Culch. (with some heat). Just as likely she had had enough of your buffoonery!
Podb. (with provoking good humour). Come, old chap, don't get your shirt out with me. Not my fault if she's found out you think yourself too big a swell for her, is it?
Culch. (hotly). When did I say so—or think so? It's what you've told her about me, and I must say I call it——
Podb. Don't talk bosh! Who said she was forward and bad form and all the rest of it in the courtyard that first evening? She was close by, and heard every word of it, I shouldn't wonder.
Culch. (colouring). It's not of vital importance if she did. (Whistling.) Few-fee-fee-foo-foodle-di-fee-di-fa-foo.
Podb. Not a bit—to her. Better step out if we mean to catch that train. (Humming.) La-di-loodle-lumpty-leedle-um-ti-loo!
[They step out, Podbury humming pleasantly and Culchard whistling viciously, without further conversation, until they arrive at Braine l'Alleud Station—and discover that they have just missed their train.
Scene—The Wiertz Museum at Brussels, a large and well-lighted gallery containing the works of the celebrated Belgian, which are reducing a limited number of spectators to the usual degree of stupefaction. Enter Culchard, who seats himself on a central ottoman.
Culch. (to himself). If Podbury won't come down to breakfast at a decent hour, he can't complain if I——I wonder if he heard Miss Trotter say she was thinking of coming here this morning. Somehow, I should like that girl to have a more correct comprehension of my character. I don't so much mind her thinking me fastidious and exclusive. I dare say I am—but I do object to being made out a hopeless melancholiac! (He looks round the walls.) So these are Wiertz's masterpieces, eh? h'm. Strenuous, vigorous,—a trifle crude, perhaps. Didn't he refuse all offers for his pictures during his lifetime? Hardly think he could have been overwhelmed with applications for the one opposite. (He regards an enormous canvas, representing a brawny and gigantic Achilles perforating a brown Trojan with a small mast.) Not a dining-room picture. Still, I like his independence—work up rather well in a sonnet. Let me see. (He takes out note-book and scribbles.) "He scorned to ply his sombre brush for hire." Now if I read that to Podbury, he'd pretend to think I was treating of a shoe-black on strike! Podbury is so utterly deficient in reverence.
[Close by is a party of three Tourists—a Father and Mother, and a Daughter; who is reading to them aloud from the somewhat effusive Official Catalogue; the education of all three appears to have been elementary.
The Daughter (spelling out the words laboriously). "I could not 'elp fancying this was the artist's por-portrait?—portent?—no, protest against des-des—(recklessly) despoticism, and tyranny, but I see it is only—Por-Porliffymus fasting upon the companions of Ulyces."
Her Male Parent. Do it tell yer what that there big arm and leg be a-doin' of in the middle of 'em?
Daughter (stolidly). Don't you be in a nurry, father (continuing)—"in the midst of some colonial?—That ain't it—colossial animiles fanatically—fan-tasty-cally——"why, this catalogue is 'alf foreign itself!
Female P. Never mind, say 'Peterborough' at the 'ard words—we shan't be none the wiser!
Daughter. "The sime-boalic ram the 'ero is to Peterborough and leave 'is Peterborough grotter——"
Male P. That'll do—read what it says about the next one.
Daughter (reading). "The Forge of Vulkin. Words are useless 'ere. Before sech a picture one can but look, and think, and enjoy it."
Both Parents (impressed). Lor!
[They smack their lips reverently; Miss Trotter enters the Gallery.
Culch. (rising and going to meet her). Good morning, Miss Trotter. We—ah—meet again.
Miss T. That's an undeniable fact. I've left Poppa outside. Poppa restricts himself to exteriors wherever he can—says he doesn't seem to mix up his impressions so much that way. But you're alone, too. Where've you hitched your friend up?
Culch. My friend did not rise sufficiently early to accompany me. And, by the way, Miss Trotter, I should like to take this opportunity of disabusing your mind of the—er—totally false impression——
Miss T. Oh, that's all right. I told him he needn't try to give me away, for I could see you weren't that kind of man!
Culch. (gratefully). Your instinct was correct—perfectly correct. When you say "that kind of man," I presume you refer to the description my—er—friend considered it humorous to give of me as an unsociable hypochondriac?
Miss T. Well, no; he didn't say just that. He represented you as one of the fonniest persons alive; said you told stories which tickled folks to death almost.
Culch. (annoyed). Really, this is most unpardonable of Mr. Podbury! To have such odious calumnies circulated about one behind one's back is simply too——I do not aspire to—ah—to tickle folks to death!
Miss T. (soothingly). Well, I guess there's no harm done. I didn't feel like being in any imminent danger of perishing that way in your society. You're real high-toned and ever so improving, and that's better than tickling, every time. And I want you to show me round this collection and give me a few notions. Seems to me there was considerable sand in Wiertz; sort of spread himself around a good deal, didn't he? I presume, though, he slept bad, nights. (She makes the tour of the Gallery, accompanied by Culchard, who admires her, against his better judgment, more and more.) ... I declare if that isn't your friend Mr. Podbury just come in! I believe I'll have to give you up to him.
Culch. (eagerly). I beg you will not think it necessary. He—he has a guide already. He does not require my services. And, to be plain, my poor friend—though an excellent fellow according to his—ah—lights—is a companion whose society occasionally amounts to a positive infliction.
Miss T. Well, I find him too chinny myself, times. Likely he won't notice us if we don't seem to be aware of him.
[They continue to inspect the canvases.
A Belgian Guide (who has made an easy capture of Podbury at the Hotel entrance.) Hier now is a shdrainch beecture. "De toughts and veesions of a saivered haid." Fairsst meenut afder degapitation; de zagonde; de tirt. Hier de haid tink dey vant to poot him in a goffin. Dere are two haids—von goes op, de udder down. Haf you got de two? Nod yet? No?
Podbury (shaking his head sagaciously). Oh, ah, yes. Capital. Rum subject, though.
Guide. Yais, vary magnifique, vary grandt, and—and rom also! Dees von rebresents Napoleon in hail. De modders show him de laigs and ahums of dair sons keeled in de vars, and invide him to drink a cop of bloodt.
Podb. Ha, cheery picture that!
Guide. Cheery, oh, yais! Now com and beep troo dis 'ole. (Podbury obeys with docility.) You see? A Mad Voman cooking her shildt in a gettle. Hier again, dey haf puried a man viz de golera pefore he is daid, he dries to purst de goffin, you see only de handt shdicking oudt.
Podb. The old Johnny seems full of pretty fancies. (He looks through another peephole.) Girl looking at skeleton. Ha! Any other domestic subjects on view? (He suddenly sees Miss Trotter and Culchard with their backs to him.) Hal—lo, this is luck! I must go to the rescue, or that beggar Culchard will bore her to death in no time. (To Guide.) Here, hold on a minute. (Crosses to Culchard, followed by Guide.) How d' ye do, Miss Trotter? Doing the Wild Wiertz Show, I see. Ah, Culchard, why didn't you tell me you were going—might have gone together. I say, I've got a guide here.
Culch. (drily). So we perceive—a very sensible plan, no doubt, in some cases, my dear fellow.
Podb. (to Miss T.). Do come and listen to him, most intelligent chap—great fun. Mr. Culchard is above that sort of thing, I dare say.
Guide. Your vriendts laike to choin, yais? Same for tree as for von. I exblain all de beecture.
Miss T. You're vurry obliging, Mr. Podbury, but your friend is explaining it all just splendidly.
Podb. (piqued). Perhaps I had better dismiss my chap, and take on Mr. Culchard too?
Miss T. No, I'd just hate to have you do that. Keep on going round. You mustn't mind us, indeed!
Podb. Oh, if you'd rather! (Gloomily, to Guide.) They can do without us. Just show me something more in the blood-and-thunder line—no, at the other end of the room. [They withdraw.
Guide. Hier is von dat is vary amusant. You know de schtory of de Tree Vishes, eh?
Podb. Macbeth, eh? oh, I see—Wishes! No, what was that?
Guide. I dell it you. (He tells it; Podbury falls into gloomy abstraction.) ... And inschdantly she vind a grade pig soasage at de end of her noâse. So de ole voman——
Podb. (wearily). Oh, I've heard all that. What's this one about?
Guide. Dis is galled "De lasht Gannon." You see de vigure of Ceevilization flodderin up viz de vings, vile Brogress preaks asonder de lasht gon, and in a gorner a Genius purns de vrontier bosts.
Podb. (captiously). What's he doing that for?
Guide. I ton't know. I subbose begause dey are bosts, or (dubiously) begause he is a Genius.
Culch. (touching Podbury's arm as he goes out). Oh—er—Podbury, I'm off. Going to lunch somewhere with the—ah—Trotters. See you at table d'hôte this evening, I suppose? Good-bye.
Podb. (savagely). Oh, ta-ta! (To himself.) And that's the fellow who said he wanted to keep out of making friends! How the dickens am I going to get through the time by myself? (To Guide.) Here, that's enough for one day.
Guide. If you vandt to puy som real Prussels lace for your sweedardt, I——
Podb. (grimly). I've no occasion for any at present, thank you.
Scene—Upper deck of the Rhine Steamer, König Wilhelm, somewhere between Bonn and Bingen. The little tables on deck are occupied by English, American, and German tourists, drinking various liquids, from hock to Pilsener beer, and eating veal cutlets. Mr. Cyrus K. Trotter is on the lower deck, discussing the comparative merits of the New York hotels with a fellow countryman. Miss Maud S. Trotter is seated on the afterdeck in close conversation with Culchard. Podbury is perched on a camp-stool in the forward part. Near him a British Matron, with a red-haired son, in a green and black blazer, and a blue flannel nightcap, and a bevy of rabbit-faced daughters, are patronising a tame German Student in spectacles, who speaks a little English.
The British Matron. Oh, you ought to see London; it's our capital—chief city, you know. Very grand—large—four million inhabitants! [With pride, as being in some way responsible for this.
A Rabbit-faced Daughter (with a simper). Quite a little world!
[She looks down her nose, as if in fear of having said something a little too original.
The Germ. Stud. No, I haf not yet at London peen. Ven I vill pedder Englisch learn, I go.
The Blazer. You read our English books, I suppose? Dickens, you know, and Homer, eh? About the Trojan War—that's his best work!
The Stud. (Ollendorffically). I haf not read Diggins; but I haf read ze bapers by Bigvig. Zey are vary indereshtin, and gurious.
A Patriotic Young Scot (to an admiring Elderly Lady in a black mushroom hat). Eh, but we just made a pairrty and went up Auld Drachenfels, and when we got to th' tope, we danced a richt gude Scots reel, and sang, "We're a' togither an' naebody by," concluding—just to show, ye'll understan', that we were loyal subjics—wi' "God Save th' Queen." The peasants didna seem just to know what to mak' of us, I prawmise ye!
The Black Mushroom. How I wish I'd been one of you!
The Young Scot (candidly). I doot your legs would ha' stood such wark.
[Podbury becomes restless, and picks his way among the campstools to Culchard and Miss Trotter.
Podbury (to himself). Time I had a look in, I think. (Aloud.) Well, Miss Trotter, what do you think of the Rhine, as far as you've got?
Miss T. Well, I guess it's navigable, as far as I've got.
Podb. No, but I mean to say—does it come up to the mark in the scenery line, you know?
Miss T. I cannt answer that till I know whereabouts it is they mark the scenery-line. I expect Mr. Culchard knows. He knows pretty well everything. Would you like to have him explain the scenery to you going along? His explanations are vurry improving, I assure you.
Podb. I dare say; but the scenery just here is so flat that even my friend's remarks won't improve it.
Culch. (producing his note-book ostentatiously). I do not propose to attempt it. No doubt you will be more successful in entertaining Miss Trotter than I can pretend to be. I retire in your favour. [He scribbles.
Podb. Is that our expenses you're corking down there, Culchard, eh?
Culch. (with dignity). If you want to know, I am "corking down," to adopt your elegant expression, a sonnet that suggested itself to me.
Podb. Much better cork that up, old chap—hadn't he, Miss Trotter?
[He glances at her for appreciation.
Miss T. That's so. I don't believe the poetic spirit has much chance of slopping over so long as Mr. Podbury is around. You have considerable merit as a stopper, Mr. Podbury.
Podb. I see; I'd better clear out till the poetry has all gurgled out of him, eh? Is that the idea?
Miss T. If it is, it's your own, so I guess it's a pretty good one.
Culch. (with his pathetic stop on). I wish I had more of your divine patience! Poor fellow, he is not without his good points; but I do find him a thorn in my flesh occasionally, I'm afraid.
Miss T. Well, I don't know as a thorn in the flesh is any the pleasanter for having a good point.
Culch. Profoundly true, indeed. I often think I could like him better if there were less in him to like. I assure you he tries me so at times that I could almost wish I was back at work in my department at Somerset House!
Miss T. I dare say you have pretty good times there, too. Isn't that one of your leading dry goods stores?
Culch. (pained). It is not; it is a Government Office, and I am in the Pigeonhole and Docket Department, with important duties to discharge. I hope you didn't imagine I sold ribbons and calico over a counter?
Miss T. (ambiguously). Well, I wasn't just sure. It takes a pretty bright man to do that where I come from.
An Old Lady (who is sitting next to Podbury, and reading a homeletter to another Old Lady). "Dear Maria and dear Madeline are close by, they have taken very comfortable lodgings in Marine Crescent. Dear Madeline's frame is expected down next Saturday."
Second Old Lady. Madeline's frame! Is anything wrong with the poor girl's spine?
First Old Lady. I never heard of it. Oh, I see, it's fiancé, my dear. Caroline does write so illegibly. (Continuing.) "Um—um,—suppose you know she will be maimed——" (perhaps it is her spine after all—oh, married, to be sure), "very slowly" (is it slowly or shortly, I wonder?), um, um, "very quiet wedding, nobody but dear Mr. Wilkinson and his hatter."
Second O. L. The idea of choosing one's hatter for one's best man! I'm surprised Maria should allow it!
First O. L. Maria always was peculiar—still, now I come to look, it's more like "brother," which is certainly much more suitable. (Continuing.) "She will have no—no bird's-marks ..." (Now, what does that—should you think that meant "crows-feet"? Oh, no, how stupid of me—bridesmaids, of course!)—"and will go to the otter a plain guy"—(Oh, Caroline really is too ...)—"to the altar in plain grey! She has been given such quantities of pea-nuts"—(very odd things to give a girl! Oh, presents! um, um)—"Not settled yet where to go for their hangman"—(the officiating clergyman, I suppose—very flippant way of putting it, I must say! It's meant for honeymoon, though, I see, to be sure!) &c. &c.
Culch. (to Miss T.). I should like to be at Nuremberg with you. It would be an unspeakable delight to watch the expansion of a fresh young soul in that rich mediæval atmosphere!
Miss T. I guess you'll have opportunities of watching Mr. Podbury's fresh young soul under those conditions, any way.
Culch. It would not be at all the same thing—even if he—but you do think you're coming to Nuremberg, don't you?
Miss T. Well, it's this way. Poppa don't want to get fooling around any more one-horse towns than he can help, and he's got to be fixed up with the idea that Nuremberg is a prominent European sight before he drops everything to get there.
Culch. I will undertake to interest him in Nuremberg. Fortunately, we are all getting off at Bingen, and going, curiously enough, to the same hotel. (To himself.) Confound that fellow Podbury, here he is again!
Podb. (to himself, as he advances). If she's carrying on with that fellow, Culchard, to provoke me, I'll soon show her how little I—(Aloud.) I say, old man, hope I'm not interrupting you, but I just want to speak to you for a minute, if Miss Trotter will excuse us. Is there any particular point in going as far as Bingen to-night, eh?
Culch. (resignedly). As much as there is in not going farther than somewhere else, I should have thought.
Podb. Well, but look here—why not stop at Bacharach, and see what sort of a place it is?
Culch. You forget that our time is limited if we're going to stick to our original route.
Podb. Yes, of course; mustn't waste any on the Rhine. Suppose we push on to Maintz to-night, and get the Rhine off our hands then? (With a glance at Miss Trotter.) The sooner I've done with this steamer business the better!
Miss T. Well, Mr. Podbury, that's not a vurry complimentary remark to make before me!
Podb. We've seen so little of one another lately that it can hardly make much difference—to either of us—can it?
Miss T. Now I call that real kind, you're consoling me in advance!
The Steward (coming up). De dickets dat I haf nod yed seen! (examining Culchard's coupons). For Bingen—so?
Culch. I am. This gentleman gets off—is it Bacharach or Maintz, Podbury?
Podb. (sulkily). Neither, as it happens. I'm for Bingen, too, as you won't go anywhere else. Though you did say when we started, that the advantage of travelling like this was that we could go on or stop just as the fancy took us!
Culch. (calmly). I did, my dear Podbury. But it never occurred to me that the fancy would take you to get tired of a place before you got there!
Podb. (as he walks forwards). Hang that fellow! I know I shall punch his head some day. And She didn't seem to care whether I stayed or not. (Hopefully.) But you never can tell with women!
Scene.—Garden of the Hotel Victoria at Bingen, commanding a view of the Rhine and the vine-terraced hills, which are bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. Under the mopheaded acacias, Culchard and Podbury are sitting smoking. At a little distance from them, are a Young Married Couple, whose honeymoon is apparently in its last quarter.
The Bridegroom (lazily, to Bride, as she draws another chair towards her for a foot-rest). How many more chairs do you want?
Bride (without looking at him). I should think you could spare me one—you can hardly sit on three at once!
[After this interchange of amenities, they consider themselves absolved from any further conversational efforts.
Podb. (to Culch., resuming a discussion). I know as well as you do that we are booked for Nuremberg; but what I say is—that's no earthly reason why we should go there!
Culch. No reason why you should go, unless you wish it, certainly. I intend to go.
Podb. Well, it's beastly selfish, that's all! I know why you're so keen about it, too. Because the Trotters are going.
Culch. (colouring). That's an entire mistake on your part. Miss Trotter has nothing to do with it. I don't even know whether she's going or not—for certain.
Podb. No, but you've a pretty good idea that she is, though. And I know how it will be. You'll be going about with her all the time, and I shall be shunted on to the old man! I don't see it, you know! (Culch. remains silent. A pause. Podbury suddenly begins to search his pockets.) I say—here's a pretty fix! Look here, old fellow, doosid annoying thing, but I can't find my purse—must have lost it somewhere!
Culch. (stoically). I can't say I'm surprised to hear it. It's awkward, certainly. I suppose I shall have to lend you enough to go home with—it's all I can do; but I'll do that with—er—pleasure.
Podb. (staring). Go home? Why, I can wire to the governor for more, easily enough. We shall have to stay here till it comes, that's all.
Culch. And give up Nuremberg? Thank you!
Podb. I rather like this place, you know—sort of rest. And we could always nip over to Ems, or Homburg, if it got too slow, eh?
Culch. If I nip over anywhere, I shall nip to Nuremberg. We may just as well understand one another, Podbury. If I'm to provide money for both of us, it's only reasonable that you should be content to go where I choose. I cannot, and will not, stand these perpetual interferences with our original plan; it's sheer restlessness. Come with me to Nuremberg, and I shall be very happy to be your banker. Otherwise, you must stay here alone. [He compresses his lips and crosses his legs.
Podb. Oh, that's it, is it? But look here, why not tit up whether we go on or stay?
Culch. Why should I "tit up," as you call it, when I've already made up my mind to go? When I once decide on anything, it's final.
The Bride (to Bridegroom, without enthusiasm). Would you like me to roll you a cigarette?
Bridegroom (with the frankness of an open nature). Not if I know it. I can do it better myself.
Bride (coldly). I see.
[Another silence, at the end of which she rises and walks slowly away, pausing at the gate to see whether he intends to follow. As he does not appear to have remarked her absence, she walks on.
Podb. (to Culch., in an undertone). I say, those two don't seem to hit it off exactly, eh? Seem sorry they came! You'll be glad to hear, old fellow, that we needn't separate after all. Just found my purse in my trouser-pocket!
Culch. Better luck than you deserve. Didn't I tell you you should have a special pocket for your money and coupons? Like this—see. (He opens his coat) With a buttoned flap, it stands to reason they must be safe!
Podb. So long as you keep it buttoned, old chap,—which you don't seem to do!
Culch. (annoyed). Pshaw! The button is a trifle too—(feels pocket, and turns pale). Good Heavens, it—it's gone!
Culch. (patting himself all over with shaking hands). Everything!—money, coupons, circular notes! They—they must have fallen out going up that infernal Niederwald. (Angrily.) You would insist on going!
Podb. Phew! The whole bag of tricks gone! You're lucky if you get them again. Any number of tramps and beggars all the way up. Shouldn't have taken off your coat—very careless of you! (He grins.)
Culch. It was so hot. I must go and inform the Police here—I may recover it yet. Anyway, we—we must push on to Nuremberg, and I'll telegraph home for money to be sent here. You can let me have enough to get on with?
Podb. With all the pleasure in life, dear boy—on your own conditions, you know. I mean, if I pay the piper, I call the tune. Now, I don't cotton to Nuremberg somehow; I'd rather go straight on to Constance; we could get some rowing there.
Culch. (pettishly). Rowing be——(recollecting his helplessness). No; but just consider, my dear Podbury. I assure you you'll find Nuremberg a most delightful old place. You must see how bent I am on going there!
Podb. Oh, yes, I see that. But then I'm not, don't you know—so there we are!
Culch. (desperately). Well, I'll—I'll meet you half-way. I've no objection to—er—titting up with you—Nuremberg or Constance. Come?
Podb. You weren't so anxious to tit up just now—but never mind. (Producing a mark.) Now then, Emperor—Constance. Eagle—Nuremberg. Is it sudden death, or best out of three? [He tosses.
Culch. Sud—— (The coin falls with the Emperor uppermost.) Best out of three. [He takes coin from Podbury and tosses.
Podb. Eagle! we're even so far. (He receives coin.) This settles it. [He tosses.
Culch. (triumphantly). Eagle again! Now mind, Podbury, no going back after this. It must be Nuremberg now.
Podb. All right! And now allow me to have the pleasure of restoring your pocket-book and note-case. They did fall out on the Niederwald, and it was a good job for you I was behind and saw them drop. You must really be careful, dear boy. Ain't you going to say "ta" for them?
Culch. (relieved). I'm—er—tremendously obliged. I really can't say how.—(Recollecting himself.) But you need not have taken advantage of it to try to do me out of going to Nuremberg—it was a shabby trick!
Podb. Oh, it was only to get a rise out of you. I never meant to keep you to it, of course. And I say, weren't you sold, though? Didn't I lead up to it beautifully? (He chuckles.) Score to me, eh!
Culch. (with amiable sententiousness). Ah, well, I don't grudge you your little joke if it amuses you. Those laugh best who laugh last. And it's settled now that we're going to Nuremberg.
[Miss Trotter and her father have come out from the Speisesaal doors, and overhear the last speech.
Mr. Trotter (to Culchard). Your friend been gettin' off a joke on you, Sir?
Culch. Only in his own estimation, Mr. Trotter. I have nailed him down to going to Nuremberg, which, for many reasons, I was extremely anxious to visit. (Carelessly.) Are we likely to be there when you are?
Miss T. I guess not. We've just got our mail, and my cousin, Charley Van Boodeler, writes he's having a real lovely time in the Engadine—says it's the most elegant locality he's struck yet, and just as full of Amurrcans as it can hold; so we're going to start out there right away. I don't believe we shall have time for Nuremberg this trip. Father, if we're going to see about checking the baggage through, we'd better go down to the depôt right now. [They pass on.
Culch. (with a very blank face and a feeble whistle). Few-fitty-fitty-fitty-fa-di-fee-fee-foo; few——After all, Podbury, I don't know that I care so much about Nuremberg. They—they say it's a good deal changed from what it was.
Podb. So are you, old chap, if it comes to that. Tiddledy-iddlety-ido-lumpty-doodle-oo! Is it to be Constance after all, then?
Culch. (reddening). Er—I rather thought of the Engadine—more bracing, eh?—few-feedle-eedle-oodle——
Podb. You artful old whistling oyster, I see what you're up to! But it's no go; she don't want either of us Engadining about after her. It's Charley Van Stickinthemud's turn now! We've got to go to Nuremberg. You can't get out of it, after gassing so much about the place. When you've once decided, you know, it's final!
Culch. (with dignity). I am not aware that I wanted to get out of it. I merely proposed in your——(Podbury suddenly explodes.) What are you cackling at now?
Podb. (wiping his eyes). It's the last laugh, old man,—and it's the best!
[Culchard walks away rapidly, leaving Podbury in solitary enjoyment of the joke. Podbury's mirth immediately subsides into gravity, and he kicks several unoffending chairs with quite uncalled-for brutality.
Scene—A Second-Class Compartment on the line between Wurzburg and Nuremberg. Podbury has been dull and depressed all day, not having recovered from the parting with Miss Trotter. Culchard, on the contrary, is almost ostentatiously cheerful. Podbury is intensely anxious to find out how far his spirits are genuine, but—partly from shyness, and partly because some of their fellow travellers have been English—he has hesitated to introduce the subject. At last, however, they are alone, and he is determined to have it out on the very first opportunity.
Culchard. Abominably slow train, this Schnell-zug. I hope we shall get to Nuremberg before it's too dark to see the general effect.
Podbury. We're not likely to be in time for table d'hôte—not that I'm peckish. (He sighs.) Wonder whereabouts the—the Trotters have got to by now, eh?
[He feels he is getting red, and hums the Garden Scene from Faust."
Culch. (indifferently). Oh, let me see—just arriving at St. Moritz, I expect. Wonderful effect of colour, that is.
[He indicates the West, where a bar of crimson is flaming between a belt of firs.
Podb. (absently). Oh, wonderful!—where? (Hums a snatch of a waltz.) Dum-dum-diddle-um-tum-dum-dum-dum-ty-doodle; dum-dum—I say, you don't seem particularly cut up?
Culch. Cut up? Why should I be cut up, my dear fellow?—about what?
First T. T. Well, I 'ope we're all right now, Sam, I'm sure—these German jokers have chivied us about enough for one journey! (To Culchard.) Not in your way, this 'at box, Sir? Don't give yer much space in these foreign trains. (They settle down and the train starts.) Pretty bit o' country along 'ere!—puts me in mind o' the best part o' Box 'Ill—and I can't say more for it than that!
Second T. T. (a little man with a sandy fringe and boiled-looking eyes). What I notice about the country abroad is they don't seem to 'ave no landmarks.
First T. T. (with a dash of friendly contempt). What d'yer mean—no landmarks—signposts?
Second T. T. (with dignity). I mean to say, they don't 'ave nothing to indicate which is Jack's property, and which is Joe's.
First T. T. Go on—they've as much as what we 'ave.
Second T. T. 'Ave they? We 'ave fences and 'edges. I don't see none 'ere. P'raps you'll point me out one?
First T. T. There's precious few 'edges or fences in the Isle o' Thanet, as you'd know if you've ever been to Margit.
Second T. T. (loftily). I'm not talkin' about Margit now, I'm talkin' of 'ere, and I'll trouble you to show me a landmark.
First T. T. Depend on it they've their own ways of knowing which is 'oo's.
Second T. T. That's not what I'm sayin'. I'm sayin' there ain't nothin' to indicate it. [They argue the point at length.
Podb. (to Culchard). Then you really aren't cut up—about Miss T. you know?
Culch. (with the reserve of a man who only wants to be pressed). There is no reason that I'm aware of, why I should be—but (lowering his voice) don't you think we had better wait till we are alone to discuss that subject?
Podb. Oh, all right. I'm not partic—at least. Well, I'm glad you aren't, you know, that's all.
[He becomes silent again—but his face brightens visibly.
First T. T. (to Second Do.). See that field there? That's tobacco, that is.
Second T. T. What they make their penny smokes of. (The train enters a station.) What funny engines they do 'ave 'ere! I expect the guard 'll be wanting to see our billyetts again next. It's as bad as it used to be with the passports. I've 'eard—mind yer, I don't know 'ow much likeli'ood there is in the assertion—that they're going to bring 'em in again. Most intricate they were about them. (To Culchard). Why, if you'll believe me, a friend o' mine as 'ad one—well, they got 'is description down to a ioter? He'd a cast in 'is eye,—they put it down, and a pimple you'd 'ardly notice—but down that went!
First T. T. It's no use 'aving such things if they don't do it thoroughly.
Second T. T. (irrelevantly). I wish I 'adn't 'ad that glass o' peach wine where we changed last. (A Guard appears at the window, and makes some guttural comments on the couple's tickets.) Wechseln? Why, that means wash, don't it? I'm as clean as him, anyway. "Anshteigen,"—ah, I ought to know what that means by this time! Sam, my boy, we're bundled out again. I told yer 'ow it would be!
[They tumble out, and the carriage is presently filled by an assortment of Germans, including a lively and sociable little Cripple with a new drinking-mug which he has just had filled with lager, and a Lady with pale hair and sentimental blue eyes.
Podb. We can talk all right now, eh? They won't understand. Look here, old fellow, I don't mind owning I'm rather down in the mouth about——you know what. I shouldn't care so much if there was any chance of our coming across them again.
Culch. (cordially). I am very glad to hear you say so. I was rather afraid you had taken a dislike—er—in that quarter.
Podb. I?—is it likely! I—I admire her awfully, you know, only she rather seemed to snub me lately.
Culch. (with patronising reassurance). Quite a mistake on your part, I assure you, my dear fellow. I am sure she will learn to appreciate you—er—fully when you meet again, which, I may tell you, will be at no very distant date. I happen to know that she will be at the Italian Lakes next month, and so shall we, if you let me manage this tour my own way.
Podb. (with surprise and gratitude). I say, old boy, I'd no notion you were such a nailing good chap? Nein, danky. (To the little Cripple, who is cheerily inviting him, in pantomime, to drink from his mug. ) Cheeky little beggar. But do you really think anything will—er—come of it, if we do meet her again—do you now?
Culch. I—ah—have the best reasons for feeling tolerably certain of it. [He looks out of window and smiles.
Podb. But that cousin of hers—Charley, you know—how about him?
Culch. I put that to her, and there is nothing in it. In fact, she practically admitted—(He glances round and lowers his voice.) I will tell you another time. That lady over there is looking at us, and I'm almost certain——
Podb. What if she is, she don't understand a word we're saying. I want to hear all about Her, you know.
Culch. My dear Podbury, we shall have ample time to talk about her while we are at Nuremberg together—it will be the greatest pleasure to me to do so as long as you please.
Podb. Thanks, old chap! I'd no idea you were doing all this, you know. But just tell me this, what did she say about me?
Culch. (mystified). About you? I really don't recollect that she mentioned you particularly.
Podb. (puzzled). But I thought you said you'd been speaking up for me! What did you talk about then?
Culch. Well, about myself—naturally.
[He settles his collar with a vague satisfaction.
Podb. (blankly). Oh! Then you haven't been arranging to meet her again on my account?
Culch. Good Heavens, no—what a very grotesque idea of yours, my dear fellow! [He laughs gently.
Podb. Is it? You always gave out that she wasn't your style at all, and you only regarded her as a "study," and rot like that. How could I tell you would go and cut me out?
Culch. I don't deny that she occasionally—er—jarred. She is a little deficient in surface refinement—but that will come, that will come. And as to "cutting you out," why, you must allow you never had the remotest——
Podb. I don't allow anything of the sort. She liked me well enough till—till you came in and set her against me, and you may think it friendly if you like, but I call it shabby—confoundedly shabby.
Culch. Don't talk so loud, I'm sure I saw that woman smile!
Podb. She may smile her head off for all I care. (The train stops;the Cripple and all but the Pale-haired Lady get out.) Here we are at Nuremberg. What hotel did you say you are going to?
Culch. The Bayrischer-Hof. Why?
[He gets his coat and stick, &c., out of the rack.
Podb. Because I shall go to some other, that's all.
Culch. (in dismay). My dear Podbury, this is really too childish! There's no sense in travelling together, if we're going to stay at different hotels!
Podb. I'm not sure I shall go any further. Anyway, while I am here, I prefer to keep to myself.
Culch. (with a displeased laugh). Just as you please. It's a matter of perfect indifference to me. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored by yourself, though.
Podb. That's my look out. It can't be worse than going about with you and listening while you crow and drivel about her, that's one comfort! [The Pale-haired Lady coughs in a suspicious manner.
Culch. You don't even know if there is another hotel.
Podb. I don't care. I can find a pot-house somewhere, I daresay.
The Pale-haired Lady (in excellent English, to Podbury as he passes out). Pardon me, you will find close to the Bahnhof a very goot hotel—the Wurtemburger.
[Podbury thanks her and alights in some confusion; the Lady sinks back, smiling.
Culch. (annoyed). She must have understood every word we said! Are you in earnest over this? (Podbury nods grimly.) Well, you'll soon get tired of your own society, I warn you.
Podb. Thanks, we shall see.
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.
Podb. (cheerfully). Rather! Regular ripping old place this—suits me down to the ground. And how are you getting on, my bonnie boy, eh?
Culch. (who does not quite like being addressed as a bonnie boy). 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—I 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. (cheerfully). 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 have 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?