WINGFOLD. Concentration! The word suggests nothing but Swiss milk. STUDLEY. Did you never like Swiss milk? WINGFOLD. Never! I hate everything Swiss-the Alps included. I cannot understand the Swiss fever. Crowded hotels, dawn on the Rigi, Matterhorns, endless jödelling and Dresden shepherdesses playing on tuneless pipes! Insanity! GERALD. But, Vernon, didn't you say yesterday that insanity was glorified existence ? WINGFOLD. There are insanities and insanities, my dear Gerald. Sir GILES. Why do you go abroad? WINGFOLD. Because I can't help it. London in summer is Ashdod. But, thank heaven, ubi Dagon, ibi Philistia. Dagon takes his trip in the winter. Sir GILES. What do you mean? STUDLEY. He never means anything, Sir Giles. Sir GILES. What a comfort! I never could understand Orphic Dreams. WINGFOLD. You are one of us, Sir Giles. To be intelligible is to be impossible. Sir GILES. Do you imply that you find it impossible to be intelligible? STUDLEY. Come, Gerald, you're twenty behind! GERALD. Oh, it's no use! I can't play any longer. STUDLEY. Are you unwell? WINGFOLD. Why don't you play with Sir Giles, Malcolm? Gerald, come and sit here. Sir GILES. Come on, Studley. Choose your cue. WINGFOLD. Now, Gerald, what is it? I can see there's something wrong. GERALD. Oh, it's nothing much. I WINGFOLD. You GERALD. Well, the fact is this. It's about Miss Arlington. WINGFOLD. Have you quarrelled? VOL. XVIII. DDD GERALD. If we had! To tell you the truth, I can't marry her. WINGFOLD. I sincerely congratulate you. Gerald, you should never marry. GERALD. I've heard you say that so often. But you don't really think so. WINGFOLD Really! It is the only thing I thought really about. You should never marry. GERALD. But supposing WINGFOLD. Suppose nothing. Supposition is the barren fig-tree. GERALD. Well, I won't suppose. If I break with Miss Arlington, it is only to to WINGFOLD. Good gracious! You surely don't mean GERALD. Marry someone else? I do. WINGFOLD. Poor boy! And tie yourself down to eternal slavery, to wither away beside some sallow girl. GERALD. Sallow girl! If you could only see her, Vernon, you would WINGFOLD. Now, don't! tale. Loveliness and Purity! apples! Please spare me the old You don't know her; GERALD. You are too cynical. you have never even seen her. Had you parted from her, as I did, barely two hours ago, you would be raving of loveliness and purity. Aren't your poems full of loveliness and purity? WINGFOLD. That is Art, Gerald. The strongest inclination of Art is to the inartistic. GERALD. Epigrams! Epigrams! Take me in earnest, Vernon. I love her. WINGFOLD. Who is she? GERALD. She-she lives in the village. WINGFOLD. Oh, spare me; Some Molly or Susan! You are a fool, Gerald. GERALD. My mind is made up. WINGFOLD. Then I repeat it. You are a fool. I see you've finished your game, Sir Giles. Sir GILES. Yes, while you two were chattering away there in the corner. Studley, you aren't up to form to-night. STUDLEY. No one can do anything against your flukes. Sir GILES. I did have a little luck to-night, I confess. But you needn't grudge it me, Studley. GERALD. Hadn't we better join the ladies? STUDLEY. Excuse me, you men. I've one or two letters I want to post. I think I'll go down with them. GERALD. Can't I send the butler? STUDLEY. Oh! don't trouble. I should like the walk this lovely night. [They go out.] SCENE II.-The drawing-room. A shaded lamp on a side-table, near which sits Lady VYVYAN in a low chair doing crochet-work. Miss ARLINGTON at the piano. Lady V. What is that delightful thing you are playing, Felicia ? Miss A. A piece of Schumann-Warum? What a lovely moon there is! (Rises and goes to the window.) Shall I let it in, Auntie ? Lady V. Do, dear! (Miss ARLINGTON draws up the blind.) Miss A. Oh! Lady A. What is it, Felicia? Miss A. I-, nothing, Auntie! (Sits down at the window.) [Enter Sir GILES, GERALD and WINGFOLD. Lady V. So here you are at last. Where is Mr. Studley? Sir GILES. He has just gone down to the village to post some letters. Miss A. What a lot of letters he has had to post lately. WINGFOLD. I admire his energy. I could never write-much less post a letter. Lady V. I am sure you would make a charming correspondent, Mr Wingfold. WINGFOLD. You flatter me, Lady Vyvyan. I could no more write letters than I could pay bills. Lady V. I can't imagine how you poets live. WINGFOLD. We don't live, we dream. What a night for dreams, Miss Arlington; What do you say to a turn in the garden? Come, Gerald, Miss Arlington wants to walk in the garden. Miss A. No, don't let's worry Gerald. He looks tired to-night. We may meet Mr Studley coming back from the post. [They go out. Sir GILES. A charming young lady, your niece, Lady Vyvyan. You are a lucky fellow, Gerald. Lady V. I am always telling him so, Sir Giles. GERALD. Ah! (sighs) Yes, she is very charming. Lady V. You are out of spirits to-night, my dear boy. GERALD. When do we go back to town, mother? Lady V. What a question, Gerald, when we have Sir Giles here! GERALD. I beg his pardon. I was thinking of some business I have in town. Sir GILES. You can run up with me to-morrow, Gerald. I have to see my solicitor. GERALD. Just the thing! But no, I don't think I Besides, I promised to take Studley over the shooting to-morrow. What makes him so late, I wonder? Lady V. He can't have met anyone he knows in the village, can he? Sir GILES. Oh, nobody! GERALD. Of course, he may be with Vernon and Felicia. Sir GILES. Here they are back again! I hear Miss Arlington's voice in the hall. (Enter Miss A. and WINGFOLD.) Why, where's Studley. WINGFOLD. He'll be in shortly. He's admiring the moon outside. Gerald ! GERALD. Well! WINGFOLD. Come to the window. Excuse us, Lady Vyvyan. Look out there! GERALD. Where? WINGFOLD. There-by the shrubbery. Who is that with him? GERALD. My God! Draw down the blind! (CURTAIN.) T. C. VOICE OF THE SEA. I LOVE the song of the rolling world And glass'd in the curves of its throbbing waves And thunder comes echoing out of the caves Where the swooping gull whirls down thro' the wind The freedom of flashing wings, And fancy can bring like a dream to the mind The song that the mermaid sings. And O that there might be my home. By the brink of the rocking deep, Till the wild, wild voice of the whispering foam C. E. B. |