F. Anstey

Scene—Gardens belonging to the HÔtel du Parc, Lugano. Time, afternoon; the orchestra is turning up in a kiosk. Culchard is seated on a bench in the shade, keeping an anxious eye upon the opposite door.

Culch. (to himself). She said she had a headache, and made her father and Van Boodeler go out on the lake without her. But she certainly gave me to understand that she might come out when the band played, if she felt better. The question is, whether she means to feel better or not. She is the most tantalizing girl! I don't know what to make of her. Not a single reference, as yet, to that last talk we had at Bingen. I must see if I can't recall it to her memory—if she comes. I'll wait here, on the chance of it—we are not likely to be dis——. Confound it all—Podbury! (with suppressed irritation as Podbury comes up). Well, do you want anything in particular?

Podb. (cheerfully, as he sits down). Only the pleasure of your society, old chap. How nicely you do put things!

Culch. The—er—fact is, I can't promise to be a particularly lively companion just now.

Podb. Not by way of a change? Ah, well, it's a pity—but I must put up with you as you are, I suppose. You see—(with a grin)—I've got that vow to work out.

Culch. Possibly—but I haven't. As I've already told you—I retire.

Podb. Wobbled back to Miss Trotter again, eh? Matter of taste, of course, but, for my part, I think your first impression of her was nearer the truth—she's not what I call a highly cultivated sort of girl, y' know.

Culch. You are naturally exacting on that point, but have the goodness to leave my first impressions alone, and—er—frankly, Podbury, I see no necessity (now, at all events) to take that ridiculous—hum—penance too literally. We are travelling together, and I imagine that is enough for Miss Prendergast.

Podb. It's enough for me—especially when you make yourself so doosid amiable as this. You needn't alarm yourself—you won't have any more of my company than I can help; only I must say, for two fellows who came out to do a tour together, it's—— [Walks away, grumbling.

Later. The band has finished playing; Miss Trotter is on the bench with Culchard.

Miss T. And you mean to tell me you've never met anybody since you even cared to converse with?

Culch. (diplomatically). Does that strike you as so very incredible?

Miss T. Well, it strikes me as just a little too thin. I judged you'd go away, and forget I ever existed.

Culch. (with tender reproach). How little you know me! I may not be an—er—demonstrative man, my—er—feelings are not easily roused, but, once roused, well—(wounded)—I think I may claim to possess an ordinary degree of constancy!

Miss T. Well, I'm sure I ought to feel it a vurry high compliment to have you going round grieving all this time on my account.

Culch. Grieving! Ah, if I could only tell you what I went through! (Decides, on reflection, that the less he says about this the better.) But all that is past. And now may I not expect a more definite answer to the question I asked at Bingen? Your reply then was—well, a little ambiguous.

Miss T. I guess it's got to be just about as ambiguous now—there don't seem anything I can say. There's times when I feel as if it might be sort of elevating and improving to have you shining around; and there's other times when I suspect that, if it went on for any considerable period, likely I'd weaken. I'm not just sure. And I cann't ever make myself believe but what you're disapproving of me, inside of you, most all the time!

Culch. Pray dismiss such—er—morbid misgivings, dear Miss Trotter. Show that you do so by accepting me as your guide and companion through life!

Miss T. My! but that sounds like a proposal?

Culch. I intended it to bear that—er—construction. It is a proposal—made after the fullest reflection.

Miss T. I'm ever so obliged. But we don't fix things quite that way in my country. We want to feel pretty sure, first, we shann't get left. And it don't seem to me as if I'd had opportunities enough of studying your leading characteristics. I'll have to study them some more before I know whereabouts I am; and I want you to understand that I'm not going to commit myself to anything at present. That mayn't be sentiment, but I guess it's common-sense, anyway. And all you've got to do is, just to keep around, and kind of impress me with a conviction that you're the vurry brightest and best man in the entire universe, and I don't believe you'll find much difficulty about that. And now I guess we'll go into table d'hÔte—I'm just as ravenous!

Culch. (to himself, as he follows her). Really, this is not much better than Ruskin, after all. But I don't despair. That last remark was distinctly encouraging!

Scene—A large Salle À Manger, decorated in the Pompeian style. Table d'hÔte has begun. Culchard is seated between Miss Trotter and a large and conversational stranger. Opposite are three empty chairs.

Culchard's Neighbour. Then you're going on to Venice? Well, you take my advice. When you get there, you ask for tunny. Don't forget—tunny!

Culch. (who wants to talk to Miss T.). Tunny? Thank you. I—er—will certainly remember his name, if I require a guide.

His N. A guide? No, no—tunny's a fish, Sir, a coarse red fish, with flesh like a raw beefsteak.

Culch. Is that so? Then I will make a point of asking for it—if I want raw beefsteak. [Attempts to turn to Miss T.

His N. That's what I did when I was at Venice. I sent for the Manager. He came. I said to him, "Look here, I'm an Englishman. My name's Bellerby. (Culchard bows in patient boredom.) I've heard of your Venetian tunny. I wish to taste it. Bring me some!"

Culch. (crushingly). A most excellent method of obtaining it, no doubt. (To Waiter.) NumÉro vingt-sept, demi bouteille de Chianti, et siphon!

His N. You don't wait till I've done, Sir! I didn't obtain it—not at first. The man made excuses. I was prepared for that. I told him plainly, "I know what you're thinking—it's a cheap fish, and you fancy I'm ordering it out of economy!"

Culch. (raising his eyebrows for Miss T.'s benefit). Of course, he naturally would think so. And that is how you got your tunny? I see.

[Mr. Bellerby stares at him suspiciously, and decides to suppress the remainder of his tunny.

Miss T. This hotel seems to be thinning some. We've three ghosts right in front of us this evening.

Culch. (turning with effusion). So we have! My friend is one, and he'll be here presently, but I much prefer myself to see every seat occupied. There is something so depressing about a vacant chair, don't you think?

Miss T. It's calculated to put one in mind of Macbeth's little dinner-party, certainly. But you can cheer up, Mr. Culchard, here comes a couple of belated Banquos. My gracious, I do like that girl's face—she has such a perfectly lovely expression, and looks real superior too!

Culch. (who has just dropped his glasses into his soup). I—ah—which lady are you referring to? (He cleans and adjusts his glasses—to discover that he is face to face with Miss Hypatia Prendergast.) Oh ... I—I see—precisely, quite so! (He turns to Bellerby to cover his confusion and avoid meeting Miss Prendergast's eye.) I beg your pardon, you were describing how you caught a tunny? Pray continue.

Mr. Bellerby (stiffly). Excuse me, I don't seem fortunate enough to have secured your undivided attention.

Culch. (with intense interest). Quite the contrary, I assure you! You were saying you always ordered it out of economy?

Mr. B. Pardon me—I was saying nothing of the sort. I was saying that I told the Manager I knew that was why he thought I ordered it—a rather different thing! "You're quite wrong," I said. "You may pay twopence-halfpenny a pound for it, and charge me half-a-crown, if you like, but I mean to taste that tunny!" I was determined not to be done out of my tunny, Sir!

Culch. (breathlessly). And what did the tunny—I mean the Manager—say to that?

Mr. B. Oh, made more difficulties—it wasn't to be got, and so on. At last I said to him (very quietly, but he saw I was in earnest), "Now I tell you what it is—I'm going to have that tunny, and, if you refuse to give it me,—well, I shall just send my courier out for it, that's all!" So, with that, they brought me some—and anything more delicious I never tasted in all my life!

Culch. (to himself). If I can only keep him on at this tunny! (Aloud.) And—er—what does it taste like exactly, now?

Mr. B. (pregnantly.) You order it, Sir—insist on having it. Then you'll know what it tastes like! [He devotes himself to his soup.

Culch. (with his eyes lowered—to himself.) I must look up in another minute—and then! [He shivers.