Part 6
DON JUAN. She knows nothing about it. Believe me, all governesses are fools.
LUCASTA. Not Mistress Markham. She knows everything--even the Greek irregular verbs.
DON JUAN. Well, let us admit, then, that there is only one thing she doesn’t know.
LUCASTA. What, sir?
DON JUAN. The birth, the growth, and the nature of our friendship. May not I claim to be a friend? You surely do not wish to regard me as an enemy?
LUCASTA (_after reflecting_). Well, I suppose there’s no harm; because I do not suppose it is wrong to make friends with old people.
DON JUAN (_laughing uneasily_). I am old enough to claim friendship with you; but I am not so old as all that. Do I look so very old?
LUCASTA (_blushing_). Oh no, sir. I never meant that, I’m sure. All I meant was that you were old compared with my friends.
DON JUAN. Have you many friends?
LUCASTA. Oh yes! There’s Harry, who has just left school; and Philip, he is a student at Oxford; and Valentine, he is about to join the Yeomanry; and my cousin Dick, he is my greatest friend.
DON JUAN. How old is he?
LUCASTA. He left school six months ago. He’s going to be a great soldier, like Sir Philip Sidney.
DON JUAN. Oh! and are you very fond of him?
LUCASTA. Very. He plays tennis better than any one. Do you play tennis, sir?
DON JUAN. I’m afraid I don’t.
LUCASTA. Bowls?
DON JUAN. I’m afraid not either.
LUCASTA. Rounders?
DON JUAN. I’m afraid I don’t play any games except draughts and lansquenet.
LUCASTA. Lansquenet and draughts are indoor games. We don’t count them. Cousin Dick says they are all very well for women.
DON JUAN. You see, I never have time for that kind of thing.
LUCASTA. Are you an officer, sir?
DON JUAN. Oh no!
LUCASTA. A sailor?
DON JUAN. No; I hate the sea.
LUCASTA. I suppose you are a discoverer. Spaniards are such great travellers.
DON JUAN. No; I have only travelled in Europe and for pleasure.
LUCASTA. How stupid of me, sir. You are, of course, a diplomatist.
DON JUAN. No; I am merely a gentleman at large.
LUCASTA. Do you mean you follow no profession?
DON JUAN. No profession exactly, but many occupations.
LUCASTA. But how do you contrive to pass the time?
DON JUAN. Well, you see, we Spaniards are different from you English. We are less practical, and more--what shall I say?--more fiery, more impatient, more romantic. We consider it quite enough for a man who is a Spaniard and a nobleman as I am, nay, more, we consider that such a man can have no nobler occupation than to devote his life, his heart, his brain to the constant and daily service and worship of a beautiful woman.
LUCASTA. Oh, I see; you are engaged to be married.
DON JUAN. No, alas!
LUCASTA. Haven’t you got enough money to marry on?
DON JUAN. It’s not that: my purse is equal to my station.
LUCASTA. Her parents, I suppose, have refused their consent.
DON JUAN. I have not yet asked them.
LUCASTA. I wish you all success, sir.
DON JUAN. But you don’t understand, most charming and gracious of Englishwomen. It is true that I love. I am consumed with a love which will never diminish nor die, a love that burns within me like a raging fever; but I have not yet dared to speak it. The divine and adorable creature whom I worship does not suspect the cruel plight I am in. She ignores my flame.
LUCASTA. Why do you not tell her, sir?
DON JUAN. Ah! That is so easily said! But what if she were to take offence? What if I were by a too sudden and abrupt declaration of the passion that consumes me to nip in the bud all chance of my love finding a response in her breast? What if I by a too hasty word were to shatter my hopes for ever?
LUCASTA. Is she so very young? Pardon me, sir, if I am wrong in asking.
DON JUAN. You could never do wrong. No fault could ever mar those faultless lips. (LUCASTA _blushes._) I will tell you she is very young, and I have only seen her once.
LUCASTA. Then it was a case of love at first sight?
DON JUAN. Yes, but love is a weak word to express the great wave which has carried me away.
LUCASTA. They say that love at first sight is often mutual.
DON JUAN. I pray Heaven that it may be so in this case; but I doubt if she has guessed my sweet and bitter secret. She is so young, so innocent.
LUCASTA. Is she fair or dark, sir?
DON JUAN. Her hair is the colour of your hair, and, like yours, it has the glitter of sunshine, with miraculous shades and adorable crisping curls like those that wreathe your brow. Her skin is like yours; that is to say, a rose lately sprinkled with dew. Her eyes are the colour of your eyes; that is to say, they have the radiance of the azure sky and depth of the summer sea. Her nose is the pictured semblance of your nose, delicate as a flower, tip-tilted, transparent, enchanting. Her lips are like your lips; they put to shame ripe cherries, red roses, and rubies; and her teeth are like your teeth, more perfect than Orient pearls. She has your carriage, your grace and rhythm of movement, the stately poise of your head, and the divine contour of your form. She has the radiance of your smile and the laughing music of your speech.
LUCASTA. It is very kind of you, sir, to compare me to so well-favoured a person.
DON JUAN. I am not comparing you to her. I am comparing her to you. Until this morning I did not know that such beauty could live and breathe.
LUCASTA. Did you see her this morning for the first time?
DON JUAN. Yes, it was this morning; to-day is the fatal day that has changed the earth for me to a giddy ladder suspended between heaven and hell.
LUCASTA. Then I know who it is. It is Electra Harrington our neighbour. You saw her on your way here.
DON JUAN. Believe me, it was no Electra Harrington. Electra Harrington would be a wrinkled hag in comparison with the goddess whom I worship. But tell me, do you think I might dare to plead my cause? Do you think there is the frailest hope of her listening to my suit?
LUCASTA. Why not? I am sure, sir, any girl would feel very much flattered at the attentions of a nobleman such as yourself.
DON JUAN. But you said I was old.
LUCASTA. Oh, sir, I told you I never meant that. All I meant was that you were grown up and a man, and not a schoolboy like Philip.
DON JUAN. Then you think that a maiden could look at me without disgust?
LUCASTA. Oh, sir!
DON JUAN. Even if at first I found her heart hard as adamant, if she will only let me plead my cause I feel certain I can soften it. That is all I ask--a hearing.
LUCASTA. I should tell her at once, sir, in your place. Girls are often bashful. (_She blushes._)
DON JUAN. Then there is another grisly fear that haunts me. She may already have given her heart away. She may already have a betrothed.
LUCASTA. That is not likely if it’s any of the girls in our county. They are all so young; and the others are married--except Dianeme, and then she’s a fright, so it could hardly be her.
DON JUAN. Then you think I ought to be bold?
LUCASTA (_clapping her hands_). Oh yes, do be bold!
[DON JUAN _seizes_ LUCASTA _and endeavours to kiss her. She gives him a very smart box on the ears._
LUCASTA. Sir, what does this unpardonable liberty mean? I thought you were a gentleman and a nobleman.
DON JUAN (_kneeling_). Forgive me. I thought you had understood. I thought you must have guessed--don’t interrupt me, only hear me--I thought you must have known when I described to you my heart’s desire; when I told you that you had her every feature; but I was mad. It was unpardonable of me; but hear me all the same, Lucasta; adorable, lovely, perfect Lucasta, I love you; I love you passionately. I offer you my hand, my life, my fortune.
LUCASTA. Please get up, sir. I hate men who kneel--they look so silly; and if you are going to talk nonsense any more I shall go upstairs.
DON JUAN (_rising_). Then you mean that I may not even hope?
LUCASTA (_bursting into peals of laughter_). Forgive me, but I can’t help it.
DON JUAN. It is really no laughing matter. (_He draws his sword._) I am ready to stab myself.
LUCASTA (_still shaking with laughter_). Please do not be so foolish. Why, you’re much older than my father. Here is my mother.
_Enter the_ COUNTESS OF WESSEX, _a handsome lady. She curtsies deeply._
LUCASTA (_aside to her mother_). Oh! he’s so funny.
[_She runs away, vainly suppressing a peal of laughter._
CURTAIN.
XIII
CALPURNIA’S DINNER-PARTY
SCENE.--_A room in_ JULIUS CÆSAR’S _house. Discovered:_ JULIUS CÆSAR _and_ CALPURNIA.
CALPURNIA. Catullus has accepted, so that will make us thirteen.
CÆSAR. I won’t sit down thirteen to dinner; it isn’t fair to one’s guests.
CALPURNIA. What nonsense! They none of them mind.
CÆSAR. I beg your pardon. I happen to know that Cicero is intensely superstitious. Of course I don’t mind personally, but one must think of others.
CALPURNIA. Then what shall we do?
CÆSAR. Ask some one else.
CALPURNIA. Then you must get another man. You are sure to see some one at the Forum.
CÆSAR. I will ask Calvus.
CALPURNIA. How like a man. In the first place he is in mourning.
CÆSAR. Who for?
CALPURNIA. Quintilla, of course.
CÆSAR. We need not go into that.
CALPURNIA. He won’t go anywhere--at present--but even if it wasn’t for that, don’t you see that it would quite spoil the dinner to ask Calvus with Catullus?
CÆSAR. Why?
CALPURNIA. Because they both write poetry.
CÆSAR. What does that matter?
CALPURNIA. Of course, if you want to spoil the dinner----
CÆSAR. Must it be a man?
CALPURNIA. Yes; we have got quite enough women.
CÆSAR. Why not ask Atticus?
CALPURNIA. Then we should have to ask Pilia.
CÆSAR. She hates going out.
CALPURNIA. It is impossible to ask him without her--and I won’t ask her; she would ruin the dinner. Besides, I told you we can’t have another woman.
CÆSAR. What about Cinna?
CALPURNIA. Cornelia’s got him. She always gives a dinner the same night as I do, so as to take away the people I want from me.
CÆSAR. I can’t think of anybody.
CALPURNIA. You will see some one at the Forum; but mind you are careful, and don’t ask some one nobody else knows, or some one whom they all hate.
CÆSAR. There’s nobody in Rome just now.
_Enter a_ SLAVE, _with a letter for_ CALPURNIA
THE SLAVE. They are waiting for a verbal answer.
[CALPURNIA _takes the letter and reads it._
CALPURNIA. It is from Lucullus; he wants us to dine with him to-night--quite a tiny dinner, he says--he wants us to taste some oysters from Britain.
CÆSAR. I suppose we can’t put off our guests?
CALPURNIA. Certainly not. It _is_ unlucky. (_She sits down at a table and writes an answer._) It is the sort of thing that’s sure to happen. I wish you hadn’t asked all these people.
CÆSAR. I didn’t ask a soul.
CALPURNIA (_to the_ SLAVE). There’s the answer.
[_The_ SLAVE _bows and retires. He returns again immediately with another letter, which he gives to_ CALPURNIA.
CALPURNIA. Is there an answer?
THE SLAVE. The slave is waiting.
CALPURNIA (_reading out_). “MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND CELESTIALLY FAVOURED CALPURNIA”--it is from the Persian Ambassador--“Pity me. The gods are most cruel and unpropitious. Owing to the extraordinary carelessness of my private secretary I find that I have been engaged for several weeks to dine with Lucullus to-night. As I only know him slightly, I am sure you will understand that in this case I must sacrifice pleasure to duty, and miss a brilliant and charming evening. Alas, alas, pity me!--Your slave, ZOROASTER SORHAB JEMSHID.” (_To the_ SLAVE) Say I quite understand. (_Exit_ SLAVE.) Jemshid always, always throws one over.
_Enter the_ SLAVE _with two letters. He gives one to_ CÆSAR _and one to_ CALPURNIA
THE SLAVE. Both waiting for an answer.
CALPURNIA. Who is yours from?
CÆSAR. Mark Antony. (_He reads_) “DEAR OLD BOY--I am frightfully sorry, but I can’t dine with you to-night. I have had a tooth pulled out this morning, and the doctor says I mustn’t go out, worse luck. My respects to Calpurnia. I will look in to-morrow if I am well enough. Don’t bother to come and see me, as I can’t talk.--M. A.”
CALPURNIA. He’s dining with Lucullus, of course. If you had only let me engage that cook from Gaul, nobody would ever throw us over.
CÆSAR. Who is yours from?
CALPURNIA. Lucilius. (_She reads_) “MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND EXQUISITE CALPURNIA--I have got into the most frightful muddle. Last Monday, Lucullus asked me to dinner to-night, and I accepted. Then the next day I wrote to him and said I could not dine with him after all, as I had to go into Court the day after, and I should have to work all night. The day after I wrote this letter my case was put off, and then you kindly asked me to dinner, and of course I accepted; and now Lucullus has found out that I am dining with you, and thinks I threw him over for you. He says he’s a man short, and that as I was engaged to him first, I simply must come to his dinner. So I am writing to know whether you could possibly let me off? And as I have already been obliged to throw Lucullus over twice lately, I am sure you will understand that I cannot very well come to you to-night. I am too sorry for words.--LUCILIUS.”
CÆSAR. I suppose the answer is “Very well” in both cases.
CALPURNIA. Yes. (_Exit_ SLAVE.) Of course they will all throw us over now.
CÆSAR. Well, in that case, the matter would be solved, and we could dine with Lucullus.
CALPURNIA. But they won’t _all_ throw us over. Portia’s certain to come.
_Enter the_ SLAVE _with two letters. He gives them to_ CALPURNIA
THE SLAVE. No answer.
CALPURNIA (_eagerly_). This is from Clodia. I wonder what lie she will tell. (_Reads_) “DARLING CALPURNIA--I am _too_, _too_ miserable. Everything has gone stupidly wrong. When you asked me to dinner and said Friday, I thought Friday was the 10th, and now I see it is the 11th, and I have been engaged for ages to that tiresome old Lucullus. Of course I would throw him over _at once_, but Metellus won’t hear of it, and he says it will serve me right if you never ask us again. So like a husband! It is _too_ unlucky, darling, isn’t it? You will feel for me, I am sure.--Your loving CLODIA.” Well, Catullus won’t come now.
CÆSAR. Is the other letter from him?
CALPURNIA. No. Of course they wouldn’t send them together. It is from Cicero; if he can’t come, our dinner’s ruined. (_She reads_) “MOST HONOURED AND EXCELLENT CALPURNIA--Owing to a quite unusual press of business I much regret to say that I will be compelled to forgo the pleasure of enjoying your kind hospitality to-night. The misfortune is all the more heavy since I shall not only miss the pleasure of enjoying your charming society, but also the opportunity of discussing several matters of importance with Cæsar, which I was particularly anxious to do. Believe me, I am consumed with regret, but I will not waste your time in vain excuses and apologies, which seem only to increase my vexation without diminishing the inconvenience I fear I may be causing you. Hail and farewell.--M. T. CICERO.”
_Enter the_ SLAVE _with a letter for_ CÆSAR
THE SLAVE. No answer. (_He goes out._)
CÆSAR (_opening the letter_). It is from Catullus. (_Reading_) “A terrible catastrophe has happened. Going home last night from the Esquiline I got my feet wet, and this has affected my style; my hexameters are beginning to limp and my elegiacs are gouty. The doctor says the only thing which can cure me is a quiet night’s rest and some oysters from Britain. But it is unlikely that I shall find any in Rome. In view of these distressing circumstances I fear I must put off coming to-night to your dinner-party. Quite seriously, I am unwell. With a thousand compliments to Calpurnia.--Wretched CATULLUS.” “_P.S._--I was half engaged to Lucullus to-night, so if you see him later, tell him I _was_ going to dine with you.”
CALPURNIA. How silly he is! I shall never ask him again.
CÆSAR. Who is there left?
CALPURNIA. Now, there are only Brutus and Portia, Cassius and Cynthia.
_Enter the_ SLAVE _with a letter for_ CALPURNIA. _She takes it_
THE SLAVE. No answer. (_He goes out._)
CALPURNIA. It is from Cynthia. I thought she would throw us over too. (_Reads_) “DEAREST CALPURNIA--Lucullus says you and Cæsar and Catullus and Clodia are all dining with him. Is that right? Am I dining with him or with you? Please arrange it with him. I will do exactly what you like.--Your loving CYNTHIA.” Now we have only got the bores left, Cassius, Brutus and Portia. I don’t suppose we can very well put them off.
CÆSAR. I think we might in this case. You see, it is perfectly true that our guests have all thrown us over, and it is much too late now to get any one else.
CALPURNIA. Very well. You must write to Cassius and I will write to Portia.
CÆSAR. And then we can dine with Lucullus.
CALPURNIA. Just as you think best; but if Brutus and Portia find it out they will never forgive us.
CÆSAR. What nonsense! Besides, perhaps Lucullus will ask them.
CALPURNIA. Never. (_Reading out as she writes_) DEAREST PORTIA--It is too unlucky, we are obliged to put off our dinner-party after all, because everybody has thrown us over; we are dreadfully disappointed, as we had so looked forward to seeing you. We shall have our little dinner on the 19th instead--Friday week. We do so hope you and Brutus are free.--Yours, CALPURNIA.
CÆSAR. That’s all right. I will write to Lucullus and say we will come, if he has still got room for us.
CALPURNIA. Just as you like; but remember that Brutus is touchy and that Portia never forgives.
CURTAIN.
XIV
LUCULLUS’S DINNER-PARTY
SCENE.--_A room in_ LUCULLUS’S _house. Discovered:_ LUCULLUS _(an old man) and his_ COOK.
LUCULLUS. Of course, I don’t say that it wasn’t a good dish; but it was not Neapolitan peacock.
THE COOK. They were straight from Naples; the same as we’ve always had, sir.
LUCULLUS (_irritated_). I’m not talking about the bird, but about the dish. You know as well as I do that Neapolitan peacock without anemone seed is not Neapolitan peacock. And then the nightingales’ tongues were over-roasted. They ought to be roasted for twenty-three minutes and not one second longer.
THE COOK. They were only twenty-four minutes on the roast.
LUCULLUS. There, you see, it was that extra minute that spoilt them. You might just as well not roast them at all as roast them for twenty-four minutes. And then there were too many butterflies’ wings round the sturgeon.
THE COOK. The chief slave----
LUCULLUS. I’ve told you over and over again, till I’m tired of saying it, that the chief slave has nothing to do with the arrangement of the dishes. That is your affair. The chief slave can arrange the table, but he must not touch the dishes. The look of a dish is just as important as the taste of it. And then there was a pinch too much salt in the wild boar sauce.
THE COOK. The first sauceman has just lost his wife.
LUCULLUS. That’s not my affair. Please make it clear that this must not happen again. The fact is, Æmilius, you’re falling off--last night’s dinner wasn’t fit to eat; it was filthy; the kind of food one gets at Cæsar’s--sent for from round the corner.
THE COOK. If I may be so bold as to say so, we were saying in the kitchen that these rehearsals of dinners the night before the real dinner make us nervous--
LUCULLUS. All I can say is, if you can’t cook a good dinner twice running you’d better get another place. The dinner wasn’t fit to eat, and if it’s anything like that to-night I advise you to give up trying to cook and to take to wrestling. That’s all; you can go.
[_The_ COOK _blushes scarlet and goes out._
_Enter a_ SLAVE
THE SLAVE. Can you see Portia, the wife of Brutus?
LUCULLUS. Yes; show her in.
_Enter_ PORTIA
PORTIA. It’s such a beautiful morning that I thought a nice brisk walk would do me good, and as I was passing your door I couldn’t help just looking in.
LUCULLUS. I’m delighted.
PORTIA (_sitting down_). I wanted to ask you whether you would mind giving your patronage to the Old Slaves’ Pensions Fund? Cicero has helped us a great deal, and Cæsar has promised. By the way, is Cæsar dining with you to-night?
LUCULLUS. Yes, I believe he is.
PORTIA. Well, he particularly wants to see Brutus, and he said something about meeting us here to-night, and as I had heard nothing from you I thought I would just ask. The slaves are so stupid about letters--not that I want very much to dine out. You see I’m very busy just at this moment, and there’s a Committee Meeting to-night for the O.S.P.F. (_She sighs._) But one can’t always think of oneself, and Brutus has been so depressed lately. He sleeps badly, and we’ve tried everything. The new Greek doctor has done him no good, and we’ve tried fomented eucalyptus and poppy soup, and the cold-water cure; but it all seems to make him worse, and the doctors say that what he wants is _society_, and we so seldom see any one.
LUCULLUS. I shall be quite delighted if you both could come to-night. (_He calls out_) Lucius. (_Enter_ SLAVE.) Tell Æmilius at once we shall be two extra to dinner to-night; and tell him to get some more hoopoe’s eggs.
PORTIA. Of course, I didn’t mean to propose myself (_she laughs nervously_)--you mustn’t think that; and have you really got room for us?
LUCULLUS. Oh, there’s plenty of room. (_Pensively_) Do you like hoopoe’s eggs?
PORTIA (_simpering_). Well, they’re dreadfully indigestible, but I must say I never can resist a good hoopoe’s egg. (_Getting up_) Then I can count on your patronage?
LUCULLUS. Certainly; is there a subscription?
PORTIA. Not for the patrons. You see----
LUCULLUS. Yes, I see.
PORTIA. Good-bye. Thank you so much.
[_Exit_ PORTIA. LUCULLUS _sees her to the door and returns._
LUCULLUS (_pensively_). Brutus never drinks wine.
_Enter_ SLAVE
SLAVE. The Queen of Egypt is here. Æmilius says it’s too late to cook dinner for twelve now without spoiling it; he says we’re one too many as it is, and that he can’t get any more hoopoe’s eggs, and that there won’t be enough to go round.
LUCULLUS. Show the Queen in.
[_Exit_ SLAVE.
_Enter_ CLEOPATRA
CLEOPATRA. Don’t get up, Lucullus; I’m not going to keep you a minute. I want to know if you could possibly dine with me to-night. I’ve got some dancing; a little Persian girl--so clever--she does a parakeet dance with live birds.
LUCULLUS. There’s nothing I should like so much, dear Egypt; but I’ve got a dinner of my own. Do you want a man?
CLEOPATRA. I want _two_ men, dreadfully.
LUCULLUS. I’ll tell you who are coming--Mark Antony.
CLEOPATRA. I don’t know him.
LUCULLUS. Cicero.
CLEOPATRA. I’m afraid he wouldn’t do.
LUCULLUS. Brutus and his wife.
CLEOPATRA (_laughing_). They don’t know me.
LUCULLUS. Catullus. Oh, I forgot Cæsar and his wife.
CLEOPATRA. Of course Cæsar would do beautifully, but I suppose you couldn’t spare him.
LUCULLUS. To tell you the truth, I’ve got too many guests and not enough hoopoe’s eggs to go round, but----
CLEOPATRA. Well, I happened to meet Cæsar quite by chance this morning, and he said that poor Calpurnia had got one of her headaches and was dying not to dine out, but you know how dear and unselfish she is. So if you should put them off, I think it would be rather a relief to _her_, and then Cæsar could just run in for a moment to my dinner.
LUCULLUS. Certainly; I’ll say I’ve mistaken the date.
CLEOPATRA. That is charming of you; thank you so much. And you must come and dine quite quietly with me one night, and you might bring Mark Antony; I want to know him so much.
LUCULLUS. He’s not interesting; he bolts his food.
CLEOPATRA. How funny! Just like Cæsar. Good-bye; I must fly.
[_Exit_ CLEOPATRA.
_Enter_ SLAVE
SLAVE. Clodia, the wife of Metellus Celer, wishes to see you.
LUCULLUS. Show her in, and tell Æmilius we shan’t be two extra.
_Enter_ CLODIA
CLODIA. It’s too bad of me, Lucullus, to disturb you so early in the morning.
LUCULLUS. On the contrary----