a third person has the strangest effect on Herbert's moral vision. As I have trained my son with a care and tenderness rarely bestowed nowadays even on a girl, I think I may show some resentment when I am asked to believe him a being with the instincts of a ruffian and the philosophy of a middle-aged bachelor. No, Sir Digby, Cyril is not _my_ child if he does not make his home and his family the happiest in the world!

_Soame._ Yes?

_Lady Dol._ He has no taste for cards, horses, brandy, or actresses. We read together, walk together, and drive together. In the evening, if he is too tired to engage in conversation, I play the piano while he dozes. Lately he has taken a particular interest in Mozart's classic light opera. Any interest of that kind is so elevating, and I know of nothing more agreeable than a musical husband.

_Lord Dol._ You see she is resolved on his marriage, and she has had Julia de Trappe on a visit with us for the last five weeks in the hope of bringing matters to a crisis.

_Lady Dol._ And why not? Our marriage was arranged for us, and what idle fancies of our own could have led to such perfect contentment?

[Lord Doldrummund _avoids her eyes_.]

_Soame._ Julia de Trappe? She must be the daughter of that Mrs. Howard de Trappe who gives large At Homes in a small house, and who spends her time hunting for old lovers and new servants.

_Lady Dol._ I own that dear Julia has been allowed to meet men and women who are not fit companions for a young girl, no matter how interesting they may be to the general public. Only yesterday she told me she was well acquainted with Mr. Mandeville, the tenor. Mrs. de Trappe, it seems, frequently invites him to dinner. Still, Julia herself is very sensible, and the family is of extraordinary antiquity.

_Soame._ But the mother? If she has not been in the divorce court, it is through no fault of her own.

_Lady Dol._ [_Biting her lip._] Mrs. de Trappe is vain and silly, I admit; but as she has at last decided to marry Mr. Banish, the banker, I am hoping she will live in his house at Hampstead, and think a little more about her immortal soul.

_Soame._ Does Cyril seem at all interested in Miss Julia?

_Lady Dol._ Cyril has great elegance of mind, and is not very strong in the expression of his feelings one way or the other. But I may say that a deep attachment exists between them.

_Soame._ A man must have sound wisdom before he can appreciate innocence. But I have no desire to be discouraging, and I hope I may soon have the pleasure of congratulating you all on the wedding. Good-bye.

_Lord Dol._ What! Must you go?

_Soame._ Yes. But [_aside to_ Lord Dol.] I shall bear in mind what you say. I will do my best. I have an engagement in town to-night. [_Chuckles._] An amusing one.

_Lord Dol._ [_With envy._] Where?

_Soame._ At the Parnassus.

_Lady Dol._ [_With a supercilious smile._] And what is the Parnassus?

_Soame._ A theatre much favoured by young men who wish to be thought wicked, and by young ladies who _are._ Good-bye, good-bye. [_Shakes hands with_ Lord _and_ Lady Doldrummond _and goes out_.]

_Lady Dol._ Thank goodness, he is gone! What a terrible example for Cyril. I was on thorns every second lest he should come in. Soame has just those meretricious attractions which appeal to youth and inexperience. That you should encourage such an acquaintance, and even discuss before him such an intimate matter as my hope with regard to Julia, is, perhaps, more painful than astonishing.

_Lord Dol._ They are both too young to marry. Let them enjoy life while they may.

_Lady Dol._ _Enjoy_ life? What a degrading suggestion! I have often observed that there is a lurking taste for the vicious in every Doldrummond. [_Picking up_ Cyril's _miniature from the table_.] Cyril is pure Bedingfield: my second self!

[_The Butler announces_ Mrs. De Trappe, Mr. Arthur Featherleigh, Mr.
Banish. Mrs. de Trappe _is a pretty woman with big eyes and a small
waist; she has a trick of biting her under-lip, and looking shocked, as
it were, at her own audacity. Her manner is a little effusive, but
always well-bred. She does not seem affected, and has something artless,
confiding, and pathetic._ Mr. Featherleigh _has a nervous laugh and a
gentlemanly appearance; otherwise inscrutable_. Mr. Banish _is old,
well-preserved, rather pompous, and evidently mistakes deportment for
dignity_.]

_Mrs. de Trappe._ [_Kissing_ Lady Dol. _on each cheek_.] Dear Edith, I knew we should surprise you. But Mr. Banish and I are house-hunting, and I thought I must run in and see you and Julia, if only for a second. I felt sure you would not mind my bringing Arthur [_indicating_ Featherleigh.] He is so lonely at the prospect of my marriage that Mr. Banish and I have promised to keep him always with us. We have known each other so long. How should we spend our evenings without him? James admits they would be tedious, don't you, James? [_Indicating_ Banish.]

_Banish._ Certainly, my dear.

_Lady Dol._ [_Stiffly._] I can well understand that you have learned to regard Mr. Featherleigh as your own son. And as we advance in years, it is so pleasant to have young people about us.

_Mrs. de Trappe._ [_After a slight pause._] How odd that it should never have struck me in that light before! I have always thought of Arthur as the trustee, as it were, of my poor fatherless Julia [_To_ Banish.] Have I not often said so, James?

_Banish._ [_Dryly._] Often. In fact I have always thought that Julia would never lack a father whilst Arthur was alive. But I admit that he is a little young for the responsibility.

_Feather._ [_Unmoved._] Do not forget, Violet, that our train leaves in fifty-five minutes.

_Lord Dol._ [_Catching a desperate glance from_ Lady Doldrummond.] Then I shall have time to show you the Russian poodles which the Duke of Camdem brought me from Japan.

_Mrs. de Trappe._ [_Peevishly._] Yes, please take them away. [_Waving her hand in the direction of_ Banish _and_ Featherleigh.] Edith and I have many secrets to discuss. Of course she will tell you [_to_ Lord Dol.] everything I have said when we are gone, and I shall tell Arthur and James all she has said as we go home. But it is so amusing to think ourselves mysterious for twenty minutes. [_As the men go out laughing, she turns to_ Lady Doldrummond _with a sigh_.] Ah, Edith, when I pause in all these gaieties and say to myself, Violet, you are about to marry a second husband, I cannot feel sufficiently thankful that it is not the third.

_Lady Dol._ The third?

_Mrs. de Trappe._ To face the possibility of a third honeymoon, a third disappointment, and a third funeral would tax my courage to the utmost! And I am not strong.

_Lady Dol._ I am shocked to see you so despondent. Surely you anticipate every happiness with Mr. Banish?

_Mrs. de Trappe._ Oh, yes. He has money, and Arthur thinks him a very worthy sort of person. He is a little dull, but then middle-class people are always so gross in their air when they attempt to be lively or amusing; so long as they are grave I can bear them well enough, but I know of nothing so unpleasant as the sight of a banker laughing. As Arthur says, City men and butlers should always be serious.

_Lady Dol._ Do you think that the world will quite understand--Arthur?

_Mrs. de Trappe._ What do you mean, Edith? A woman must have an adviser. Arthur was my late husband's friend, and he is my future husband's friend. Surely that should be enough to satisfy the most exacting.

_Lady Dol._ But why marry at all? why not remain as you are?

_Mrs. de Trappe._ How unreasonable you are, Edith! How often have you urged me to marry Mr. Banish, and now that it is all arranged and Arthur is satisfied, you begin to object.

_Lady Dol._ I thought that you liked Mr. Banish better.

_Mrs. de Trappe._ Better than Arthur? No, I am not so unkind as that, nor would James wish it. I am marrying because I am poor. My husband, as you know, left nearly all his money to Julia, and I feel the injustice so acutely that the absurd settlement he made on me is spent upon doctor's bills alone. If it were not for Arthur and one or two other kind friends who send me game and other little things from time to time, I could not exist at all. [_Draws off her gloves, displays a diamond ring on each finger, and wipes her eyes with a point-lace pocket-handkerchief._] And when I think of all that I endured with De Trappe! How often have I been roused from a sound sleep to see the room illuminated and De Trappe, rolled up in flannel, sitting by the fire reading "Lead, kindly Light." What an existence! But now tell me about Julia. I hope she does not give you much trouble.

_Lady Dol._ I only hope that I may keep her always with me.

_Mrs. de Trappe._ How she must have improved! When she is at home I find her so depressing. And she does not appeal to men in the least.

_Lady Dol._ I could wish that all young girls were as modest.

_Mrs. de Trappe._ Oh, I daresay Julia has all the qualities we like to see in some other woman's daughter. But if you were her mother and had to find her a husband, you would regard her virtues in another light. Fortunately she has eight thousand a year, so she may be able to find somebody. Still, even money does not tempt men as it once did. A girl must have an extraordinary charm. She is so jealous of me. I cannot keep her out of the drawing-room when I have got callers, especially when Mr. Mandeville is there.

_Lady Dol._ I have heard of Mr. Mandeville. He is an actor, a singer.

_Mrs. de Trappe._ A lovely tenor voice. All the women are in love with him, except me. I would not listen to him. And now they say he is going to marry Sarah Sparrow--a great mistake. I should like to know who would care about him or his singing, once he is married.

_Lady Dol._ And who is Sarah Sparrow?

_Mrs. de Trappe._ Don't you know? She is the last great success. She has two notes: B flat and the lower G--the orchestra plays the rest. You must go to the Parnassus and hear her. To-night is the dress rehearsal of the new piece.

_Lady Dol._ And do you receive Miss Sparrow?

_Mrs. de Trappe._ No, women take up too much time. They say, too, that she is frantically jealous because Mandeville used to come and practise in my boudoir. He says no one can accompany him as I do!

_Lady Dol._ I hope Cyril does not meet Mr. Mandeville when he goes to your house.

_Mrs. de Trappe._ Let me see. I believe I introduced them. At any rate, I know I saw them at luncheon together last week.

_Lady Dol._ At luncheon together! Cyril and this person who sings? What could my boy and Mr. Mandeville have in common?

_Mrs. de Trappe._ They both appear to admire Sarah Sparrow very much. And I cannot find what men see in her. She is not tall and her figure is most innocent; you would say she was still in pinafores. As for her prettiness, I admit she has fine eyes, but of course she blackens them. I think the great attraction is her atrocious temper. One never knows whom she will stab next.

_Lady Dol._ [_Half to herself._] Last week Cyril came in after midnight. He refused to answer my questions.

_Mrs. de Trappe._ You seem absent-minded, my dear Edith. [_Pause._] I must be going now. Where are Arthur and James? We have not a moment to lose. We are going to choose wedding presents. James is going to choose Arthur's and Arthur is going to choose James's, so there can be no jealousy. It was I who thought of that way out of the difficulty. One does one's best to be nice to them, and then something happens and upsets all one's plans. Where is Cyril?

_Lady Dol._ I am afraid Cyril is not at home.

_Mrs. de Trappe._ Then I shall not see him. Tell him I am angry, and give my love to Julia. I hope she does not disturb you when you are in the drawing-room and have visitors. So difficult to keep a grown-up girl out of the drawing-room. Where can those men be? [_Enter_ Lord Doldrummond, Mr. Featherleigh, _and_ Mr. Banish.] Ah! here they are. Now, come along; we haven't a moment to lose. Good-bye, Edith.

[_Exeunt_ (_after wishing their adieux_) Mrs. de Trappe, Mr.
Featherleigh, _and_ Mr. Banish, Lord Doldrummond _following them_.]

_Lady Dol._ [_Stands alone in the middle of the room, repeating._] Cyril and--Sarah Sparrow! My son and Sarah Sparrow! And he has met her through the one woman for whom I have been wrong enough to forget my prejudices. What a punishment!

[Julia _enters cautiously. She is so unusually beautiful that she barely
escapes the terrible charge of sublimity. But there is a certain
peevishness in her expression which adds a comfortable smack of human
nature to her classic features._]

_Julia._ I thought mamma would never go. I have been hiding in your boudoir ever since I heard she was here.

_Lady Dol._ Was Cyril with you?

_Julia._ Oh, no; he has gone out for a walk.

_Lady Dol._ Tell me, dearest, have you and Cyril had any disagreement lately? Is there any misunderstanding?

_Julia._ Oh, no. [_Sighs._]

_Lady Dol._ I remember quite well that before I married Herbert he often suffered from the oddest moods of depression. Several times he entreated me to break off the engagement. His affection was so reverential that he feared he was not worthy of me. I assure you I had the greatest difficulty in overcoming his scruples, and persuading him that whatever his faults were I could help him to subdue them.

_Julia._ But Cyril and I are not engaged. It is all so uncertain, so humiliating.

_Lady Dol._ Men take these things for granted. If the truth were known, I daresay he already regards you as his wife.

_Julia._ [_With an inspired air._] Perhaps that is why he treats me so unkindly. I have often thought that if he were my husband he could not be more disagreeable! He has not a word for me when I speak to him. He does not hear. Oh, Lady Doldrummond, I know what is the matter. He is in love, but I am not the one. You are all wrong.

_Lady Dol._ No, no, no. He loves you; I am sure of it. Only be patient with him and it will come all right. Hush! is that his step? Stay here, darling, and I will go into my room and write letters. [_Exit, brushing the tears from her eyes._]

[Butler _ushers in_ Mr. Mandeville. _Neither of them perceive Julia, who
has gone to the window._]

_Butler._ His Lordship will be down in half an hour, sir. He is now having his hair brushed.

_Julia._ [_In surprise as she looks round._] Mr. Mandeville! [_Pause._] I hardly expected to meet you here.

_Mandeville._ And why, may I ask?

Julia. You know what Lady Doldrummond is. How did you overcome her scruples?

_Mandeville._ Is my reputation then so very bad?

_Julia._ You--you are supposed to be rather dangerous. You sing on the stage, and have a tenor voice.

_Mandeville._ Is that enough to make a man dangerous?

_Julia._ How can _I_ tell? But mamma said you were invincible. You admire mamma, of course. [_Sighs._]

_Mandeville._ A charming woman, Mrs. de Trappe. A very interesting woman; so sympathetic.

_Julia._ But she said she would not listen to you.

_Mandeville._ Did she say that? [_A slight pause._] I hope you will not be angry when I own that I do not especially _admire_ your mother. A quarter of a century ago she may have had considerable attractions, but--are you offended?

_Julia._ Offended? Oh, no. Only it seems strange. I thought that all men admired mamma. [_Pause._] You have not told me yet how you made Lady Doldrummond's acquaintance.

_Mandeville._ I am here at Lord Aprile's invitation. He has decided that he feels no further need of Lady Doldrummond's apron-strings.

_Julia._ Oh, Mr. Mandeville, are you teaching him to be wicked?

_Mandeville._ But you will agree with me that a young man cannot make his mother a kind of scribbling diary?

_Julia._ Still, if he spends his time well, there does not seem to be any reason why he should refuse to say where he dines when he is not at home.

_Mandeville._ Lady Doldrummond holds such peculiar ideas; she would find immorality in a sofa-cushion. If she were to know that Cyril is coming with me to the dress rehearsal of our new piece!

_Julia._ It would break her heart. And Lord Doldrummond would be indignant. Mamma says his own morals are so excellent!

_Mandeville._ Is he an invalid?

_Julia._ Certainly not. Why do you ask?

_Mandeville._ Whenever I hear of a charming husband I always think that he _must_ be an invalid. But as for morals, there can be no harm in taking Cyril to a dress rehearsal. If you do not wish him to go, however, I can easily say that the manager does not care to have strangers present. [_Pause._] Afterwards there is to be a ball at Miss Sparrow's.

_Julia._ Is Cyril going there, too?

_Mandeville._ I believe that he has an invitation, but I will persuade him to refuse it, if you would prefer him to remain at home.

_Julia._ You are very kind, Mr. Mandeville, but it is a matter of indifference to me where Lord Aprile goes.

_Mandeville._ Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned this to you?

_Julia._ [_Annoyed._] It does not make the least difference. In fact, I am delighted to think that you are taking Cyril out into the world. He is wretched in this house. [_With heroism._] I am glad to think that he knows anyone so interesting and clever and beautiful as Sarah Sparrow. I suppose she would be considered beautiful?