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A Book o' Nine Tales.. Bates Arlo
Читать онлайн.Название A Book o' Nine Tales.
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Автор произведения Bates Arlo
Жанр Зарубежная классика
Издательство Public Domain
She. You have forgotten to be as complimentary as you were half an hour since.
He. Have I? And yet the greatest compliment a man can pay a woman is sincerity.
She. If he does not love her, yes.
He. Ah, then you agree with Tom Moore:
“While he lies, his heart is yours;
But oh! you’ve wholly lost the youth,
The instant that he tells you truth!”
She. Perhaps; but it is no matter, since we were not talking of love.
He. But if we were?
She. If we were we should undoubtedly say a great many foolish things and quite as many false ones.
He. You are cynical.
She. Oh, no. Cynicism is like a cravat, very becoming to a man if properly worn, but always setting ill upon a lady.
He. Did you learn that, also, in Britany? It is a country of enlightenment. Would that my wife had gone there.
She. Or her husband!
He. You are keen. Her husband learned bitter truths enough by staying at home. I am evidently your complement; for I had a wedding-ring sent back to me.
She. And why?
He. Why? Why? Who ever knows a woman’s reason! Because I refused, perhaps, to call black white, to say I was pleased by what made me angry; because – No; on the whole, since I am not making love to her, it is hardly worth while to lie to a peasant from Britany, though it is of course necessary to sustain the social fictions with people nearer home. It was because the wedding-ring was a fetter that constrained my wife, body and soul; because I was as inflexible as steel. My purposes, my views, my beliefs were the Procrustean bed upon which every act of hers was measured. Voila tout!
She. I understand, I think.
He. Oh, I have learned well enough where the blame lay in the three years since she left me.
She. Three years!
He. Why do you start?
She. It is three years, too, since I —
He. Who are you?
She. It is no matter; my husband is far from here.
He. That is more than I can say of my wife.
She. Where is she, then?
He. Heaven knows; not I. But let that go. Why may we not be useful to each other? Our cases are similar; we are both lonely.
She. And strangers.
He. Acquaintance is not a matter of time, but of temperament. Should we have found it possible to be so frank with one another had we been merely strangers?
She. You are specious.
He. No; only honest.
She. But what —
He. What? Why, friendship. We have found it possible to be frank in masks; why not out of them?
She. Then you propose a platonic friendship?
He. I want a woman who will be my friend, to whom I can talk freely. There are words a man has no power or wish to say to a man, yet which must be spoken or they fester in his mind.
She. I am, then, to be a safety-valve.
He. Every man must have a woman as a lodestar; you are to be that to me.
She. And your wife?
He. My wife? She voluntarily abandoned me. I haven’t seen her for three years; and surely she ought to cease to count by this time.
She. You are heartless.
He. Heartless?
She. You should be faithful to your lost —
He. Lost fiddlestick!
She. You are very rude!
He. I don’t see —
She. And very disagreeable.
He. But —
She. If you had really loved your wife, you’d always mourn for her, whatever she did.
He. Good Heavens! That is like a woman. A man is expected to bear anything, everything, and if at last he does not come weeping to kiss the hand that smites him, he is heartless, forsooth! Bah! I am not a whipped puppy, thank you.
She. Your love was, perhaps, never distinguished by meekness?
He. I’m afraid not.
She. It might be none the worst for that. The ideal man for whom I am looking will not be too lamblike, even in love.
He. You look for an ideal man, then?
She. As closely as did Diogenes.
He. And your husband?
She. Oh, like your wife, he should, perhaps, begin not to count.
He. Good. We are sworn friends, then, until you find your ideal man.
She. If you will.
He. Then unmask.
She. Is that in the bargain?
He. Of course. Else how should we know each other again?
She. But —
He. Unmask!
She. Very well, – when you do.
He. Now, then. [They unmask.]
She. Philip!
He. Agnes!
She. You knew all the time!
He. Who told you I was here?
She. I didn’t know it.
He. I thought you went to Russia.
She. Well, I didn’t. I hope you feel better! Good night.
He. Wait, Agnes. I —
[There is a moment’s silence, in which they look at each other intently. He takes her hand in both his.]
He. Agnes, I am not your ideal man, but —
She. Nor I your ideal woman, apparently. Your wife does not count, you say.
He. No more than your husband; so we are quits there.
She. It’s very horrid of you to remind me of that.
He. I acknowledge that I was always very horrid in everything.
She. Oh, if you acknowledge that, Phil, it is hardly worth while to spend any more time in explanations while this divine waltz is running to waste.
He. But you were tired and out of sorts.
She. You old goose, don’t you see that I’m neither!
He. And you do waltz divinely.
[They attempt to adjust their masks, but somehow get into each other’s arms. In a few moments more, however, they are seen among the dancers within.]
Tale the Second.
THE TUBEROSE
“I shall feel honored, Mistress Henshaw, if you will accept this posie as a token which may perchance serve to keep me in remembrance while I am over the sea.”
“I am extremely beholden to you,” replied the old dame addressed, her wrinkled face illuminated with a smile of pleasure. “But for keeping you in remembrance it needs not this posie or other token. I do not hold