Lord John. A cynic is a man who, etc….
Rotten. Now try again.
Lord John. A cynic is a man who, etc…. [Lights cigarette.]
No, even that is not good. Once more:―
Lord John (lighting cigarette). A cynic is a man who, etc.
Better, but leaves too much to the actor.
Well, I see I must tell you.
Lord John (taking out gold cigarette case from his left–hand upper waistcoat pocket). A cynic, my dear Arthur (he opens case deliberately, puts cigarette in mouth, and extracts gold match–box from right–hand trouser) is a man who (strikes match) knows the price of (lights cigarette)—everything, and (standing with match in one hand and cigarette in the other) the value of―pff (blows out match) of (inhales deeply from cigarette and blows out a cloud of smoke)—nothing.
It makes a different thing of it altogether. Of course on the actual night the match may refuse to strike, and Lord John may have to go on saying "a man who—a man who—a man who" until the ignition occurs, but even so it will still seem delightfully natural to the audience (as if he were making up the epigram as he went along); while as for blowing the match out, he can hardly fail to do that in one.
The cigarette, of course, will be smoked at other moments than epigrammatic ones, but on these other occasions you will not need to deal so fully with it in the stage directions. "Duke (lighting cigarette). I trust, Perkins, that…" is enough. You do not want to say, "Duke (dropping ash on trousers). It seems to me, my love…" or, "Duke (removing stray piece of tobacco from tongue). What Ireland needs is…"; still less "Duke (throwing away end of cigarette). Show him in." For this must remain one of the mysteries of the stage—What happens to the stage cigarette when it has been puffed four times? The stage tea, of which a second cup is always refused; the stage cutlet, which is removed with the connivance of the guest after two mouthfuls; the stage cigarette, which nobody ever seems to want to smoke to the end—thinking of these as they make their appearances in the houses of the titled, one would say that the hospitality of the peerage was not a thing to make any great rush for….
But that would be to forget the butler and the three footmen. Even a Duke cannot have everything. And what his chef may lack in skill his butler more than makes up for in impassivity.
A POETRY RECITAL
It has always been the privilege of Art to be patronized by Wealth and Rank. Indeed, if we literary and artistic strugglers were not asked out to afternoon tea sometimes by our millionaire acquaintances, it is doubtful if we should be able to continue the struggle. Recently a new (and less expensive) method of entertaining Genius has become fashionable in the best circles, and the aspiring poet is now invited to the house of the Great, not for the purpose of partaking of bodily refreshment himself, but in order that he may afford spiritual refreshment to others. In short, he is given an opportunity of reciting his own works in front of the Fair, the Rich and the Highly Born, and making what he can out of it in the way of advertisement.
Let us imagine that we have been lucky enough to secure an invitation to one of Lady Poldoodle's Poetry At–Homes, at her charming little house in Berkeley Square.
The guests are all waiting, their eyes fixed in eager anticipation on the black–covered throne at the farther end of the room, whereon each poet will sit to declaim his masterpiece, when suddenly Lord Poldoodle is observed to be making his way cautiously towards a side–door. Fortunately he is stopped in time, and dragged back to his seat next to the throne, from which he rises a moment later to open the proceeding.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, "we are met here this afternoon in order to listen to some of our younger poets who will recite from their own works. So far, I have always managed to avoid—so far, I have been unavoidably prevented from attending on these occasions, but I understand that the procedure is as follows. Each poet will recite a short sample of his poetry, after which, no doubt, you will go home and order from your bookseller a complete set of his works."
Lady Poldoodle goes quickly over to him and whispers vigorously.
"I find I am wrong," says our host. "Full sets of the author's works can be obtained on the way out. There is, however, no compulsion in the matter, and, if you take my advice—well, well, let us get on. Our first poet"—here he puts on his glasses, and reads from a paper on the table in front of him—"is Mr. Sydney Worple, of whom you—er—have—er—doubtless all heard. At any rate you will hear him now."
Mr. Sydney Worple, tall and thin, wearing the sort of tie which makes you think you must have seen him before, steps forward amidst applause. He falls back into the throne as if deep in thought, and passes a hand across his hair.
Mr. Worple (very suddenly) "Dawn at Surbiton."
"Where?" says a frightened voice at the back.
"H'sh!" says Lady Poldoodle in a whisper. "Surbiton."
"Surbiton" is passed round the back seats. Not that it is going to matter in the least.
Mr. Worple repeats the title, and then recites in an intense voice these lines:
Out of the nethermost bonds of night, Out of the gloom where the bats' wings brush me, Free from the crepitous doubts which crush me, Forth I fare to the cool sunlight;
Forth to a world where the wind sweeps clean, Where the smooth–limbed ash to the blue stands bare, And the gossamer spreads her opalled ware— And Jones is catching the 8.15.
After several more verses like this he bows and retires. Lady Poldoodle, still mechanically clapping, says to her neighbour:
"How beautiful! Dawn at Surbiton! Such a beautiful idea, I think."
"Wasn't it sublime?" answers the neighbour. "The wonderful contrast between the great pageant of nature and poor Mr. Jones, catching—always catching—the 8.15."
But Lord Poldoodle is rising again. "Our next poet," he says, "is Miss Miranda Herrick, whose work is so distinguished for its—er—its—er—distinction."
Miss Herrick, dressed in pale green and wearing pincenez, flutters in girlishly. She gives a nervous little giggle, pushes out her foot, withdraws it and begins:
When I take my bath in the morning—
The audience wakes up with a start. "When you take your what!" says Lord Poldoodle.
Miss Herrick begins again, starting this time with the title.
LIFE
When I take my bath in the morning, When I strip for the cool delight, And the housemaid brings Me towels and things, Do I reck of the coming night?
A materially–minded man whispers to his neighbour that he always wonders what's for breakfast. "H'sh!" she says, for there is another verse to come.
When my hair comes down in the evening, And my tired clothes swoon to the ground, Do I bother my head, As I leap in bed, Of the truth which the dawn brings round?
In the uncomfortable pause which follows, a voice is heard saying, "Does she?" and Lady Poldoodle asks kindly, "Is that all, dear?"