Lyre and Lancet: A Story in Scenes

Pilliner (sweetly). How nice and encouraging of you, dear Lady Cantire, to take up the cudgels for me like that!

[Lady Cantire privately relieves her feelings by expressing a preference for taking up a birch rod, and renews her attack on the Bishop.

Mr. Shorthorn (who has been dragging his mental depths for a fresh topic – hopefully, to Miss Spelwane). By the bye, I haven't asked you what you thought about these – er – revolting daughters?

Miss Spelwane. No, you haven't; and I thought it so considerate of you.

[Mr. Shorthorn gives up dragging, in discouragement.

Pilliner (sotto voce, to Miss Spelwane). Have you quite done sitting on that poor unfortunate man? I heard you!

Miss Spelwane (in the same tone). I'm afraid I have been rather beastly to him. But, oh, he is such a bore – he would talk about his horrid "silos," till I asked him whether they would eat out of his hand. After that, the subject dropped – somehow.

Pilliner. I see you've been punishing him for not happening to be a distinguished poet. I thought he was to have been the fortunate man?

Miss Spelwane. So he was; but they changed it all at the last moment; it really was rather provoking. I could have talked to him.

Pilliner. Lady Rhoda appears to be consoling him. Poor dear old Archie's face is quite a study. But really I don't see that his poetry is so very wonderful; no more did you this morning!

Miss Spelwane. Because you deliberately picked out the worst bits, and read them as badly as you could!

Pilliner. Ah, well, he's here to read them for himself now. I dare say he'd be delighted to be asked.

Miss Spelwane. Do you know, Bertie, that's rather a good idea of yours. I'll ask him to read us something to-night.

Pilliner (aghast). To-night! With all these people here? I say, they'll never stand it, you know.

[Lady Culverin gives the signal.

Miss Spelwane (as she rises). They ought to feel it an immense privilege. I know I shall.

The Bishop (to himself, as he rises). Port in sight – at last! But, oh, what I have had to suffer!

Lady Cantire (at parting). Well, we've had quite one of our old discussions. I always enjoy talking to you, Bishop. But I haven't yet got at your reasons for voting as you did on the Parish Councils Bill; we must go into that upstairs.

The Bishop (with strict veracity). I shall be – ah – all impatience, Lady Cantire. (To himself.) I fervently trust that a repetition of this experience may yet be spared me!

Lady Rhoda (as she leaves Spurrell). You will tell me the name of the stuff upstairs, won't you? So very much ta!

Archie (to himself). I'd like to tar him very much, and feather him too, for cuttin' me out like this! (The men sit down; Spurrell finds himself between Archie and Captain Thicknesse, at the further end of the table; Archie passes the wine to Spurrell with a scowl.) What are you drinkin'? Claret? What do you do your writin' on, now, as a general thing?

Spurrell (on the defensive). On paper, sir, when I've any to do. Do you do yours on a slate?

Captain Thicknesse. I say, that's rather good. Had you there, Bearpark!

Spurrell (to Archie, lowering his voice). Look here, I see you're trying to put a spoke in my wheel. You saw me writing at dinner, and went and told that young lady I was going to take everything off there and then, which you must have known I wasn't likely to do. Now, sir, it's no business of yours that I can see; but, as you seem to be interested, I may tell you that I shall go up and do it in my own room, as soon as I leave this table, and there will be no fuss or publicity about it whatever. I hope you're satisfied now?

Archie. Oh, I'm satisfied. (He rises.) Left my cigarette-case upstairs – horrid bore – must go and get it.

Captain Thicknesse. They'll be bringing some round in another minute.

Archie. Prefer my own. (To himself, as he leaves the hall.) I knew I was right. That bounder is meaning to scribble some rot about us all! He's goin' straight up to his room to do it… Well, he may find a little surprise when he gets there!

Captain Thicknesse (to himself). Mustn't let this poet fellow think I'm jealous; dare say, after all, there's nothing serious between them. Not that it matters to me; any way, I may as well talk to him. I wonder if he knows anything about steeplechasin'.

[He discovers that Spurrell is not unacquainted with this branch of knowledge.

In a Corridor leading to the Housekeeper's Room. Time – 9.30 P.M.

Undershell (to himself). If I wasn't absolutely compelled by sheer hunger, I would not touch a morsel in this house. But I can't get my things back till after ten. As soon as ever I do, I will insist on a conveyance to the nearest inn. In the meantime I must sup. After all, no one need know of this humiliating adventure. And if I am compelled to consort with these pampered menials, I think I shall know how to preserve my dignity – even while adapting myself to their level. And that girl will be there – a distinctly redeeming fact in the situation. I will be easy – affable, even; I will lay aside all foolish pride; it would be unreasonable to visit their employer's snobbery upon their unoffending heads. I hear conversation inside this room. This must be the door. I – I suppose I had better go in.

[He enters.

PART XII

DIGNITY UNDER DIFFICULTIES

In the Housekeeper's Room at Wyvern; Mrs. Pomfret, the Housekeeper, in a black silk gown and her smartest cap, is seated in a winged armchair by the fire, discussing domestic politics with Lady Culverin's maid, Miss Stickler. The Chef, M. Ridevos, is resting on the sofa, in languid converse with Mlle. Chiffon, Miss Spelwane's maid; Pilliner's man, Louch, watches Steptoe, Sir Rupert's valet, with admiring envy, as he makes himself agreeable to Miss Phillipson, who is in demi-toilette, as are all the other ladies' maids present.

Miss Stickler (in an impressive undertone). All I do say, Mrs. Pomfret, ma'am, is this: if that girl Louisa marches into the pew to-morrow, as she did last Sunday, before the second laundry maid – and her only under-scullery maid – such presumptiousness should be put a stop to in future!

Mrs. Pomfret (wheezily). Depend upon it, my dear, it's her ignorance; but I shall most certainly speak about it. Girls must be taught that ranks was made to be respected, and the precedency into that pew has come down from time immemoriable, and is not to be set aside by such as her while I'm 'ousekeeper here.

Mlle. Chiffon (in French, to M. Ridevos). You have the air fatigued, my poor friend! Oh, there – but fatigued!

M. Ridevos. Broken, Mademoiselle, absolutely broken. But what will you? This night I surpass myself. I achieve a masterpiece – a sublime pyramid of quails with a sauce that will become classic. I pay now the penalty of a veritable crisis of nerves. It is of my temperament as artist.

Mlle. Chiffon. And me, my poor friend, how I have suffered from the cookery of these others – I who have the stomach so feeble, so fastidious! Figure to yourself an existence upon the villainous curry, the abominable "Iahristue," beloved by these barbarians, but which succeed with me not at all – oh, but not at all! Since I am here – ah, the difference! I digest as of old – I am gay. But next week to return with mademoiselle to the curry, my poor friend, what regrets!

M. Ridevos. For me, dear mademoiselle, for me the regrets – to hear no more the conversation, so spiritual, so sympathetic, of a fellow-countrywoman. For remark that here they are stupid – they comprehend not. And the old ones they roll at me the eyes to make terror. Behold this Gorgon who approaches. She adores me, my word of honour, this ruin!

[Miss Stickler comes up to the sofa smiling in happy unconsciousness.

Miss Stickler (graciously). So you've felt equal to joining us for once, Mossoo! We feel it a very 'igh compliment, I can assure you. We've really been feeling quite 'urt at the way you keep to yourself – you might be a regular 'ermit for all we see of you!

M. Ridevos. For invent, dear Mees, for create, ze arteeste must live ze solitaire as of rule. To-night – no! I emairge, as you see, to res-tore myself viz your smile.

Miss Stickler (flattered). Well, I've always said, Mossoo, and I always will say, that for polite 'abits and pretty speeches, give me a Frenchman!

M. Ridevos (alarmed). For me it is too moch 'appiness. For anozzer, ah!

[He kisses his fingers with ineffable grace.

Phillipson (advancing to meet Miss Dolman, who has just entered). Why, I'd no idea I should meet you here, Sarah! And how have you been getting on, dear? Still with – ?

Miss Dolman (checking her with a look). Her grace? No, we parted some time ago. I'm with Lady Rhoda Cokayne at present. (In an undertone, as she takes her aside.) You needn't say anything here of your having known me at Mrs. Dickenson's. I couldn't afford to have it get about in the circle I'm in that I'd ever lived with any but the nobility. I'm sure you see what I mean. Of course I don't mind your saying we've met.

Phillipson. Oh, I quite understand. I'll say nothing. I'm obliged to be careful myself, being maid to Lady Maisie Mull.

Miss Dolman. My dear Emma! It is nice seeing you again – such friends as we used to be!

Phillipson. At her Grace's? I'm afraid you're thinking of somebody else. (She crosses to Mrs. Pomfret.) Mrs. Pomfret, what's become of the gentleman I travelled down with – the horse doctor? I do hope he means to come in; he would amuse you, Mr. Steptoe. I never heard anybody go on like him; he did make me laugh so!

Mrs. Pomfret. I really can't say where he is, my dear. I sent up word to let him know he was welcome here whenever he pleased; but perhaps he's feeling a little shy about coming down.

Phillipson. Oh, I don't think he suffers much from that. (As the door opens.) Ah, there he is!

Mrs. Pomfret (rising, with dignity, to receive Undershell, who enters in obvious embarrassment). Come in, sir. I'm glad to see you've found your way down at last. Let me see, I haven't the advantage of knowing your – Mr. Undershell, to be sure! Well, Mr. Undershell, we're very pleased to see you. I hope you'll make yourself quite at home. Her ladyship gave particular directions that we was to look after you —most particular she was!

Undershell. You are very good, ma'am. I am obliged to Lady Culverin for her (with a gulp) condescension. But I shall not trespass more than a short time upon your hospitality.

Mrs. Pomfret. Don't speak of it as trespassing, sir. It's not often we have a gentleman of your profession as a visitor, but you are none the less welcome. Now I'd better introduce you all round, and then you won't feel yourself a stranger. Miss Phillipson you have met, I know.

[She introduces him to the others in turn; Undershell bows helplessly.

Steptoe (with urbanity). Your fame, sir, has preceded you. And you'll find us a very friendly and congenial little circle on a better acquaintance – if this is your first experience of this particular form of society?

Undershell (to himself). I mustn't be stiff, I'll put them at their ease. (Aloud.) Why, I must admit, Mr. Steptoe, that I have never before had the privilege of entering the – (with an ingratiating smile all round him) the "Pugs' Parlour," as I understand you call this very charming room.

[The company draw themselves up and cough in disapprobation.

Steptoe (very stiffly). Pardon me, sir, you have been totally misinformed. Such an expression is not current here.

Mrs. Pomfret (more stiffly still). It is never alluded to in my presence except as the 'ousekeeper's room, which is the right and proper name for it. There may be some other term for it in the servants' 'all for anything I know to the contrary – but, if you'll excuse me for saying so, Mr. Undershell, we'd prefer for it not to be repeated in our presence.

Undershell (confusedly). I – I beg ten thousand pardons. (To himself.) To be pulled up like this for trying to be genial – it's really too humiliating!

Steptoe (relaxing). Well, well, sir; we must make some allowances for a neophyte. You'll know better another time, I dare say. Miss Phillipson here has been giving you a very favourable character as a highly agreeable rattle, Mr. Undershell. I hope we may be favoured with a specimen of your social talents later on. We're always grateful here for anything in that way – such as a recitation now, or a comic song, or a yumorous imitation – anything, in short, calculated to promote the general harmony and festivity will be appreciated.

Miss Stickler (acidly). Provided it is free from any helement of coarseness, which we do not encourage – far from it!

Undershell (suppressing his irritation). You need be under no alarm, madam. I do not propose to attempt a performance of any kind.

Phillipson. Don't be so solemn, Mr. Undershell! I'm sure you can be as comical as any play-actor when you choose!

Undershell. I really don't know how I can have given you that impression. If you expect me to treat my lyre like a horse-collar, and grin through it, I'm afraid I am unable to gratify you.

Steptoe (at sea). Capital, sir, the professional allusion very neat. You'll come out presently, I can see, when supper's on the table. Can't expect you to rattle till you've something inside of you, can we?

Miss Stickler. Reelly, Mr. Steptoe, I am surprised at such commonness from you!

Steptoe. Now you're too severe, Miss Stickler, you are indeed. An innocent little Judy Mow like that!

Tredwell (outside). Don't answer me, sir. Ham I butler 'ere, or ham I not? I've a precious good mind to report you for such a hignorant blunder… I don't want to hear another word about the gentleman's cloes – you'd no hearthly business for to do such a thing at all! (He enters and flings himself down on a chair.) That Thomas is beyond everything – stoopid hass as he is!

Mrs. Pomfret (concerned). La, Mr. Tredwell, you do seem put out! Whatever have Thomas been doing now?

Undershell (to himself). It's really very good of him to take it to heart like this! (Aloud.) Pray don't let it distress you; it's of no consequence, none at all!

Tredwell (glaring). I'm the best judge of that, Mr. Undershell, sir – if you'll allow me; I don't call my porogatives of no consequence, whatever you may! And that feller Thomas, Mrs. Pomfret, actially 'ad the hordacity, without consulting me previous, to go and 'and a note to one of our gentlemen at the hupstairs table, all about some hassinine mistake he'd made with his cloes! What call had he to take it upon himself? I feel puffecly disgraced that such a thing should have occurred under my authority!

[The Steward's Room Boy has entered with a dish, and listens with secret anxiety on his own account.

Undershell. I assure you there is no harm done. The gentleman is wearing my evening clothes – but he's going to return them —

[The conclusion of the sentence is drowned in a roar of laughter from the majority.

Tredwell (gasping). Hevenin' cloes! Your hevenin' – P'raps you'll 'ave the goodness to explain yourself, sir!

Steptoe. No, no, Tredwell, my dear fellah, you don't understand our friend here – he's a bit of a wag, don't you see? He's only trying to pull your leg, that's all; and, Gad, he did it too! But you mustn't take liberties with this gentleman, Mr. Undershell; he's an important personage here, I can tell you!

Undershell (earnestly). But I never meant – if you'll only let me explain —

[The Boy has come behind him, and administers a surreptitious kick, which Undershell rightly construes as a hint to hold his tongue.

Tredwell (in solemn offence). I'm accustomed, Mr. Hundershell, to be treated in this room with respect and deference – especially by them as come here in the capacity of guests. From such I regard any attempt to pull my leg as in hindifferent taste – to say the least of it. I wish to 'ave no more words on the subjick, which is a painful one, and had better be dropped, for the sake of all parties. Mrs. Pomfret, I see supper is on the table, so, by your leave, we had better set down to it.

Phillipson (to Undershell). Never mind him, pompous old thing! It was awfully cheeky of you, though. You can sit next me if you like.

Undershell (to himself, as he avails himself of this permission). I shall only make things worse if I explain now. But, oh, great Heavens, what a position for a poet!

PART XIII

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

At the Supper-table in the Housekeeper's Room. Mrs. Pomfret and Tredwell are at the head and foot of the table respectively. Undershell is between Mrs. Pomfret and Miss Phillipson. The Steward's Room Boy waits.

Tredwell. I don't see Mr. Adams here this evening, Mrs. Pomfret. What's the reason of that?

Mrs. Pomfret. Why, he asked to be excused to-night, Mr. Tredwell. You see some of the visitors' coachmen are putting up their horses here, and he's helping Mr. Checkley entertain them. (To Undershell.) Mr. Adams is our stud-groom, and him and Mr. Checkley, the 'ed coachman, are very friendly just now. Adams is very clever with his horses, I believe, and I'm sure he'd have liked a talk with you; it's a pity he's engaged elsewhere this evening.

Undershell (mystified). I – I'm exceedingly sorry to have missed him, ma'am. (To himself.) Is the stud-groom literary, I wonder?.. Ah, no, I remember now; I allowed Miss Phillipson to conclude that my tastes were equestrian. Perhaps it's just as well the stud-groom isn't here!

Mrs. Pomfret. Well, he may drop in later on. I shouldn't be surprised if you and he had met before.

Undershell (to himself). I should. (Aloud.) I hardly think it's probable.

Mrs. Pomfret. I've known stranger things than that happen. Why, only the other day, a gentleman came into this very room, as it might be yourself, and it struck me he was looking very hard at me, and by and bye he says, "You don't recollect me, ma'am, but I know you very well," says he. So I said to him, "You certainly have the advantage of me at present, sir." "Well, ma'am," he says, "many years ago I had the honour and privilege of being steward's room boy in a house where you was still-room maid; and I consider I owe the position I have since attained entirely to the good advice you used to give me, as I've never forgot it, ma'am," says he. Then it flashed across me who it was – "Mr. Pocklington!" says I. Which it were. And him own man to the Duke of Dumbleshire! Which was what made it so very nice and 'andsome of him to remember me all that time.

Undershell (perfunctorily). It must have been most gratifying, ma'am. (To himself.) I hope this old lady hasn't any more anecdotes of this highly interesting nature. I mustn't neglect Miss Phillipson – especially as I haven't very long to stay here.

[He consults his watch stealthily.

Miss Phillipson (observing the action). I'm sorry you find it so slow here; it's not very polite of you to show it quite so openly though, I must say.

[She pouts.

Undershell (to himself). I can't let this poor girl think me a brute! But I must be careful not to go too far. (To her, in an undertone which he tries to render unemotional.) Don't misunderstand me like that. If I looked at my watch, it was merely to count the minutes that are left. In one short half-hour I must go – I must pass out of your life, and you must forget – oh, it will be easy for you– but for me, ah! you cannot think that I shall carry away a heart entirely unscathed! Believe me, I shall always look back gratefully, regretfully, on —

Phillipson (bending her head with a gratified little giggle). I declare you're beginning all that again. I never did see such a cure as you are.

Undershell (to himself, displeased). I wish she could bring herself to take me a little more seriously. I can not consider it a compliment to be called a "cure" – whatever that is.

Steptoe (considering it time to interfere). Come, Mr. Undershell, all this whispering reelly is not fair on the company! You mustn't hide your bushel under a napkin like this; don't reserve all your sparklers for Miss Phillipson there.

Undershell (stiffly). I – ah – was not making any remark that could be described as a sparkler, sir. I don't sparkle.

Phillipson (demurely). He was being rather sentimental just then, Mr. Steptoe, as it happens. Not that he can't sparkle, when he likes. I'm sure if you'd heard how he went on in the fly!

Steptoe (with malice). Not having been privileged to be present, perhaps our friend here could recollect a few of his happiest efforts and repeat them.

Miss Dolman. Do, Mr. Undershell, please. I do love a good laugh.

Undershell (crimson). I – you really must excuse me. I said nothing worth repeating. I don't remember that I was particularly —

Steptoe. Pardon me. Afraid I was indiscreet. We must spare Miss Phillipson's blushes by all manner of means.

Phillipson. Oh, it was nothing of that sort, Mr. Steptoe! I've no objection to repeat what he said. He called me a little green something or other. No; he said that in the train, though. But he would have it that the old cab-horse was a magic steed, and the fly an enchanted chariot; and I don't know what all. (As nobody smiles.) It sounded awfully funny as he said it, with his face perfectly solemn like it is now, I assure you it did!

Steptoe (patronisingly). I can readily believe it. We shall have you contributing to some of our yumerous periodicals, Mr. Undershell, sir, before long. Such facetious talent is too good to be lost, it reelly is.

Undershell (to himself, writhing). I gave her credit for more sense. To make me publicly ridiculous like this!

[He sulks.

Miss Stickler (to M. Ridevos, who suddenly rises). Mossoo, you're not going! Why, whatever's the matter?

M. Ridevos. Pairmeet zat I make my depart. I am cot at ze art.

[General outcry and sensation.

Mrs. Pomfret (concerned). You never mean that, Mossoo? And a nice dish of quails just put on, too, that they haven't even touched upstairs!