MR. MILB. Why? The French are the best sculptors in the world.
MR. L.-B. The Frensh! I can _not_ bring myshelf to believe that, if only for thish shimple reashon, they haven"t the _patiensh_ for it.
FIRST COMM. So _I_ should have said. For my own part--not knowing much _about_ it, very likely--I should have put the _Italians_ first.
MR. MILB. If you are talking of all time----
FIRST COMM. (_feeling at last at his ease_). I should say, even _now_.
Why, there was a piece of statuary in the Italian Exhibition at Earl"s Court some years back that took _my_ fancy and took my _wife"s_ fancy very much. It was a representation in marble of a "en and chickens, all so natural, and with every individual feather on the birds done to such a nicety----!
MR. MILB. I was hardly referring to the skill with which the Italians carve--ah--_poultry_.
MR. L.-B. Ridic"lous! Great mishtake to talk without unnershtanding shubject. (_The FIRST COMMERCIAL retires from the room in disorder._) One thing I should like to ashk is thish. Why are sculptors at present day so inferior to the antique? Ishn"t the human form divine ash n.o.ble and ash shymmetrical ash formerly? Why can"t they _reproduce_ it then?
MR. MILB. You must first find your sculptor. Providence doesn"t see fit to create a Michael Angelo or a Praxiteles every five minutes, any more than a Shakspeare.
MR. L.-B. (_wavering between piety and epigram_). Thank the Lord for _that_! Now there"sh Florensh. Shome of us who have had the _run_ there--well, there you see all the original thingsh--all the _originalsh_. And yet, if you"ll believe me (_dreamily_), with all my love and charm for Art, gimme the Capitoline Venush living and breathing in _flesh and blood_, Sir, not in cold lifelesh marble!
MR. MILB. That of course is a matter of taste. But we are talking about Art, not women.
MR. L.-B. (_profoundly_). Unforsh"nately, women are the _shubjects_ of Art. You"ve got to find out your client"s shtyle of Art firsht, and then carry it out in the besht possible manner.
MR. MILB. (_rising, and knocking his pipe out_). Have I? But I"m going to bed now, so you"ll excuse me.
MR. L.-B. (_detaining him_). But look here again. Take the Louvre. (_As MR. MILBOARD disclaims any desire to take it._) Now, n.o.body talksh about the Gallery _there_, and yet, if you only egshemp the thingsh that are rude and vulgar, and go quietly roun"----
SECOND COMMERCIAL (_who sees a Socratic opening at last_). Might I ask you, Sir, to enumerate any pictures there, that, in your opinion, are "rude and vulgar"?
[_MR. MILBOARD avails himself of this diversion to escape._
MR. L.-B. In the Grand Gallery of the Louvre there"sh an enormous amount of shtuff, as everybody who"sh an artisht and a lover of Art knowsh. If I had a friend who wash thinking of going to the Louvre (_here he looks round vaguely for MR. MILBOARD_), I should shay to him, "Do you _care_ about pictursh at all? If you _don"t_, don"t borrer yourshelf "bout it.
If you _do_, drop in shome day with Me, and I"ll give you a hint what to shee." (_As he cannot make out what has become of MR. MILBOARD, he has to content himself with the SECOND COMMERCIAL._) If you were _my_ boy, I should shay to you----
SECOND COMM. (_at the door_). Pardon me for remarking that, if I was your boy, I should probably prefer to take my own opinion. (_With dignified independence._) I never follow other persons" taste in Art!
[_He goes out as the Smoke-room Page enters._
MR. L.-B. (_hazily with half-closed eyes_). If you wash _my_ boy, I should shay to you, very quietly, very sherioushly, and without "tempting to dictate----(_Perceives that he is addressing the Page._) Jus" bring me "nother glash whiskey an" warrer.
[_He is left sitting._
[Ill.u.s.tration]
THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW.
A CONTRAST.
_The Stables at Saddlesprings, the Wheelers" Country House near Bykersall. MISS DIANA"S Horse BAYARD discovered in his Stall._
BAYARD (_talking to himself, as is the habit of some horses when alone_). I can"t make it out. She"s here. All the family came down yesterday--I heard the omnibus start for the station to meet them. And yet she hasn"t sent for me; hasn"t even been near me! She always used to rush in here and kiss me on the nose the very first--She"s ill--that"s it of course--sprained her fetlock or something. If she was well, she"d have had me saddled as soon as she"d had her morning feed, and we"d have gone for a canter together somewhere.... I hope she"ll get well soon.
I"m sick of being taken out by the stable-man; he"s so dull--no notion of conversation beyond whistling! Now, Miss Diana would talk to me the whole way.... Perhaps her hands and seat might have been----But what did _that_ matter? I liked to feel she was on my back, I liked the sound of her pretty voice, and the touch of her hand when she patted me after her ride.... (_He p.r.i.c.ks his ears._) Why, that"s her voice outside now!
She"s all right, after all. She"s coming in to see me!... I _knew_ she couldn"t have forgotten!
MISS DIANA"S VOICE (_outside_). Yes, you might put it in here for the present, Stubbs. I suppose it will be quite safe?
STUBBS" VOICE. Safe enough, Miss, there"s plenty o" empty stalls this side. Nothing _in_ "ere just now, except----
MISS D."S VOICE. Very well, then. Just wipe some of the dust off the mud-guards, because I shall want it again after lunch. And mind you don"t scratch the enamel taking it in.
STUBBS. Very good, Miss. I"ll be keerful.
[_MISS DIANA"S steps die away upon the cobbles._
BAYARD (_to himself_). She"s gone--without even asking after me! What has she been out in--a bath chair? I"m sure she _must_ be ill.
STUBBS (_to the Bicycle, as he wheels it in_). "Ere, steady now, "old up, can"t ye? And keep that blarsted near pedal o" yourn off o" _my_ enamel. Blest if I wouldn"t rather rub down arf a dozen "unters nor one o" them yere bloomin" bi-cycles. I know where I _am_ with a "orse; but these "ere little, twisty, spidery wheels----Come _over_, will ye. I"ll lean ye up agen "ere till I"ve "ad my dinner.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "It must be a sort of animal, I suppose."]
[_He places the machine against a part.i.tion next to BAYARD"S stall, and goes out._
BAYARD (_to himself, as he inspects his neighbour with the corner of his eye_). It"s _not_ a bath-chair; it"s one of these bicycles. It must be a sort of animal, I suppose, or Stubbs wouldn"t have spoken to it. I should like to ask it one or two questions. (_He gets his neck over the part.i.tion, and breathes gently through his nostrils upon the handle-bars._) Excuse me, but do you understand horse-language at all?
The BICYCLE (_answering by a succession of saddle-creaks_). Perfectly.
I"m a kind of horse myself, I believe, only greatly _improved_, of course. _Would_ you mind not breathing on my handle-bars like that? It tarnishes the plating so. The saddle is the seat of _my_ intelligence, if you will kindly address your remarks here.
BAYARD. I beg your pardon. I will in future. I don"t creak myself, but I"ve been closely connected with saddles ever since I was a two-year-old, so I can follow you fairly well. Didn"t I hear my mistress"s voice outside just now?
The BICYCLE. No; _my_ mistress"s, Miss Diana"s. I"d just taken her out for a short spin--not far, only fifteen miles or so.
BAYARD. Then, she--she"s quite well?
The BICYCLE. Thanks, she"s pedalling pretty strong just now. I"m going out with her again this afternoon.
BAYARD. Again! You will have had a hard day of it altogether, then. But I suppose you"ll get a day or two"s rest afterwards? I know _I_ should want it.
The BICYCLE. Bless you, _I_ never want rest. Why, I"ve been forty miles with her, and come home without clanking a link! _She_ was knocked up, if you like--couldn"t go out for days!
BAYARD. Ah, she was never knocked up after riding _me_!
The BICYCLE. Because--it"s no fault of yours, of course, but the way you"ve been constructed--you couldn"t go far enough to knock _anybody_ up. And she doesn"t get tired now, either. I"m not the kind of bicycle to boast; but I"ve often heard her say that she much prefers her "bike"
(she always calls me her "bike"--very nice and friendly of her, isn"t it?) to any mere _horse_.
BAYARD. To any mere horse! And does she--give any reasons?