CHAPTER XIX.

+Crumpled Roseleaves.+

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._