F. Anstey

Scene—The Tombs of the Scaligers at Verona. A seedy and voluble Cicerone, who has insisted upon volunteering his services, is accompanying Miss Trotter, Bob Prendergast, and Culchard. It is a warm afternoon, and Culchard, who has been intrusted with Miss T.'s recent purchases—two Italian blankets, and a huge pot of hammered copper—is not in the most amiable of moods.

The Cicerone (in polyglot). Ecco, Signore (pointing out the interlaced ladders in the wrought-iron railings), l'Échelle, la scala, c'est tout flexible—(He shakes the trellis)—molto, molto curioso!

Culch. (bitterly, to the other two). I warned you how it would be! We shall have this sort of thing all the afternoon now!

Miss T. Well, I don't mind; he's real polite and obliging—and that's something, anyway!

Culch. Polite and obliging! Now I ask you—has he given us the slightest atom of valuable information yet?

Miss T. I guess he's too full of tact to wish to interfere with your special department.

The Cic. (to Culchard, who looks another way). Ici le tombeau di Giovanni della Scala, Signore. Verri grazioso, molto magnifique, joli conservÉ! (He skips up on the pedestal, and touches a sarcophagus.) Non bronzo—verde-antique! [Nods at Culchard, with a beaming smile.

Culch. (with a growl). Va bene, va bene—we know all about it!

Bob P. You may; but you might give Miss Trotter and me a chance, you know!

The Cic. Zees, Marmor di Carrara; zat, Marmor di Verona—Verona marbre. Martino Primo a fait bÂtir. (Counting on his fingers for Culchard's benefit.) Quattuor dichiÈme secolo—fotteen!

Culch. Will you kindly understand that I am quite capable of estimating the precise period of this sculpture for myself.

The Cic. SÎ-sÌ, Signore. Scultore Bonino da Campiglione. (With a wriggle of deferential enthusiasm.) Bellissimo scultore!

Miss T. He's got an idea you find him vurry instructive, Mr. Culchard, and I guess, if you want to disabuse him, you'd better do it in Italian.

Culch. I think my Italian is equal to conveying an impression that I can willingly dispense with his society. (To the Cic.) Andate via—do you understand? An-da-te via!

The Cic. (hurt, and surprised). Ah, Signore!

[He breaks into a fervent vindication of his value as guide, philosopher, and friend.

Miss T. I guess he's endeavouring to intimate that his wounded self-respect isn't going to be healed under haff a dollar. And every red cent I had went on that old pot! Mr. Culchard, will you give him a couple of francs for me?

Culch. I—er—really see no necessity. He's done nothing whatever to deserve it!

Bob P. (eagerly). May I, Miss Trotter? (Producing a ten-lire note.) This is the smallest change I've got.

Miss T. No, I guess ten francs would start him with more self-respect than he's got any use for. Mr. Culchard will give him three—that's one apiece—to punish him for being so real mean!

Culch. (indignantly). Mean? because I——! (He pays and dismisses the Cic.) Now we can examine these monuments in peace—they are really—er—unique examples of the sepulchral pomp of Italian mediÆvalism.

Miss T. They're handsome tombs enough—but considerable cramped. I should have thought these old Scallywags would have looked around for a roomier burying lot. (To Culchard, who shivers.) You aren't feeling sick any?

Culch. No—only pained by such a travesty of a noble name. "Scallywags" for Scaligers seems to me, if I may say so, a very cheap form of humour!

Miss T. Well, it's more than cheap—it isn't going to cost you a cent, so I should think you'd appreciate it!

Bob P. Haw—score for you, Miss Trotter!

Culch. I should have thought myself that mere personality is hardly enough to give point to any repartee—there is a slight difference between brilliancy and—er—brutality!

Bob P. Hullo! You and I are being sat upon pretty heavily, Miss Trotter.

Miss T. I guess our Schoolmaster's abroad. But why Mr. Culchard should want to make himself a train out of my coverlets, I don't just see—he looks majestic enough without that.

[Culchard catches up a blanket which is trailing, and says bad words under his breath.

AT THE TOMB OF JULIET.

Culch. (who is gradually recovering his equanimity). Think of it! the actual spot on which Romeo and Juliet—Shakspeare's Juliet—drew their last breath! Does it not realise the tragedy for you?

Miss T. Well, no—it's a disappointing tomb. I reckoned it would look less like a horse-trough. I should have expected Juliet's Poppa and Momma would want, considering all the facts of the case, to throw more style into her monument!

Culch. (languidly). May not its very simplicity—er—attest the sincerity of their remorse?

Miss T. Do you attach any particular meaning to that observation now? (Culchard bites his lip.) I notice this tomb is full of visiting cards—my! but ain't that curious?

Culch. (instructively). It only shows that this place is not without its pathos and interest for most visitors, no matter what their nationality may be. You don't feel inclined yourself to——?

Miss T. To leave a pasteboard? Why I shouldn't sleep any all night, for fear she'd return my call!

Culch. (producing a note-book). It's fanciful, perhaps—but, if you don't mind waiting a little, I should like to contribute—not my card, but a sonnet. I feel one on its way.

Bob P. Better make sure the tomb's genuine first, hadn't you? Some say it isn't.

Culch. (exasperated). I knew you'd make some matter-of-fact remark of that kind! There—it's no use! Let us go.

Miss T. Why, your sonnets seem as skeery as those lizards there! I hope Juliet won't ever know what she's missed. But likely you'll mail those verses on to her later. [She and Bob P. pass on, laughing.

Culch. (following). She only affects this vulgar flippancy to torment me. If I didn't know that—— There, I've left that infernal pot behind now! [Goes back for it, wrathfully.

In the Amphitheatre; Miss Prendergast, Podbury, and Van Boodeler, are seated on an upper tier.

Podb. (meditatively). I suppose they charged highest for the lowest seats. Wonder whether a lion ever nipped up and helped himself to some fat old buffer in the Stalls when the martyrs turned out a leaner lot than usual!

Van B. There's an ingenuous modernity about our friend's historical speculations that is highly refreshing.

Miss P. There is, indeed—though he might have spared himself and us the trouble of them if he had only remembered that the podium was invariably protected by a railing, and occasionally by euripi, or trenches, You surely learnt that at school, Mr. Podbury?

Podb. I—I dare say. Forgotten all I learnt at school, you know!

Van B. I should infer now, from that statement, that you enjoyed the advantages of a pretty liberal education?

Podb. If that's meant to be cutting, I should save it up for that novel of yours; it may seem smart—there!

Miss P. Really, Mr. Podbury, if you choose to resent a playful remark in that manner, you had better go away.

Podb. Perhaps I had. (Rises, and moves off huffily.) D—— his playfulness! 'Pon my word, poor old Culchard was nothing to that beggar! And she backs him up! But there—it's all part of my probation! (Here Culchard suddenly appears, laden with burdens.) Hullo! are you moving, or what?

Culch. I am merely carrying a few things for Miss Trotter. (Drops the copper pot, which bounds down into the arena.) Dash the thing!... (Returning with it.) It's natural that, in my position, I should have these—er—privileges. (He trips over a blanket.) Conf——Have you happened to see Miss Trotter about, by the way?

Podb. Fancy I saw her down below just now—with Bob. I expect they're walking round under the arches.

Culch. Just so. Do you know, Podbury, I almost think I'll go down and find her. I—I'm curious to hear what her impressions of a place like this are. Such a scene, you know,—so full of associations with—er—the splendours and cruelties of a corrupt past—must produce a powerful effect upon the fresh untutored mind of an American girl, eh?

Miss T.'s voice (distinctly from arena). I'd like ever so much to see Buffalo Bill run his Show in here—he'd just make this old circus hum!

Miss P.'s voice (indistinctly from topmost tier). Almost fancy it all ... Senators—equites—populus—pullati ... yellow sunlight striking down through vellarium ... crimsoned sand ... mirmillo fleeing before secutor ... Diocletian himself, perhaps, lolling over there on cubiculum ... &c. &c. &c.

Culch. The place appears to excite Miss Prendergast's enthusiasm, at all events! [Sighs.

Podb. Rath-er! But then she's no end of a classical swell, you know! [Sighs.

Culch. (putting his arm through Podbury's). Ah, well, my dear Podbury, one mustn't expect too much, must one?

Podb. I don't, old chap—only I'm afraid she does. Suppose we toddle back to the hotel, eh? Getting near table d'hÔte time. [They go out arm-in-arm.