  At the end of “Patience,” it will be remembered, the twenty love-sick maidens gave up Æstheticism and decided to marry officers of Dragoons. But a taste for intellectual gimcrackery is not so easily eradicated, and it is probable that the poor ladies neither liked nor were liked at Aldershot. That is certainly the impression conveyed by the following sequel. OUT OF PATIENCE; OR, BUNTHORNE AVENGED.Scene.—Drawing-room of Colonel Calverley’s house at Aldershot. His wife, Saphir, is entertaining Angela, Ella, and the rest of the love-sick maidens—now married to stalwart officers of Dragoons—at afternoon tea. Each lady dandles a baby, which squalls intermittently. Chorus. Twenty heart-sick ladies we, Living down at Aldershot, Every morning fervently Wishing, wishing we were not. Twenty married ladies we, And our fate we may not alter; If we dare to mutiny They will send us to Gibraltar! [The babies, appalled at this prospect, howl unanimously. Saphir. [As soon as she can make herself heard.] Our mornings go in stilling baby’s squalls. All. Ah, miserie! Saphir. Our afternoons in paying tiresome calls, All. And drinking tea! Saphir. And then those long, long, regimental balls! All. Ennuie, ennuie! Saphir. After a time that sort of pleasure palls, All. As you may see. [All yawn, including the babies. Chorus. Twenty heart-sick ladies we, etc. Angela. [Sighs.] It’s a dreadful thing that we should all have married officers in the Army. Saphir. And all have to live at Aldershot. Ella. All except Lady Jane. Saphir. But she married a Duke. Ella. I don’t see why that should make any difference. Angela. You wouldn’t expect a Duchess to live in the provinces. She couldn’t be spared. Ella. What do you mean? Angela. No Duchess is allowed to be out of London during the season. There are hardly enough of them to go round as it is. Saphir. I never imagined that when we were married we should find ourselves so completely “out of it.” All. [Indignantly.] Out of it! Saphir. Yes, out of it. Out of the world, the fashion, what you please. Æstheticism is out of vogue now, of course, but there have been lots of fascinating “movements” since then. There’s been Ibsen and the Revolt of the Daughters, and Aubrey Beardsley and the Decadence, and Maeterlinck. The world has been through all these wonderfully thrilling phases since 1880, and where are WE? Angela. [Remonstrating.] We read about them in the ladies’ papers. Saphir. Read about them! What’s the good of reading about them? I want to be in them. I want to LIVE MY LIFE. [Shakes her baby fiercely. It raises a howl. Ella. [Rushing to the rescue.] Take care, take care! Poor darling! it’ll have a fit. Saphir. Take it, then. [Throws it to Ella.] I’m tired of it. What’s the good of buying a complete set of back numbers of the Yellow Book, and reading them, too—[general astonishment at this feat]—if you can’t even shake E. J. Wheeler. “I want to live my life.” Angela. Nor I Major Murgatroyd. [Sings.] When first I consented to wed, I said, “I shall never come down To passing my life As an officer’s wife, In a second-rate garrison town.” I said, “I shall live in Mayfair, With plenty of money to spare, Have admirers in flocks, Wear adorable frocks, And diamonds everywhere.” Yes, that’s what I certainly said When first I consented to wed. I could reckon with perfect propriety On filling a place With conspicuous grace In the smartest of London Society. I said, “It is easy to see I shall be at the top of the tree, And none of the millions Of vulgar civilians Will venture to patronise me!” Yes, that’s what I foolishly said When first I consented to wed. [As the song ends, enter Colonel Calverley, Major Murgatroyd, and the other officers in uniform as from parade. The ladies groan. So do the babies. Colonel. Hullo! Groans! What’s all this about? Saphir. If you only knew how it pains us to see you in those preposterous clothes! Officers. Preposterous! Angela. Perfectly preposterous. You know they are. Major. If by preposterous you mean not conspicuously well adapted for active service, we cannot deny it. Angela. Of course you can’t. Your uniforms are useless and pretentious. To the educated eye they are not even beautiful. Officers. [Horrified.] Not beautiful! Saphir. Certainly not. If they were, you would not be so unwilling to be seen about in them. Colonel. [Haughtily.] It is not etiquette in the British Army for an officer ever to be seen in his uniform. It isn’t done! Saphir. And why not? Because he is ashamed of it. He wants to be dressed like a soldier, not like a mountebank. How can anyone respect a uniform that’s only meant for show? Major. That’s true. But the ladies? If it wasn’t for our gorgeous frippery they wouldn’t fall in love with us. Angela. [Crossly.] Nonsense! Women like soldiers because they are brave, not because they wear red coats. Any Tommy could tell you that. Colonel. [Sarcastically.] Indeed? Angela. Yes. Saphir, tell Colonel Calverley the story of William Stokes. Saphir. [Sings.]Once William Stokes went forth to woo, A corporal, he, of the Horse Guards (Blue), He thought all housemaid hearts to storm With his truly magnificent uniform. But the housemaids all cried “No, no, no, Your uniform’s only meant for show, Your gorgeous trappings are wicked waste, And your whole get-up’s in the worst of taste.” All. The worst of taste? Saphir. The worst of taste! These quite unfeeling, Very plain-dealing Ladies cried in haste— “Your uniform, Billy, Is simply silly And quite in the worst of taste!” Poor William took these cries amiss, Being quite unaccustomed to snubs like this. At last he explained, by way of excuse, His gorgeous clothes weren’t made for use. His elaborate tunic was much too tight To eat his dinner in, far less fight; It was only meant to attract the eye Of the less intelligent passer-by. All. The passer-by? Saphir. The passer-by! And so poor Billy, Feeling quite silly, Threw up the Horse Guards (Blue), And now in the Park he Appears in khaki, And greatly prefers it too! Colonel. That’s all very well, and I daresay you’re right in what you say, but you’ll never get the War Office to see it. Major. They’re too stupid. Saphir. Was it the War Office who sent us to Aldershot? Major. Yes. Saphir. You’re quite right. They are stupid! Colonel. What’s the matter with Aldershot? Angela. It’s dull, it’s philistine, it’s conventional. And to think that we were once Æsthetic! Officers. [Mockingly.] Oh, South Kensington! Angela. [Ang Saphir. Why on earth don’t you all get promoted to snug berths at the Horse Guards? Then we could live in London. Colonel. [Sadly.] Do you know how promotion is got in the British Army? Saphir. No. Colonel. Listen, and I will tell you— [Sings.] When you once have your commission, if you want a high position in the Army of the King, If you’re anxious for promotion, you must early get a notion of the qualities commanders prize; You must learn to play at polo, strum a banjo, sing a solo, and you’re simply bound to rise! For every one will say, In the usual fatuous way: “If this young fellow’s such a popular figure in High Society, Why, what a very competent commander of a troop this fine young man must be!” You must buy expensive suits, wear the shiniest of boots, and a glossy hat and tall, For if you’re really clever you need practically never wear your uniform at all. You probably will then see as little of your men as you decently can do, And you’ll launch a thousand sneers at those foolish Volunteers, who are not a bit like you! And those Volunteers will say, When you go on in that way: “If this young man’s such an unconcealed contempt for the likes of such as we, What a genius at strategy and tactics too this fine young man must be!” When, your blunders never noted, you are rapidly promoted to the snuggest berth you know, Till we see you at Pall Mall with the Army gone to—well, where the Army should not go— When your country goes to war your abilities will awe all the foemen that beset her, And if you make a mess of it, of course we’re told the less of it the country hears the better! And you’ll hear civilians say, In their usual humble way: “If this old buffer is a General of Division, and also a G.C.B., Why, what a past master of the art of war this fine old boy must be!” Saphir. Do you mean that you’ll never get berths at the Horse Guards, any of you? Colonel. [Sadly.] It’s most unlikely. Saphir. Then my patience is exhausted. I shall apply for a judicial separation. Angela. So shall I. Ladies. We shall all apply for judicial separations. Officers. Impossible! Angela. Oh, yes, we shall; we cannot consent to remain at [Exeunt. Curtain. |
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