SCENE I

_London. A room in Lydia's house_

_Enter_ LYDIA _and_ LUCIAN

LYDIA. Welcome, dear cousin, to my London house. Of late you have been chary of your visits.

LUCIAN. I have been greatly occupied of late. The minister to whom I act as scribe In Downing Street was born in Birmingham, And, like a thoroughbred commercial statesman, Splits his infinities, which I, poor slave, Must reunite, though all the time my heart Yearns for my gentle coz's company.

LYDIA. Lucian: there is some other reason. Think! Since England was a nation every mood Her scribes have prepositionally split; But thine avoidance dates from yestermonth.

LUCIAN. There is a man I like not haunts this house.

LYDIA. Thou speak'st of Cashel Byron?

LUCIAN. Aye, of him. Hast thou forgotten that eventful night When as we gathered were at Hoskyn House To hear a lecture by Herr Abendgasse, He placed a single finger on my chest, And I, ensorceled, would have sunk supine Had not a chair received my falling form.

LYDIA. Pooh! That was but by way of illustration.

LUCIAN. What right had he to illustrate his point Upon my person? Was I his assistant That he should try experiments on me As Simpson did on his with chloroform? Now, by the cannon balls of Galileo He hath unmanned me: all my nerve is gone. This very morning my official chief, Tapping with friendly forefinger this button, Levelled me like a thunderstricken elm Flat upon the Colonial Office floor.

LYDIA. Fancies, coz.

LUCIAN. Fancies! Fits! the chief said fits! Delirium tremens! the chlorotic dance Of Vitus! What could any one have thought? Your ruffian friend hath ruined me. By Heaven, I tremble at a thumbnail. Give me drink.

LYDIA. What ho, without there! Bashville.

BASHVILLE [_without_]. Coming, madam.

_Enter_ BASHVILLE

LYDIA. My cousin ails, Bashville. Procure some wet. [_Exit_ BASHVILLE.

LUCIAN. Some wet!!! Where learnt _you_ that atrocious word? This is the language of a flower-girl.

LYDIA. True. It is horrible. Said I "Some wet"? I meant, some drink. Why did I say "Some wet"? Am I ensorceled too? "Some wet"! Fie! fie! I feel as though some hateful thing had stained me. Oh, Lucian, how could I have said "Some wet"?

LUCIAN. The horrid conversation of this man Hath numbed thy once unfailing sense of fitness.

LYDIA. Nay, he speaks very well: he's literate: Shakespear he quotes unconsciously.

LUCIAN. And yet Anon he talks pure pothouse.

_Enter_ BASHVILLE

BASHVILLE. Sir: your potion.

LUCIAN. Thanks. [_He drinks._] I am better.

A NEWSBOY [_calling without_]. Extra special _Star_! Result of the great fight! Name of the winner!

LYDIA. Who calls so loud?

BASHVILLE. The papers, madam.

LYDIA. Why? Hath ought momentous happened?

BASHVILLE. Madam: yes. [_He produces a newspaper._ All England for these thrilling paragraphs A week has waited breathless.

LYDIA. Read them us.

BASHVILLE [_reading_]. "At noon to-day, unknown to the police, Within a thousand miles of Wormwood Scrubbs, Th' Australian Champion and his challenger, The Flying Dutchman, formerly engaged I' the mercantile marine, fought to a finish. Lord Worthington, the well-known sporting peer Acted as referee."

LYDIA. Lord Worthington!

BASHVILLE. "The bold Ned Skene revisited the ropes To hold the bottle for his quondam novice; Whilst in the seaman's corner were assembled Professor Palmer and the Chelsea Snob. Mellish, whose epigastrium has been hurt, 'Tis said, by accident at Wiltstoken, Looked none the worse in the Australian's corner. The Flying Dutchman wore the Union Jack: His colors freely sold amid the crowd; But Cashel's well-known spot of white on blue----"

LYDIA. _Whose_, did you say?

BASHVILLE. Cashel's, my lady.

LYDIA. Lucian: Your hand--a chair--

BASHVILLE. Madam: you're ill.

LYDIA. Proceed. What you have read I do not understand; Yet I will hear it through. Proceed.

LUCIAN. Proceed.

BASHVILLE. "But Cashel's well-known spot of white on blue Was fairly rushed for. Time was called at twelve, When, with a smile of confidence upon His ocean-beaten mug----"

LYDIA. His mug?

LUCIAN [_explaining_]. His face.

BASHVILLE [_continuing_]. "The Dutchman came undaunted to the scratch, But found the champion there already. Both Most heartily shook hands, amid the cheers Of their encouraged backers. Two to one Was offered on the Melbourne nonpareil; And soon, so fit the Flying Dutchman seemed, Found takers everywhere. No time was lost In getting to the business of the day. The Dutchman led at once, and seemed to land On Byron's dicebox; but the seaman's reach, Too short for execution at long shots, Did not get fairly home upon the ivory; And Byron had the best of the exchange."

LYDIA. I do not understand. What were they doing?

LUCIAN. Fighting with naked fists.

LYDIA. Oh, horrible! I'll hear no more. Or stay: how did it end? Was Cashel hurt?

LUCIAN [_to_ BASHVILLE]. Skip to the final round.

BASHVILLE. "Round Three: the rumors that had gone about Of a breakdown in Byron's recent training Seemed quite confirmed. Upon the call of time He rose, and, looking anything but cheerful, Proclaimed with every breath Bellows to Mend. At this point six to one was freely offered Upon the Dutchman; and Lord Worthington Plunged at this figure till he stood to lose A fortune should the Dutchman, as seemed certain, Take down the number of the Panley boy. The Dutchman, glutton as we know he is, Seemed this time likely to go hungry. Cashel Was clearly groggy as he slipped the sailor, Who, not to be denied, followed him up, Forcing the fighting mid tremendous cheers."

LYDIA. Oh stop--no more--or tell the worst at once. I'll be revenged. Bashville: call the police. This brutal sailor shall be made to know There's law in England.

LUCIAN. Do not interrupt him: Mine ears are thirsting. Finish, man. What next?

BASHVILLE. "Forty to one, the Dutchman's friends exclaimed. Done, said Lord Worthington, who shewed himself A sportsman every inch. Barely the bet Was booked, when, at the reeling champion's jaw The sailor, bent on winning out of hand, Sent in his right. The issue seemed a cert, When Cashel, ducking smartly to his left, Cross-countered like a hundredweight of brick----"

LUCIAN. Death and damnation!

LYDIA. Oh, what does it mean?

BASHVILLE. "The Dutchman went to grass, a beaten man."

LYDIA. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Oh, well done, Cashel!

BASHVILLE. "A scene of indescribable excitement Ensued; for it was now quite evident That Byron's grogginess had all along Been feigned to make the market for his backers. We trust this sample of colonial smartness Will not find imitators on this side. The losers settled up like gentlemen; But many felt that Byron shewed bad taste In taking old Ned Skene upon his back, And, with Bob Mellish tucked beneath his oxter, Sprinting a hundred yards to show the crowd The perfect pink of his condition"--[_a knock_].

LYDIA [_turning pale_]. Bashville Didst hear? A knock.

BASHVILLE. Madam: 'tis Byron's knock. Shall I admit him?

LUCIAN. Reeking from the ring! Oh, monstrous! Say you're out.

LYDIA. Send him away. I will not see the wretch. How dare he keep Secrets from ME? I'll punish him. Pray say I'm not at home. [BASHVILLE _turns to go_.] Yet stay. I am afraid He will not come again.

LUCIAN. A consummation Devoutly to be wished by any lady. Pray, do you _wish_ this man to come again?

LYDIA. No, Lucian. He hath used me very ill. He should have told me. I will ne'er forgive him. Say, Not at home.

BASHVILLE. Yes, madam. [_Exit._

LYDIA. Stay--

LUCIAN [_stopping her_]. No, Lydia: You shall not countermand that proper order. Oh, would you cast the treasure of your mind, The thousands at your bank, and, above all, Your unassailable social position Before this soulless mass of beef and brawn?

LYDIA. Nay, coz: you're prejudiced.

CASHEL [_without_]. Liar and slave!

LYDIA. What words were those?

LUCIAN. The man is drunk with slaughter.

_Enter_ BASHVILLE _running: he shuts the door and locks it_.

BASHVILLE. Save yourselves: at the staircase foot the champion Sprawls on the mat, by trick of wrestler tripped; But when he rises, woe betide us all!

LYDIA. Who bade you treat my visitor with violence?

BASHVILLE. He would not take my answer; thrust the door Back in my face; gave me the lie i' the throat; Averred he felt your presence in his bones. I said he should feel mine there too, and felled him; Then fled to bar your door.

LYDIA. O lover's instinct! He felt my presence. Well, let him come in. We must not fail in courage with a fighter. Unlock the door.

LUCIAN. Stop. Like all women, Lydia, You have the courage of immunity. To strike _you_ were against his code of honor; But _me_, above the belt, he may perform on T' th' height of his profession. Also Bashville.

BASHVILLE. Think not of me, sir. Let him do his worst. Oh, if the valor of my heart could weigh The fatal difference twixt his weight and mine, A second battle should he do this day: Nay, though outmatched I be, let but my mistress Give me the word: instant I'll take him on Here--now--at catchweight. Better bite the carpet A man, than fly, a coward.

LUCIAN. Bravely said: I will assist you with the poker.

LYDIA. No: I will not have him touched. Open the door.

BASHVILLE. Destruction knocks thereat. I smile, and open.

[BASHVILLE _opens the door_. _Dead silence._ CASHEL _enters, in tears_. _A solemn pause._

CASHEL. You know my secret?

LYDIA. Yes.

CASHEL. And thereupon You bade your servant fling me from your door.

LYDIA. I bade my servant say I was not here.

CASHEL [_to_ BASHVILLE]. Why didst thou better thy instruction, man? Hadst thou but said, "She bade me tell thee this," Thoudst burst my heart. I thank thee for thy mercy.

LYDIA. Oh, Lucian, didst thou call him "drunk with slaughter"? Canst thou refrain from weeping at his woe?

CASHEL [_to_ LUCIAN]. The unwritten law that shields the amateur Against professional resentment, saves thee. O coward, to traduce behind their backs Defenceless prizefighters!

LUCIAN. Thou dost avow Thou art a prizefighter.

CASHEL. It was my glory. I had hoped to offer to my lady there My belts, my championships, my heaped-up stakes, My undefeated record; but I knew Behind their blaze a hateful secret lurked.

LYDIA. Another secret?

LUCIAN. Is there worse to come?

CASHEL. Know ye not then my mother is an actress?

LUCIAN. How horrible!

LYDIA. Nay, nay: how interesting!

CASHEL. A thousand victories cannot wipe out That birthstain. Oh, my speech bewrayeth it: My earliest lesson was the player's speech In Hamlet; and to this day I express myself More like a mobled queen than like a man Of flesh and blood. Well may your cousin sneer! What's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba?

LUCIAN. Injurious upstart: if by Hecuba Thou pointest darkly at my lovely cousin, Know that she is to me, and I to her, What never canst thou be. I do defy thee; And maugre all the odds thy skill doth give, Outside I will await thee.

LYDIA. I forbid Expressly any such duello. Bashville: The door. Put Mr. Webber in a hansom, And bid the driver hie to Downing Street. No answer: 'tis my will. [_Exeunt_ LUCIAN _and_ BASHVILLE. And now, farewell. You must not come again, unless indeed You can some day look in my eyes and say: Lydia: my occupation's gone.

CASHEL. Ah, no: It would remind you of my wretched mother. O God, let me be natural a moment! What other occupation can I try? What would you have me be?

LYDIA. A gentleman.

CASHEL. A gentleman! I, Cashel Byron, stoop To be the thing that bets on me! the fool I flatter at so many coins a lesson! The screaming creature who beside the ring Gambles with basest wretches for my blood, And pays with money that he never earned! Let me die broken-hearted rather!

LYDIA. But You need not be an idle gentleman. I call you one of Nature's gentlemen.

CASHEL. That's the collection for the loser, Lydia. I am not wont to need it. When your friends Contest elections, and at foot o' th' poll Rue their presumption, 'tis their wont to claim A moral victory. In a sort they are Nature's M. P.s. I am not yet so threadbare As to accept these consolation stakes.

LYDIA. You are offended with me.

CASHEL. Yes, I am. I can put up with much; but--"Nature's gentleman"! I thank your ladyship of Lyons, but Must beg to be excused.

LYDIA. But surely, surely, To be a prizefighter, and maul poor mariners With naked knuckles, is no work for you.

CASHEL. Thou dost arraign the inattentive Fates That weave my thread of life in ruder patterns Than these that lie, antimacassarly, Asprent thy drawingroom. As well demand Why I at birth chose to begin my life A speechless babe, hairless, incontinent, Hobbling upon all fours, a nurse's nuisance? Or why I do propose to lose my strength, To blanch my hair, to let the gums recede Far up my yellowing teeth, and finally Lie down and moulder in a rotten grave? Only one thing more foolish could have been, And that was to be born, not man, but woman. This was thy folly, why rebuk'st thou mine?

LYDIA. These are not things of choice.

CASHEL. And did I choose My quick divining eye, my lightning hand, My springing muscle and untiring heart? Did I implant the instinct in the race That found a use for these, and said to me, Fight for us, and be fame and fortune thine?

LYDIA. But there are other callings in the world.

CASHEL. Go tell thy painters to turn stockbrokers, Thy poet friends to stoop o'er merchants' desks And pen prose records of the gains of greed. Tell bishops that religion is outworn, And that the Pampa to the horsebreaker Opes new careers. Bid the professor quit His fraudulent pedantries, and do i' the world The thing he would teach others. Then return To me and say: Cashel: they have obeyed; And on that pyre of sacrifice I, too, Will throw my championship.

LYDIA. But 'tis so cruel.

CASHEL. Is it so? I have hardly noticed that, So cruel are all callings. Yet this hand, That many a two days' bruise hath ruthless given, Hath kept no dungeon locked for twenty years, Hath slain no sentient creature for my sport. I am too squeamish for your dainty world, That cowers behind the gallows and the lash, The world that robs the poor, and with their spoil Does what its tradesmen tell it. Oh, your ladies! Sealskinned and egret-feathered; all defiance To Nature; cowering if one say to them "What will the servants think?" Your gentlemen! Your tailor-tyrannized visitors of whom Flutter of wing and singing in the wood Make chickenbutchers. And your medicine men! Groping for cures in the tormented entrails Of friendly dogs. Pray have you asked all these To change their occupations? Find you mine So grimly crueller? I cannot breathe An air so petty and so poisonous.

LYDIA. But find you not their manners very nice?

CASHEL. To me, perfection. Oh, they condescend With a rare grace. Your duke, who condescends Almost to the whole world, might for a Man Pass in the eyes of those who never saw The duke capped with a prince. See then, ye gods, The duke turn footman, and his eager dame Sink the great lady in the obsequious housemaid! Oh, at such moments I could wish the Court Had but one breadbasket, that with my fist I could make all its windy vanity Gasp itself out on the gravel. Fare you well. I did not choose my calling; but at least I can refrain from being a gentleman.

LYDIA. You say farewell to me without a pang.

CASHEL. My calling hath apprenticed me to pangs. This is a rib-bender; but I can bear it. It is a lonely thing to be a champion.

LYDIA. It is a lonelier thing to be a woman.

CASHEL. Be lonely then. Shall it be said of thee That for his brawn thou misalliance mad'st Wi' the Prince of Ruffians? Never. Go thy ways; Or, if thou hast nostalgia of the mud, Wed some bedogged wretch that on the slot Of gilded snobbery, _ventre a terre_, Will hunt through life with eager nose on earth And hang thee thick with diamonds. I am rich; But all my gold was fought for with my hands.

LYDIA. What dost thou mean by rich?

CASHEL. There is a man, Hight Paradise, vaunted unconquerable, Hath dared to say he will be glad to hear from me. I have replied that none can hear from _me_ Until a thousand solid pounds be staked. His friends have confidently found the money. Ere fall of leaf that money shall be mine; And then I shall possess ten thousand pounds. I had hoped to tempt thee with that monstrous sum.

LYDIA. Thou silly Cashel, 'tis but a week's income. I did propose to give thee three times that For pocket money when we two were wed.

CASHEL. Give me my hat. I have been fooling here. Now, by the Hebrew lawgiver, I thought That only in America such revenues Were decent deemed. Enough. My dream is dreamed. Your gold weighs like a mountain on my chest. Farewell.

LYDIA. The golden mountain shall be thine The day thou quit'st thy horrible profession.

CASHEL. Tempt me not, woman. It is honor calls. Slave to the Ring I rest until the face Of Paradise be changed.

_Enter_ BASHVILLE

BASHVILLE. Madam, your carriage, Ordered by you at two. 'Tis now half-past.

CASHEL. Sdeath! is it half-past two? The king! the king!

LYDIA. The king! What mean you?

CASHEL. I must meet a monarch This very afternoon at Islington.

LYDIA. At Islington! You must be mad.

CASHEL. A cab! Go call a cab; and let a cab be called; And let the man that calls it be thy footman.

LYDIA. You are not well. You shall not go alone. My carriage waits. I must accompany you. I go to find my hat. [_Exit._

CASHEL. Like Paracelsus, Who went to find his soul. [_To_ BASHVILLE.] And now, young man, How comes it that a fellow of your inches, So deft a wrestler and so bold a spirit, Can stoop to be a flunkey? Call on me On your next evening out. I'll make a man of you. Surely you are ambitious and aspire----

BASHVILLE. To be a butler and draw corks; wherefore, By Heaven, I will draw yours.

[_He hits_ CASHEL _on the nose, and runs out_.

CASHEL [_thoughtfully putting the side of his forefinger to his nose_, _and studying the blood on it_].

Too quick for _me_! There's money in this youth.

_Re-enter_ LYDIA, _hatted and gloved_.

LYDIA. O Heaven! you bleed.

CASHEL. Lend me a key or other frigid object, That I may put it down my back, and staunch The welling life stream.

LYDIA. [_giving him her keys_]. Oh, what _have_ you done?

CASHEL. Flush on the boko napped your footman's left.

LYDIA. I do not understand.

CASHEL. True. Pardon me. I have received a blow upon the nose In sport from Bashville. Next, ablution; else I shall be total gules. [_He hurries out._

LYDIA. How well he speaks! There is a silver trumpet in his lips That stirs me to the finger ends. His nose Dropt lovely color: 'tis a perfect blood. I would 'twere mingled with mine own!

_Enter_ BASHVILLE

What now?

BASHVILLE. Madam, the coachman can no longer wait: The horses will take cold.

LYDIA. I do beseech him A moment's grace. Oh, mockery of wealth! The third class passenger unchidden rides Whither and when he will: obsequious trams Await him hourly: subterranean tubes With tireless coursers whisk him through the town; But we, the rich, are slaves to Houyhnhnms: We wait upon their colds, and frowst all day Indoors, if they but cough or spurn their hay.

BASHVILLE. Madam, an omnibus to Euston Road, And thence t' th' Angel--

_Enter_ CASHEL

LYDIA. Let us haste, my love: The coachman is impatient.

CASHEL. Did he guess He stays for Cashel Byron, he'd outwait Pompei's sentinel. Let us away. This day of deeds, as yet but half begun, Must ended be in merrie Islington. [_Exeunt_ LYDIA _and_ CASHEL.

BASHVILLE. Gods! how she hangs on's arm! I am alone. Now let me lift the cover from my soul. O wasted humbleness! Deluded diffidence! How often have I said, Lie down, poor footman: She'll never stoop to thee, rear as thou wilt Thy powder to the sky. And now, by Heaven, She stoops below me; condescends upon This hero of the pothouse, whose exploits, Writ in my character from my last place, Would damn me into ostlerdom. And yet There's an eternal justice in it; for By so much as the ne'er subdued Indian Excels the servile negro, doth this ruffian Precedence take of me. "_Ich dien._" Damnation! I serve. My motto should have been, "I scalp." And yet I do not bear the yoke for gold. Because I love her I have blacked her boots; Because I love her I have cleaned her knives, Doing in this the office of a boy, Whilst, like the celebrated maid that milks And does the meanest chares, I've shared the passions Of Cleopatra. It has been my pride To give her place the greater altitude By lowering mine, and of her dignity To be so jealous that my cheek has flamed Even at the thought of such a deep disgrace As love for such a one as I would be For such a one as she; and now! and now! A prizefighter! O irony! O bathos! To have made way for this! Oh, Bashville, Bashville: Why hast thou thought so lowly of thyself, So heavenly high of her? Let what will come, My love must speak: 'twas my respect was dumb.