Dear Lady,—When you bade me come To grace your crowded “Kettledrum,” And mingle in the best society; When Melba sang, and Elman played, And waiters handed lemonade (Tempering music with sobriety), I never had the least suspicion Of my precarious position. But now, with opened eyes, I leap To this conclusion, shrewd and deep, (What cerebral agility!): Your compliments were insincere, Your hospitality was mere “Insistent affability!” And I, a foolish man of letters, Who thought to mingle with his betters! Ah me! How pride precedes a fall! That one who haunted “rout” or ball, When invitations were acquirable, Should see himself as others see, Becoming suddenly, like me, A social “undesirable”; Invading the selectest clique With truly adamantine cheek! How proud an air I used to wear! When titled persons turned to stare, I blushed like a geranium. When lovely ladies softly said: “Oh, Duchess, did you see his head?” “What a capacious cranium!” “Yes; isn’t that the man who writes?” “I wonder why they look such frights!” I used to bridle coyly when Some schoolmate, of the Upper Ten (They were not over-numerous!), Would slap my back, and shout “By Jove! “Ain’t you a literary cove?” (As tho’ ’twere something humorous!) “Those books of yours are grand, you bet! What? No, I haven’t read them yet.” But now I realize my fate; A stranger at the social gate (Tho’ treated with civility); The choicest circles I frequent Must be the ones my brains invent, With fictional futility; The only Royalties I know Are those my publisher can show! The garden-party, and the tea, Are surely not for men like me (O Vanity of Vanities!); Such entertainments are taboo, And might debase my talents to Additional inanities. The Poet has no business there: Que ferait-il dans cette galÈre? Ah, lonely is the Author’s lot! Assuming, if he hath it not, A suitable humility. For when his daily work is done, He must inevitably shun The homes of the Nobility, As, with dejected steps, he passes To supper with the middle classes! |