Short Plays · Preface (3/6) (2/2) (1/2)
Enter Lydia and Lucian.**
Lydia Welcome, dear cousin, to my London house. Of late you have been chary of your visits.
Lucian I have been greatly occupied of late. The minister to whom I act as scribe In Downing Street was born in Birmingham, And, like a thoroughbred commercial statesman, Splits his infinitives, which I, poor slave, Must reunite, though all the time my heart Yearns for my gentle coz’s company.
Lydia Lucian: there is some other reason. Think! Since England was a nation every mood Her scribes have prepositionally split; But thine avoidance dates from yestermonth.
Lucian There is a man I like not haunts this house.
Lydia Thou speak’st of Cashel Byron?
Lucian Aye, of him. Hast thou forgotten that eventful night When as we gathered were at Hoskyn House To hear a lecture by Herr Abendgasse, He placed a single finger on my chest, And I, ensorceled, would have sunk supine Had not a chair received my falling form.
Lydia Pooh! That was but by way of illustration.
Lucian What right had he to illustrate his point Upon my person? Was I his assistant That he should try experiments on me As Simpson did on his with chloroform? Now, by the cannon balls of Galileo He hath unmanned me: all my nerve is gone. This very morning my official chief, Tapping with friendly forefinger this button, Levelled me like a thunderstricken elm Flat upon the Colonial Office floor.
Lydia Fancies, coz.
Lucian Fancies! Fits! the chief said fits! Delirium tremens! the chlorotic dance Of Vitus! What could anyone have thought? Your ruffian friend hath ruined me. By Heaven, I tremble at a thumbnail. Give me drink.
Lydia What ho, without there! Bashville.
Bashville Without. Coming, madam.
Enter Bashville.
Lydia My cousin ails, Bashville. Procure some wet. Exit Bashville.
Lucian Some wet!!! Where learnt you that atrocious word? This is the language of a flower-girl.
Lydia True. It is horrible. Said I “Some wet”? I meant, some drink. Why did I say “Some wet”? Am I ensorceled too? “Some wet”! Fie! fie! I feel as though some hateful thing had stained me. Oh, Lucian, how could I have said “Some wet”?
Lucian The horrid conversation of this man Hath numbed thy once unfailing sense of fitness.
Lydia Nay, he speaks very well: he’s literate: Shakespeare he quotes unconsciously.
Lucian And yet Anon he talks pure pothouse.
Enter Bashville.
Bashville Sir: your potion.
Lucian Thanks. He drinks. I am better.
A Newsboy Calling without. Extra special Star! Result of the great fight! Name of the winner!
Lydia Who calls so loud?
Bashville The papers, madam.
Lydia Why? Hath ought momentous happened?
Bashville Madam: yes. He produces a newspaper. All England for these thrilling paragraphs A week has waited breathless.
Lydia Read them us.
Bashville Reading. “At noon today, unknown to the police, Within a thousand miles of Wormwood Scrubbs, Th’ Australian Champion and his challenger, The Flying Dutchman, formerly engaged I’ the mercantile marine, fought to a finish. Lord Worthington, the well-known sporting peer Acted as referee.”
Lydia Lord Worthington!
Bashville “The bold Ned Skene revisited the ropes To hold the bottle for his quondam novice; Whilst in the seaman’s corner were assembled Professor Palmer and the Chelsea Snob. Mellish, whose epigastrium has been hurt, ’Tis said, by accident at Wiltstoken, Looked none the worse in the Australian’s corner. The Flying Dutchman wore the Union Jack: His colors freely sold amid the crowd; But Cashel’s well-known spot of white on blue⁠—”
Lydia Whose, did you say?
Bashville Cashel’s, my lady.
Lydia Lucian: Your hand⁠—a chair⁠—
Bashville Madam: you’re ill.
Lydia Proceed. What you have read I do not understand; Yet I will hear it through. Proceed.
Lucian Proceed.
Bashville “But Cashel’s well-known spot of white on blue Was fairly rushed for. Time was called at twelve, When, with a smile of confidence upon His ocean-beaten mug⁠—”
Lydia His mug?
Lucian Explaining. His face.
Bashville Continuing. “The Dutchman came undaunted to the scratch, But found the champion there already. Both Most heartily shook hands, amid the cheers Of their encouraged backers. Two to one Was offered on the Melbourne nonpareil; And soon, so fit the Flying Dutchman seemed, Found takers everywhere. No time was lost In getting to the business of the day. The Dutchman led at once, and seemed to land On Byron’s dicebox; but the seaman’s reach, Too short for execution at long shots, Did not get fairly home upon the ivory; And Byron had the best of the exchange.”
Lydia I do not understand. What were they doing?
Lucian Fighting with naked fists.
Lydia Oh, horrible! I’ll hear no more. Or stay: how did it end? Was Cashel hurt?
Lucian To Bashville. Skip to the final round.
Bashville “Round Three: the rumors that had gone about Of a breakdown in Byron’s recent training Seemed quite confirmed. Upon the call of time He rose, and, looking anything but cheerful, Proclaimed with every breath Bellows to Mend. At this point six to one was freely offered Upon the Dutchman; and Lord Worthington Plunged at this figure till he stood to lose A fortune should the Dutchman, as seemed certain, Take down the number of the Panley boy. The Dutchman, glutton as we know he is, Seemed this time likely to go hungry. Cashel Was clearly groggy as he slipped the sailor, Who, not to be denied, followed him up, Forcing the fighting mid tremendous cheers.”
Lydia Oh stop⁠—no more⁠—or tell the worst at once. I’ll be revenged. Bashville: call the police. This brutal sailor shall be made to know There’s law in England.
Lucian Do not interrupt him: Mine ears are thirsting. Finish, man. What next?
Bashville “Forty to one, the Dutchman’s friends exclaimed. Done, said Lord Worthington, who showed himself A sportsman every inch. Barely the bet Was booked, when, at the reeling champion’s jaw The sailor, bent on winning out of hand, Sent in his right. The issue seemed a cert, When Cashel, ducking smartly to his left, Cross-countered like a hundredweight of brick⁠—”
Lucian Death and damnation!
Lydia Oh, what does it mean?
Bashville “The Dutchman went to grass, a beaten man.”
Lydia Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Oh, well done, Cashel!
Bashville “A scene of indescribable excitement Ensued; for it was now quite evident That Byron’s grogginess had all along Been feigned to make the market for his backers. We trust this sample of colonial smartness Will not find imitators on this side. The losers settled up like gentlemen; But many felt that Byron showed bad taste In taking old Ned Skene upon his back, And, with Bob Mellish tucked beneath his oxter, Sprinting a hundred yards to show the crowd The perfect pink of his condition”⁠—A knock.
Lydia Turning pale. Bashville Didst hear? A knock.
Bashville Madam: ’tis Byron’s knock. Shall I admit him?
Lucian Reeking from the ring! Oh, monstrous! Say you’re out.
Lydia Send him away. I will not see the wretch. How dare he keep Secrets from me? I’ll punish him. Pray say I’m not at home. Bashville turns to go. Yet stay. I am afraid He will not come again.
Lucian A consummation Devoutly to be wished by any lady. Pray, do you wish this man to come again?
Lydia No, Lucian. He hath used me very ill. He should have told me. I will ne’er forgive him. Say, Not at home.
Bashville Yes, madam. Exit.
Lydia Stay⁠—
Lucian Stopping her. No, Lydia: You shall not countermand that proper order. Oh, would you cast the treasure of your mind, The thousands at your bank, and, above all, Your unassailable social position Before this soulless mass of beef and brawn?
Lydia Nay, coz: you’re prejudiced.
Cashel Without. Liar and slave!
Lydia What words were those?
Lucian The man is drunk with slaughter.
Enter Bashville running: he shuts the door and locks it.
Bashville Save yourselves: at the staircase foot the champion Sprawls on the mat, by trick of wrestler tripped; But when he rises, woe betide us all!
Lydia Who bade you treat my visitor with violence?
Bashville He would not take my answer; thrust the door Back in my face; gave me the lie i’ the throat; Averred he felt your presence in his bones. I said he should feel mine there too, and felled him; Then fled to bar your door.
Lydia O lover’s instinct! He felt my presence. Well, let him come in. We must not fail in courage with a fighter. Unlock the door.
Lucian Stop. Like all women, Lydia, You have the courage of immunity. To strike you were against his code of honor; But me, above the belt, he may perform on T’ th’ height of his profession. Also Bashville.
Bashville Think not of me, sir. Let him do his worst. Oh, if the valor of my heart could weigh The fatal difference twixt his weight and mine, A second battle should he do this day: Nay, though outmatched I be, let but my mistress Give me the word: instant I’ll take him on Here⁠—now⁠—at catchweight. Better bite the carpet A man, than fly, a coward.
Lucian Bravely said: I will assist you with the poker.
Lydia No: I will not have him touched. Open the door.
Bashville Destruction knocks thereat. I smile, and open.
Bashville* opens the door. Dead silence. Cashel* enters, in tears. A solemn pause.
Cashel You know my secret?
Lydia Yes.
Cashel And thereupon You bade your servant fling me from your door.
Lydia I bade my servant say I was not here.
Cashel To Bashville. Why didst thou better thy instruction, man? Hadst thou but said, “She bade me tell thee this,” Thoudst burst my heart. I thank thee for thy mercy.
Lydia Oh, Lucian, didst thou call him “drunk with slaughter”? Canst thou refrain from weeping at his woe?
Cashel To Lucian. The unwritten law that shields the amateur Against professional resentment, saves thee. O coward, to traduce behind their backs Defenceless prizefighters!
Lucian Thou dost avow Thou art a prizefighter.
Cashel It was my glory. I had hoped to offer to my lady there My belts, my championships, my heaped-up stakes, My undefeated record; but I knew Behind their blaze a hateful secret lurked.
Lydia Another secret?
Lucian Is there worse to come?
Cashel Know ye not then my mother is an actress?
Lucian How horrible!
Lydia Nay, nay: how interesting!
Cashel A thousand victories cannot wipe out That birthstain. Oh, my speech bewrayeth it: My earliest lesson was the player’s speech In Hamlet; and to this day I express myself More like a mobled queen than like a man Of flesh and blood. Well may your cousin sneer! What’s Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba?
Lucian Injurious upstart: if by Hecuba Thou pointest darkly at my lovely cousin, Know that she is to me, and I to her, What never canst thou be. I do defy thee; And maugre all the odds thy skill doth give, Outside I will await thee.
Lydia I forbid Expressly any such duello. Bashville: The door. Put Mr. Webber in a hansom, And bid the driver hie to Downing Street. No answer: ’tis my will.
Exeunt Lucian and Bashville.
And now, farewell. You must not come again, unless indeed You can some day look in my eyes and say: Lydia: my occupation’s gone.
Cashel Ah, no: It would remind you of my wretched mother. O God, let me be natural a moment! What other occupation can I try? What would you have me be?
Lydia A gentleman.
Cashel A gentleman! I, Cashel Byron, stoop To be the thing that bets on me! the fool I flatter at so many coins a lesson! The screaming creature who beside the ring Gambles with basest wretches for my blood, And pays with money that he never earned! Let me die brokenhearted rather!
Lydia But You need not be an idle gentleman. I call you one of Nature’s gentlemen.
Cashel That’s the collection for the loser, Lydia. I am not wont to need it. When your friends Contest elections, and at foot o’ th’ poll Rue their presumption, ’tis their wont to claim A moral victory. In a sort they are Nature’s M.P.’s. I am not yet so threadbare As to accept these consolation stakes.
Lydia You are offended with me.
Cashel Yes, I am. I can put up with much; but⁠—“Nature’s gentleman”! I thank your ladyship of Lyons, but Must beg to be excused.
Lydia But surely, surely, To be a prizefighter, and maul poor mariners With naked knuckles, is no work for you.
Cashel Thou dost arraign the inattentive Fates That weave my thread of life in ruder patterns Than these that lie, antimacassarly, Asprent thy drawing room. As well demand Why I at birth chose to begin my life A speechless babe, hairless, incontinent, Hobbling upon all fours, a nurse’s nuisance? Or why I do propose to lose my strength, To blanch my hair, to let the gums recede Far up my yellowing teeth, and finally Lie down and moulder in a rotten grave? Only one thing more foolish could have been, And that was to be born, not man, but woman. This was thy folly, why rebuk’st thou mine?
Lydia These are not things of choice.
Cashel And did I choose My quick divining eye, my lightning hand, My springing muscle and untiring heart? Did I implant the instinct in the race That found a use for these, and said to me, Fight for us, and be fame and fortune thine?
Lydia But there are other callings in the world.
Cashel Go tell thy painters to turn stockbrokers, Thy poet friends to stoop o’er merchants’ desks And pen prose records of the gains of greed. Tell bishops that religion is outworn, And that the Pampa to the horsebreaker Opes new careers. Bid the professor quit His fraudulent pedantries, and do i’ the world The thing he would teach others. Then return To me and say: Cashel: they have obeyed; And on that pyre of sacrifice I, too, Will throw my championship.
Lydia But ’tis so cruel.
Cashel Is it so? I have hardly noticed that, So cruel are all callings. Yet this hand, That many a two days’ bruise hath ruthless given, Hath kept no dungeon locked for twenty years, Hath slain no sentient creature for my sport. I am too squeamish for your dainty world, That cowers behind the gallows and the lash, The world that robs the poor, and with their spoil Does what its tradesmen tell it. Oh, your ladies! Sealskinned and egret-feathered; all defiance To Nature; cowering if one say to them “What will the servants think?” Your gentlemen! Your tailor-tyrannized visitors of whom Flutter of wing and singing in the wood Make chickenbutchers. And your medicine men! Groping for cures in the tormented entrails Of friendly dogs. Pray have you asked all these To change their occupations? Find you mine So grimly crueller? I cannot breathe An air so petty and so poisonous.
Lydia But find you not their manners very nice?