Culch. Only in words; that is, I record my impressions in a poetic form. A perfect sonnet may render a scene, a mood, a passing thought, more indelibly than the most finished sketch; may it not?
The Y. L. That is quite true; indeed, I occasionally relieve my feelings by the composition of Greek or Latin verses, which I find, on the whole, better adapted to express the subtler emotions. Don't you agree with me there?
Culch. (who has done no Greek or Latin verse since he left school). Doubtless. But I am hindering your sketch?
The Y. L. No, I was merely saturating my mind with the general effect. I shall not really begin my sketch till to-morrow. I am going now. I hope the genius of the place will inspire you.
Culch. Thank you. I trust it will—er—have that effect. (To himself after the Young Lady has left the terrace.) Now, that's a very superior girl—she has intellect, style, culture—everything the ideal woman should have. I wonder, now, whether, if I had met her before—but such speculations are most unprofitable! How clear her eyes looked through her pince-nez! Blue-grey, like Athene's own. If I'd been with Podbury, I should never have had this talk. The sight of him would have repelled her at once. I shall tell him when I take him that book that he had better go his own way with his new friends. I like the view from this terrace—I shall come up here again—often.
Scene—The Conversations-Saal at the Wurtemburger-Hof. Evening. Podbury at the piano; Bob Prendergast and his sister Hypatia seated near him.
Podb. (chanting dolefully)—
Now then, this party as what came from Fla-an-ders,
What had the com-plex-i-on rich and rare,
He went and took and caught the yaller ja-un-ders—
And his complexion isn't what it were!
Mr. and Miss Prendergast (joining sympathetically in chorus). And his complexion isn't what it were!
[There is a faint knock at the door, and Culchard enters with a volume under his arm. None of the three observe him, and he stands and listens stiffly as Podbury continues,—
Well, next this party as what came from Fla-an-ders,
Whose complex-shun was formi-ally rare,
Eloped to Injia with Eliza Sa-aun-ders,
As lived close by in Canonbury Square.
Culch. (advances to piano and touches Podbury's arm with the air of his better angel). Er—I have brought you the philosophical work I mentioned. I will leave it for an occasion when you are—er—in a fitter frame of mind for its perusal.
Podb. Oh, beg pardon, didn't see you, old fellow. Awfully obliged; jam it down anywhere, and (whispering) I say, I want to introduce you to——
Culch. (in a tone of emphatic disapproval). You must really excuse me, as I fear I should be scarcely a congenial spirit in such a party. So good-night—or, rather—er—good-bye. [He withdraws.
Miss Hypatia P. (just as C. is about to close the door). Please don't stop, Mr. Podbury, that song is quite too deliciously inane!
[Culchard turns as he hears the voice, and—too late—recognises his Athene of that afternoon. He retires in confusion, and, as he passes under the window, hears Podbury sing the final verse.
The moral is—Now don't you come from Fla-an-ders,
If you should have complexions rich and rare;
And don't you go and catch the yaller ja-aun-ders,
Nor yet know girls in Canonbury Square!
Miss Hypatia P. (in a clear soprano). "Nor yet know girls in Canonbury Square!" [Culchard passes on, crushed.
Scene—The Burg Terrace at Nuremberg. Podbury on a bench, grappling with the "Epitome of Spencer."
Podb. (reading aloud, with comments). "For really to conceive the infinite divisibility of matter is mentally to follow out the divisions to infinity, and to do this would require infinite time." You're right there, old cock, and, as I haven't got it to spare, I won't trouble you!—um—um ... "opposite absurdities"—"subjective modifications" ... "ultimate scientific ideas, then, are all representative of ideas that cannot be comprehended." I could have told him that. What bally rot this Philosophy is—but I suppose I must peg away at it. Didn't she say she was sorry I didn't go in more for cultivating my mind? (He looks up.) Jove, here she comes! and yes, there's that beggar Culchard with her! I thought he'd—how the dickens did he manage to——? I see what he's after—thinks he'll cut me out—twice over—but he shan't this time, if I can help it.
Culch. (to Miss Hypatia Prendergast). No, the Modern Spirit is too earnestly intent upon solving the problems of existence to tolerate humour in its literature. Humour has served a certain purpose in its day, but that day is done, and I for one cannot pretend to regret its decay.
Miss H. P. Nor I. In fact, the only humour I ever really appreciated is that of the ancient classics. There has been no true fun since Aristophanes died. At least, I think not.
Podb. (catching the last sentence). Oh, I say, come, Miss Prendergast. Have you ever read The Jumping Frog?
Miss P. I was under the impression that all frogs jumped. But I never read—I—ah—study.
Podb. (declining to be crushed). Well, I call Mark Twain funny anyhow. But I'm going in for study now. I am—honour bright! I'm swotting up Spencer—look! [He exhibits the volume proudly.
Miss P. And are you not enchanted by the logical lucidity of that great thinker?
Podb. Um—I should be more enchanted if I ever had the faintest notion what the great thinker was driving at. Look here—here's a simple little sentence for you! (Reads.) "Let us therefore bear in mind the following:—That of the whole incident force affecting an aggregate, the effective force is that which remains after deducting the non-effective, that the temporarily effective and the permanently effective vary inversely, and that the molar and molecular changes wrought by the permanently effective force also vary inversely." (With pathos.) And that's only in an Epitome, mind you!
Miss P. Really, Mr. Podbury, I see nothing particularly incomprehensible in that.
Culch. (with his superior smile). My dear Podbury, you can hardly expect to master the Spencerian phraseology and habit of thought without at least some preliminary mental discipline!
Podb. (nettled). Oh—but you find him plain-sailing enough, I suppose?
Culch. I have certainly not encountered any insuperable difficulties in his works as yet.
Podb. Well, I'll just trouble you to explain this—wait a bit. (Opens volume again.) Ah, here we are—"And these illusive and primordial cognitions, or pseud-ideas, are homogeneous entities which may be differentiated objectively or subjectively, according as they are presented as Noumenon or Phenomenon. Or, in other words, they are only cognoscible as a colligation of incongruous coalescences." Now then—are you going to tell me you can make head or tail of all that?
Culch. (perceiving that Miss P. is awaiting his reply in manifest suspense). It's simple enough, my dear fellow, only I can't expect you to grasp it. It is merely a profound truth stated with masterly precision.
Podb. Oh, is that all, my dear fellow? (He flings up his heels in an ecstasy.) I knew I'd have you! Why, I made that up myself as I went along, and if you understand it, it's a jolly sight more than I do!
[He roars with laughter.
Miss P. (behind her handkerchief). Mr. Culchard has evidently gone through the—the "preliminary mental discipline."
Culch. (scarlet and sulky). Of course, if Mr. Podbury descends to childishness of that sort, I can't pretend to——
Podb. (wiping his eyes). But you did pretend, old chap. You said it was "profound truth" and "masterly precision"! I've got more profound truth where that came from. I say, I shall set up as an intellectual Johnny after this, and get you to write an Epitome of me. I think I pulled your leg that time, eh?
Culch. (biting his lip). When you have extracted sufficient entertainment from that very small joke, you will perhaps allow Miss Prendergast to sit down and begin her sketch. You may not be aware that you've taken her place.
[He withdraws majestically to the parapet, while Podbury makes way for Miss P. with apologies.
Podb. (as he leans over seat while she sketches). I wish your brother Bob had been here—he would have enjoyed that!
Miss P. It was really too bad of you, though. Poor Mr. Culchard!
Podb. He shouldn't try to make me out a bigger duffer than I am, then. But I say, you don't really think it was too bad? Ah, you're laughing—you don't!
Miss P. Never mind what I really think. But you have got us both into sad disgrace. Mr. Culchard is dreadfully annoyed with us—look at his shoulders!
Culch. (leaning over parapet with his back to them). That ass Podbury! To think of his taking me in with an idiotic trick like that! And before Her too! And when I had made it all right about the other evening, and was producing an excellent impression on the way up here. I wish I could hear what they are whispering about—more silly jokes at my expense, no doubt. Bah! as if it affected me!
Podb. (to Miss P.). I say, how awfully well you draw!
Miss P. There you betray your ignorance in Art matters. Sketching with me is a pastime, not a serious pursuit. (They go on conversing in a lower tone.) No, please, Mr. Podbury. I'm quite sure he would never——
Podb. (rises; comes up to Culchard, and touches his shoulder). I say, old chappie——
Culch. (jerking away with temper). Now, look here, Podbury. I'm not in the mood for any more of your foolery——
Podb. (humbly). All right, old boy. I wouldn't bother you, only Miss Prendergast wants a figure for her foreground, and I said I'd ask you if you'd keep just as you are for a few minutes. Do you mind?
Culch. (to himself). Afraid she's gone too far—thinks she'll smooth me down! Upon my word, it would serve her right to—but no, I won't be petty. (Aloud.) Pray tell Miss Prendergast that I have no immediate intention of altering my position.
Podb. Thanks awfully, old chap. I knew you'd oblige.
Culch. (incisively). I am obliging Miss Prendergast, and her only. (Raising his voice, without turning his head.) Would you prefer me to face you, Miss Prendergast?
Miss P. (in tremulous tones). N—no, thank you. It—it's so much more n—natural, don't you know, for you to be l—looking at the view.
Culch. As you please. (To himself.) Can't meet my eye. Good! I shall go on treating her distantly for a little. I wonder if I look indifferent enough from behind? Shall I cross one foot? Better not—she may have begun sketching me. If she imagines I'm susceptible to feminine flattery of this palpable kind, she'll——how her voice shook, though, when she spoke. Poor girl, she's afraid she offended me by laughing—and I did think she had more sense than to—but I mustn't be too hard on her. I'm afraid she's already beginning to think too much of—and with my peculiar position with Miss Trotter—(Maud, that is)—not that there's anything definite at present, still——(Aloud.) Ahem, Miss Prendergast—am I standing as you wish? (To himself.) She doesn't answer—too absorbed, and I can't hear that idiot—found he hasn't scored so much after all, and gone off in a huff, I expect. So much the better! What a time she is over this, and how quiet she keeps! I wish I knew whether it was coquetry or—shall I turn round and see? No, I must be perfectly indifferent. And she did laugh at me. I distinctly saw her. Still, if she's sorry, this would be an excellent opportunity for—(Aloud.) Miss Prendergast! (No reply——louder.) May I take it that you regret having been betrayed into momentary approbation of a miserable piece of flippancy? If so, let me assure you—(Turns round—to discover that he is addressing two little flaxen haired girls in speckled pinafores, who are regarding him open-mouthed. Miss Prendergast and Podbury have disappeared.) Podbury again! He must have planned this—with her! It is too much. I have done—yes—done with the pair of them! [Strides off in bitter indignation.
Scene—A flight of steps by the lake in the grounds of the Insel Hôtel, Constance. Time, late afternoon. A small boat, containing three persons, is just visible far out on the glassy grey-green water. Bob Prendergast and Podbury are perched side by side on a parapet, smoking disconsolately.
Podbury. Do they look at all as if they meant to come in? I tell you what, Bob, I vote we row out to them and tell them they'll be late for table d'hôte. Eh? [He knocks out his pipe.
Prendergast (phlegmatically). Only be late for it ourselves if we do. They'll come in when they want to.
Podb. It's not safe for your sister,—I'm hanged if it is—going out in a boat with a duffer like Culchard! He'll upset her as sure as eggs.
Prend. (with fraternal serenity). With pin-oars? Couldn't if he tried! And they've a man with them, too. The less I see of that chap Culchard the better. I did hope we'd choked him off at Nuremberg. I hate the sight of his supercilious old mug!
Podb. You can't hate it more than I do—but what can I do? (Pathetically.) I've tried rotting him, but somehow he always manages to get the best of it in the end. I never saw such a beggar to hang on!
Prend. What on earth made you ask him to come on here, after he declared he wouldn't?
Podb. I! I ask him? He settled it all with your sister. How could I help it?
Prend. I'd do something. Why can't you tell him right out he ain't wanted? I would—like a shot!
Podb. It's not so easy to tell him as you think. We haven't been on speaking terms these three days. And, after all (feebly) we're supposed to be travelling together, don't you know! You might drop him a hint now.
Prend. Don't see how I can very well—not on my own hook. Might lead to ructions with Hypatia, too.
Podb. (anxiously). Bob, you—you don't think your sister really——eh?
Prend. Hypatia's a rum girl—always was. She certainly don't seem to object to your friend Culchard. What the dickens she can see in him, I don't know!—but it's no use my putting my oar in. She'd only jump on me, y'know!
Podb. (rising). Then I must. If that's what he's really after, I think I can stop his little game. I'll try, at any rate. It's a long worm that has no turning, and I've had about enough of it. The first chance I get, I'll go for him.
Prend. Good luck to you, old chap. There, they're coming in now. We'd better go in and change, eh? We've none too much time.
[They go in.
In the Lese-zimmer, a small gaslit room, with glazed doors opening upon the Musik-saal. Around a table piled with German and English periodicals, a mild Curate, the Wife of the English Chaplain, and two Old Maids are seated, reading and conversing. Culchard is on a central ottoman, conscientiously deciphering the jokes in "Fliegende Blätter." Podbury is at the bookcase, turning over odd Tauchnitz volumes.
The Chaplain's Wife (to the Curate, a new arrival). Oh, you will very soon get into all our little ways. The hours here are most convenient—breakfast (table d'hôte) with choice of eggs or fish and coffee—really admirable coffee—from eight to nine; midday dinner at one. Supper at nine. Then, if you want to write a letter, the post for England goes out—(&c., &c.) And on Sundays, eleven o'clock service (Evangelical, of course!) at the——(&c., &c.,) My husband——(&c., &c.)
First Old Maid (looking up from a four days' old "Telegraph"). I see they are still continuing that very interesting correspondence on "Our Children's Mouths—and are they widening?" One letter attributes it to the habit of thumb-sucking in infancy—which certainly ought to be checked. Now I never would allow any——
The C.'s. W. Nor I. But corals are quite as bad. Only this afternoon I was telling a Lady in this hotel that her little boy would be much happier with a rubber ring. You get them at a shop in the Hoch-strasse—I can take you to it at any time, or if you like to mention my name——(&c., &c.)
Second O. M. One correspondent thought the practice of eating soup with table-spoons tended to enlarge the mouth. I really believe there may be something in it. [A pause.
The Curate. The weather we have been having seems to have materially affected the harvest prospects at home; they say there will be little or no fodder for the cattle this year. I saw somewhere—I forget where it was exactly—a suggestion to feed cows on chickweed.
Podb. (at the bookcase). Capital thing for them too, Sir. Know a man who never gives his cattle anything else.
The Curate. Oh, really? And does he find the experiment answer?
Podb. They take to it like birds. And—curious thing—after he'd tried it a month, all the cows turned yellow and went about chirping and twittering and hopping. Fact, I assure you!
The Curate. Dear me—I should scarcely have——
[He gradually comes to the conclusion that he is being trifled with, and after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, gets up and quits the room with dignity.
Podb. (to himself). One of 'em gone! Now if I can only clear these old tabbies out, I can tackle Culchard. (Aloud, to Chaplain's Wife.) You don't happen to know if there's a good doctor here, I suppose? A lady was saying in the Musik-saal—the lady with the three daughters who came this afternoon—that she was afraid they were in for bad feverish colds or something, and asking who there was to call in.
The C.'s W. Oh, I've no belief in foreign doctors. I always find a few drops of aconite or pulsatilla,——I have my homœopathic case with me now. Perhaps, if I went and had a talk with her I could——
[She goes out energetically.
Podb. Another gone! (To the Old Maids.) So you aren't going down to the Cloisters to-night? I'm told there's to be some fun there—Hide-and-seek, or something—first-rate place for it, especially now the moon's up!
First O. M. Nobody told us a word about it. Hide-and-seek—and in those quaint old Cloisters too—It sounds delightful! What do you say, Tabitha. Shall we just——? Only to look on, you know. We needn't play, unless——
[The Two Old Maids withdraw in a pleased flutter. Podbury crosses to Culchard.
Podb. (with determination). Look here, Culchard, I'd just like to know what you mean by the way you're going on.
Culch. I thought we were both agreed that discussions of this kind——
Podb. It's all bosh our travelling together if we're not to have any discussions. You've been on the sulk long enough. And I'll thank you to inform me what you're after here, going about alone with Miss Prendergast like this, in the Museum with her all the morning, and on the lake again this afternoon—it won't do, you know!
Culch. If she happens to prefer my society to yours and her brother's, I presume you have no claim to interfere.
Podb. I don't know about that. How about Miss Trotter?
Culch. If I remember rightly, you yourself were not insensible to Miss Trotter's—er—attractions?
Podb. Perhaps not; but I am not engaged to her—you are. You told me so in the train.
Culch. You entirely misunderstood me. There was no definite understanding between us—nothing of the sort or kind. In fact, it was merely a passing caprice. Since I have had the privilege of knowing Miss Prendergast, I see clearly——
Podb. Then you mean to propose to her, eh?
Culch. That is certainly my intention; have you any objection to offer?
Podb. Only that I mean to propose too. I dare say my chances are as good as yours—even now.
Culch. I doubt it, my dear fellow; however, don't let me discourage you.
Podb. I don't intend to. (The figure of Miss Prendergast is seen to pass the glazed doors, and move slowly across the Musik-saal; both rush to the door, and look after her.) She's gone out into the balcony. 'Jove, I'll go too, and get it over!
Culch. I should not advise you to do so. It is possible she may have gone there with the—er—expectation of being joined by—by somebody else. [He smiles complacently.
Podb. You mean she gave you a rendezvous there? I don't believe it!
Culch. I did not say so. But I am not prepared to deny that I have been waiting here with some such expectation.
Podb. (holding the door). If you go, I go too—that's all.
Culch. Don't be absurd. You will only be de trop, I assure you.
Podb. De trop or not, I mean going—she shall choose between us.
Culch. (turning pale). I suppose you intend to enlighten her as to my—er—little flirtation (before I knew her) with Miss Trotter? Do it, Podbury, do it—if you think you'll gain any good by it!
Podb. Telling tales is not exactly in my line. But you don't go on that balcony without me—that's all.
Culch. Well, listen to reason, my dear fellow. What you propose is ridiculous. I—I don't mind conceding this: we'll each go, and—er—tit up, as you call it, which goes first.
Podb. Done with you! (Produces a mark.) Sudden death. You're Eagle—I'm the other Johnny. (Tosses.) Eagle! Confound you! But I mean to have my innings all the same.
Culch. You're perfectly welcome—when I've had mine. I'll—er—wish you good evening.
Scene—A Balcony outside the Musik-Saal of the Insel Hotel, Constance. Miss Prendergast is seated; Culchard is leaning against the railing close by. It is about nine; the moon has risen, big and yellow, behind the mountains at the further end of the Lake; small black boats are shooting in and out of her track upon the water; the beat of the steamers' paddles is heard as they come into harbour. Culchard has just proposed.
Miss Prendergast (after a silence). I have already felt very strongly with Ruskin, that no girl should have the cruelty to refuse a proposal——
Culch. (with alacrity). Ruskin is always so right. And—er—where there is such complete sympathy in tastes and ideas, as I venture to think exists in our own case, the cruelty would——
Miss P. Pray allow me to finish! "Refuse a proposal at once" is Ruskin's expression. He also says (if my memory does not betray me), that "no lover should have the insolence to think of being accepted at once." You will find the passage somewhere in Fors.
Culch. (whose jaw has visibly fallen). I cannot say I recall it at this moment. Does he hold that a lover should expect to be accepted by—er—instalments, because, if so——
Miss P. I think I can quote his exact words. "If she simply doesn't like him, she may send him away for seven years——"
Culch. (stiffly). No doubt that course is open to her. But why seven, and where is he expected to go?
Miss P. (continuing calmly). "He vowing to live on cresses and wear sackcloth meanwhile, or the like penance."
Culch. I feel bound to state at once that, in my own case, my position at Somerset House would render anything of that sort utterly impracticable.
Miss P. Wait, please,—you are so impetuous. "If she likes him a little,"—(Culchard's brow relaxes)—"or thinks she might come to like him in time, she may let him stay near her,"—(Culchard makes a movement of relief and gratitude)—"putting him always on sharp trial, and requiring, figuratively, as many lion-skins or giants' heads as she thinks herself worth."
Culch. (grimly). "Figuratively" is a distinct concession on Ruskin's part. Still, I should be glad to know——
Miss P. If you will have a little more patience, I will make myself clear. I have always determined that when the—ah—occasion presented itself, I would deal with it on Ruskinian principles. I propose in your case—presuming of course that you are willing to be under vow for me—to adopt a middle course.
Culch. You are extremely good. And what precise form of—er—penance did you think of?
Miss P. The trial I impose is, that you leave Constance to-morrow—with Mr. Podbury.
Culch. (firmly). If you expect me to travel for seven years with him, permit me to mention that I simply cannot do it. My leave expires in three weeks.
Miss P. I mentioned no term, I believe. Long before three weeks are over we shall meet again, and I shall be able to see how you have borne the test. I wish you to correct, if possible, a certain intolerance in your attitude towards Mr. Podbury. Do you accept this probation, or not?
Culch. I—ah—suppose I have no choice. But you really must allow me to say that it is not precisely the reception I anticipated. Still, in your service, I am willing to endure even Podbury—for a strictly limited period; that I do stipulate for.
Miss P. That, as I have already said, is quite understood. Now go and arrange with Mr. Podbury.
Culch. (to himself, as he retires). It is most unsatisfactory; but at least Podbury is disposed of!
The same Scene, a quarter of an hour later. Podbury and Miss Prendergast.
Podb. (with a very long face). No, I say, though! Ruskin doesn't say all that?
Miss P. I am not in the habit of misquoting. If you wish to verify the quotation, however, I dare say I could find you the reference in Fors Clavigera.
Podb. (ruefully). Thanks—I won't trouble you. Only it does seem rather rough on fellows, don't you know. If every one went on his plan—well, there wouldn't be many marriages! Still, I never thought you'd say "Yes" right off. It's like my cheek, I know, to ask you at all; you're so awfully clever and that. And if there's a chance for me, I'm game for anything in the way of a trial. Don't make it stiffer than you can help, that's all!
Miss P. All I ask of you is to leave me for a short time, and go and travel with Mr. Culchard again.
Podb. Oh, I say, Miss Prendergast, you know. Make it something else. Do!
Miss P. That is the task I require, and I can accept no other. It is nothing, after all, but what you came out here to do.
Podb. I didn't know him then, you see. And what made me agree to come away with him at all is beyond me. It was all Hughie Rose's doing—he said we should get on together like blazes. So we have—very like blazes!
Miss P. Never mind that. Are you willing to accept the trial or not?
Podb. If you only knew what he's like when he's nasty, you'd let me off—you would, really. But there, to please you, I'll do it. I'll stand him as long as ever I can—'pon my honour I will. Only you'll make it up to me afterwards, won't you now?
Miss P. I will make no promises—a true knight should expect no reward for his service, Mr. Podbury.
Podb. (blankly). Shouldn't he? I'm a little new to the business, you see, and it does strike me——but never mind. When am I to trot him off?
Miss P. As soon as you can induce him to go—to-morrow, if possible.
Podb. I don't believe he'll go, you know, for one thing!
Miss P. (demurely). I think you will find him open to persuasion. But go and try, Mr. Podbury.
Podb. (to himself, as he withdraws). Well, I've let myself in for a nice thing! Rummest way of treating a proposal I ever heard of. I should just like to tell that fellow Ruskin what I think of his precious ideas. But there's one thing, though—she can't care about Culchard, or she wouldn't want him carted off like this.... Hooray, I never thought of that before! Why, there he is, dodging about to find out how I've got on. I'll tackle him straight off.
[Culchard and Podbury meet at the head of the staircase, and speak at the same moment.
Culch. Er—Podbury, it has occurred }
to me that we might——}
} leave this place to-morrow!
Podb. I say, Culchard, we really ought}
to——}
Podb. Hullo! we're both of one mind for once, eh? (To himself.) Poor old beggar! Got the sack! That explains a lot. Well, I won't tell him anything about this business just now.
Culch. So it appears. (To himself.) Had his quietus, evidently. Ah, well, I won't exult over him.
[They go off together to consult a time-table.
Miss P. (on the balcony musing). Poor fellows! I couldn't very well say anything more definite at present. By the time I see them again, I may understand my own heart better. Really, it is rather an exciting sensation, having two suitors under vow and doing penance at the same time—and all for my sake! I hope, though, they won't mention it to one another—or to Bob. Bob does not understand these things, and he might——But after all, there are only two of them. And Ruskin distinctly says that every girl who is worth anything ought always to have half a dozen or so. Two is really quite moderate.
Scene—in Front of the Hôtel Bodenhaus at Splügen. The Diligence For Bellinzona is having its team attached. An elderly Englishwoman is sitting on her trunk, trying to run through the last hundred pages of a novel from the Hotel Library before her departure. Podbury is in the Hotel, negotiating for sandwiches. Culchard is practising his Italian upon a very dingy gentleman in smoked spectacles, with a shawl round his throat.
The Dingy Italian (suddenly discovering Culchard's nationality). Ecco, siete Inglese! Lat us spika Ingelis. I onnerstan' 'im to ze bottomside. (Laboriously, to Culchard, who tries to conceal his chagrin.) 'Ow menni time you employ to go since Coire at here? (C. nods with vague encouragement.) Vich manners of vezzer you vere possess troo your travels—mosh ommerella? (C.'s eyes grow vacant.) Ha, I tink it vood! Zis day ze vicket root sall 'ave plenti 'orse to pull, &c., &c. (Here Podbury comes up, and puts some rugs in the coupé of the diligence.) You sit at ze beginning-end, hey? better, you tink, zan ze mizzle? I too, zen, sall ride at ze front—we vill spika Ingelis, altro!
Podb. (overhearing this, with horror). One minute, Culchard. (He draws him aside.) I say, for goodness' sake, don't let's have that old organ-grinding Johnny in the coupé with us!
Culch. Organ-grinder! you are so very insular! For anything you can tell, he may be a decayed nobleman.
Podb. (coarsely). Well, let him decay somewhere else, that's all! Just tell the Conductor to shove him in the intérieur, do, while I nip into the coupé and keep our places.
[Culchard, on reflection, adopts this suggestion, and the Italian Gentleman, after fluttering feebly about the coupé door, is unceremoniously bundled by the Conductor into the hinder part of the diligence.
IN THE BERNARDINO PASS, DURING THE ASCENT.
Culch. Glorious view one gets at each fresh turn of the road, Podbury! Look at Hinter-rhein, far down below there, like a toy village, and that vast desolate valley, with the grey river rushing through it, and the green glacier at the end, and these awful snow-covered peaks all round—look, man!
Podb. I'm looking, old chap. It's all there, right enough!
Culch. (vexed). It doesn't seem to be making any particular impression on you, I must say!
Podb. It's making me deuced peckish, I know that—how about lunch, eh!
Culch. (pained). We are going through scenery like this, and all you think of is—lunch! (Podbury opens a basket.) You may give me one of those sandwiches. What made you get veal? and the bread's all crust, too! Thanks, I'll take some claret.... (They lunch; the vehicle meanwhile toils up to the head of the Pass.) Dear me, we're at the top already! These rocks shut out the valley altogether—much colder at this height, eh? Don't you find this keen air most exhilarating?
Podb. (shivering). Oh very, do you mind putting your window up? Thanks. You seem uncommon chirpy to-day. Beginning to get over it, eh?
Culch. We shan't get over it for some hours yet.
Podb. I didn't mean the Pass, I meant—(hesitating)—well, your little affair with Miss Prendergast, you know.
Culch. My little affair? Get over? (He suddenly understands.) Oh, ah, to be sure. Yes, thank you, my dear fellow, it is not making me particularly unhappy. [He goes into a fit of silent laughter.
Podb. Glad to hear it. (To himself.) 'Jove, if he only knew what I know! [He chuckles.
Culch. You don't appear to be exactly heartbroken?
Podb. I? why should I be—about what?
Culch. (with an affectation of reserve). Exactly, I was forgetting. (To himself.) It's really rather humorous. (He laughs again.) Ha, we're beginning to go down now. Hey for Italy—la bella Italia! (The diligence takes the first curve.) Good Heavens, what a turn! We're going at rather a sharp pace for downhill, eh? I suppose these Swiss drivers know what they're about, though.
Podb. Oh, yes, generally—when they're not drunk. I can only see this fellow's boots—but they look to me a trifle squiffy.
Culch. (inspecting them, anxiously). He does seem to drive very recklessly. Look at those leaders—heading right for the precipice.... Ah, just saved it! How we do lurch in swinging round!
Podb. Topheavy—I expect, too much luggage on board—have another sandwich?
Culch. Not for me, thanks. I say, I wonder if it's safe, having no parapet, only these stone posts, eh?
Podb. Safe enough—unless the wheel catches one—it was as near as a toucher just then—aren't you going to smoke? No? I am. By the way, what were you so amused about just now, eh?
Culch. Was I amused? (The vehicle gives another tremendous lurch.) Really, this is too horrible!
Podb. (with secret enjoyment.) We're right enough, if the horses don't happen to stumble. That off-leader isn't over sure-footed—did you see that? (Culch. shudders.) But what's the joke about Miss Prendergast?
Culch. (irritably). Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't bother about that now! I've something else to think about. My goodness, we were nearly over that time! What are you looking at?
Podb. (who has been leaning forward). Only one of the traces—they've done it up with a penny ball of string, but I dare say it will stand the strain. You aren't half enjoying the view, old fellow.
Culch. Yes, I am. Magnificent!—glorious!—isn't it?
Podb. Find you see it better with your eyes shut? But I say, I wish you'd explain what you were sniggering at.
Culch. Take my advice, and don't press me, my dear fellow; you may regret it if you do!
Podb. I'll risk it. It must be a devilish funny joke to tickle you like that. Come, out with it!
Culch. Well, if you must know, I was laughing.... Oh, he'll never get those horses round in.... I was—er—rather amused by your evident assumption that I must have been rejected by Miss Prendergast.
Podb. Oh, was that it? And you're nothing of the kind, eh?
[He chuckles again.
Culch. (with dignity). No doubt you will find it very singular; but, as a matter of fact, she—well, she most certainly did not discourage my pretensions.
Podb. The deuce she didn't! Did she tell you Ruskin's ideas about courtship being a probation, and ask you if you were ready to be under vow for her, by any chance?
Culch. This is too bad, Podbury! you must have been there, or you couldn't possibly know!
Podb. Much obliged, I'm sure. I don't listen behind doors, as a general thing. I suppose, now, she set you a trial of some kind, to prove your mettle, eh? [With another chuckle.
Culch. (furiously). Take care—or I may tell you more than you bargain for!
Podb. Go on—never mind me. Bless you, I'm under vow for her too, my dear boy. Fact!
Culch. That's impossible, and I can prove it. The service she demanded was, that I should leave Constance at once—with you. Do you understand—with you, Podbury!
Podb. (with a prolonged whistle). My aunt!
Culch. (severely). You may invoke every female relative you possess in the world, but it won't alter the fact, and that alone ought to convince you——
Podb. Hold on a bit. Wait till you've heard my penance. She told me to cart you off. Now, then!
Culch. (faintly). If I thought she'd been trifling with us both like that, I'd never——
Podb. She's no end of a clever girl, you know. And, after all, she may only have wanted time to make up her mind.
Culch. (violently). I tell you what she is—she's a cold-blooded pedantic prig, and a systematic flirt! I loathe and detest a prig, but a flirt I despise—yes, despise, Podbury!
Podb. (with only apparent irrelevance). The same to you, and many of 'em, old chap! Hullo, we're going to stop at this inn. Let's get out and stretch our legs and have some coffee.
The It. G. Goodaby, dear frens, a riverderla! I success at your chairs. I vish you a pleasure's delay!
Podb. But I say, look here, Sir, we're going on, and you've got our place!
The It. G. Sank you verri moch. I 'ope so.
[He blows Podbury a kiss.
Podb. (with intense disgust). How on earth are we going to get that beggar out? Set the Conductor at him, Culchard, do—you can talk the lingo best!
Culch. (who has had enough of Podbury for the present). Talk to him yourself, my dear fellow, I'm not going to make a row. [He gets in.
Podb. (to Conductor). Hi! sprechen sie Französisch, oder was? il-y-a quelque chose dans mon siège, dites-lui de—what the deuce is the French for "clear out"?
Cond. Montez, Monsieur, nous bartons, montez vîte alors!
Scene—A hundred yards or so from the top of Monte Generoso, above Lake Lugano. Culchard, who, with a crowd of other excursionists, has made the ascent by rail, is toiling up the steep and very slippery slope to the summit.
Culch. (to himself, as he stops to pant). More climbing! I thought this line was supposed to go to the top! But that's Italian all over—hem—as Podbury would say! Wonder, by the way, if he expected to be asked to come with me. I've no reason for sacrificing myself like that any longer! (He sighs.) Ah, Hypatia, if you could know what a dreary disenchanted blank you have made of my life! And I who believed you capable of appreciating such devotion as mine!
A Voice Behind. My! If I don't know that back I'll just give up! How've you been getting along all this time, Mr. Culchard?
Culch. (turning). Miss Trotter! A most delightful and—er—unexpected meeting, indeed!
Miss Trotter. Well, we came up on the cars in front of yours. We've taken rooms at the hotel up here. Poppa reckoned the air would be kind of fresher on the top of this mountain, and I don't believe but what he's right either. I guess I shall want another hairpin through my hat. And are you still going around with Mr. Podbury? As inseparable as ever, I presume?
Culch. Er—about as inseparable. That is, we are still travelling together—only, on this particular afternoon——
Miss T. He went and got mislaid? I see. He used to stray considerable over in Germany, didn't he? Well, I'm real pleased to see you anyway. And how's the poetry been panning out? I hope you've had a pretty good yield of sonnets?
Culch. (to himself). She's really grown distinctly prettier. She might show a little more feeling, though, considering we were almost, if not quite——(Aloud.) So you remember my poor poems? I'm afraid I have not been very—er—prolific of late.
Miss T. You don't say! I should think you'd have had one to show for every day, with the date to it, like a new-laid egg.
Culch. Birds don't lay—er—I mean they don't sing, in the dark. My light has been—er—lacking of late.
Miss T. If that's intended for me, you ought to begin chirping right away. But you're not going to tell me you've been "lounjun round en sufferin'" like—wasn't it Uncle Remus's Brer Terrapin? (Catching C.'s look of bewilderment.) What, don't you know Uncle Remus?
Culch. (politely). Mr. Trotter is the only relation of yours I have had the pleasure of meeting, as yet.
Miss T. Why, I reckoned Uncle Remus was pretty most everybody's relation by now. He's a book. But likely you've no use for our national humorous literature?
Culch. I—er—must confess I seldom waste time over the humorous literature of any nation.
Miss T. I guess that accounts for your gaiety! There, don't you mind me, Mr. Culchard. But suppose we hurry along and inspect this panorama they talk so much of; it isn't going to be any side-show. It's just a real representative mass-meeting of Swiss mountains, with every prominent peak in the country on the platform, and a deputation down below from the leading Italian lakes. It's ever so elegant,—and there's Poppa around on the top too.
On the top. Tourists discovered making more or less appropriate remarks.