by Andrew Lang
CHAPTER V
A LITERARY DISCUSSION IN WHICH A CRITIC, NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME, TURNS THE TABLES UPON AN AUTHOR
Kelly frowned at Wogan, enjoining silence by a shake of the head. Herladyship was still too discomposed to speak; she drew her breath inquick gasps; her colour still came fitfully and went. The only personentirely at ease in that company was the disconcerting stranger, andeven behind his smiling mask of a face one was somehow aware ofsleeping fires; and underneath the suave tones of his voice onesomehow felt that there ran an implacable passion.
'Upon my word,' said he, 'I find myself for a wonder in the mostdesirable company. A revered clergyman, a fighting captain, a ladyworthy of her quality, and a poet.' He tapped the Virgil as he spoke,and it fell open between his hands. His speech had been uttered with aprovocative politeness, and since no one responded to the provocation,he continued in the same strain. 'The story of Dido'--the book wasopen at the soiled pages--'and all spluttered with tears.'
'It has lain open in the dew since yesterday,' interrupted Wogan.
'Tears no less because the night has shed them,' he replied; 'andindeed it is a sad story, though not all true as the poet relates it.For Dido had a gout-ridden husband hidden discreetly away in a darkcorner of the Palace, and AEneas was no more than an army chaplain,though he gave himself out for a general.'
Kelly flushed at the words, and took half a step towards the speakerof them.
'It is very true, Mr. Kelly. A chaplain, my soul upon it, a chaplain.Didn't he invoke his religion when he was tired of the lady, and sosail away with a clear conscience? A very parsonical fellow, Mr.Kelly. _O infelix Dido!_ he burst out, 'that met with an armychaplain, and so became food for worms before her time!'
He shut up the book with a bang, and, as ill-luck would have it, Mr.Wogan's poem peeped out from the covers as if in answer to his knock.
'Oho,' says he, 'another poet,' and he read out the dedication.
'Strephon to his Smilinda running barefoot in a gale of wind.'
Kelly laughed aloud, and a faint smile flickered for the space of asecond about Lady Oxford's lips. Wogan felt his cheeks grow red, butconstrained himself to a like silence with his companions. Hisopportunity would come later; meanwhile some knowledge was needed ofwho the stranger was.
'A pretty conceit,' resumed the latter, 'though consumption in itseffects. Will the author pardon me?'
He took the sheet of paper in his hand, dropped the Virgil carelesslyon the grass, and read out the verses with an absolute gravity whichmocked at them more completely than any ridicule would have done. 'Itbreaks off,' he added, 'most appropriately just when the gentlemanclaims the lady's obedience. There is generally a break at that point."At least, that is what I expect,"' he quoted. Then he looked at eachof his two adversaries. For adversaries his language and their facesalike proved them to be. 'Now which is Strephon?' he asked, with aninsinuating smile, as he calmly put the verses in his pocket. 'Is itthe revered clergyman or the fighting captain?'
Kelly's face flushed darkly.
'The revered clergyman,' he broke in, and his voice shook a little,'would be happy to be reminded of the occasion which brought him thehonour of your acquaintance.'
'A sermon,' replied the stranger. 'I was much moved by a sermon whichyou preached in Dublin upon the text of "Render unto Caesar the thingsthat are Caesar's."'
Mr. Kelly could not deny that he had preached that sermon; and for allhe knew the stranger might well have been among his audience. Hecontented himself accordingly with a bow. So Wogan stepped in.
'And the fighting captain,' he said, with a courtesy of manner no whitinferior to his questioner's, 'would be glad to know when he everclapped eyes upon your honour's face, if you please.'
'Never,' answered the other with a bow. 'Captain Nicholas Wogan neverin his life saw the faces of those who fought behind him. He had eyesonly for the enemy.'
Now, Mr. Wogan had fought upon more than one field of which he thoughtit imprudent to speak. So he copied the Parson's example and bowed.
'Does her ladyship also wish to be reminded of the particulars of ouracquaintance?' said the stranger, turning now to Lady Oxford. Therewas just a tremor, a hint of passion discernible in his voice as heput the question. Both Wogan and Kelly had been waiting for it, hadrestrained themselves to silence in the expectation of it. For onlylet the outburst come, and the man's design would of a surety tumbleout on the top. Lady Oxford, however, suddenly interposed andprevented it. It may be that she, too, had caught the threateningtremble of his words, and dreaded the outburst as heartily as theothers desired it. At all events, she rose from the bench as thoughsome necessity had spurred her to self-possession.
'No, Mr. Scrope,' she said calmly, 'I do not wish to be reminded ofour acquaintance either in particular or in general. It was a slightthing at its warmest, and I thank God none of my seeking. Mr. Kelly,will you give me your arm to the house?'
The stranger for a second was plainly staggered by her words. Kellycast a glance at Wogan which the 'fighting captain' very wellunderstood, offered his arm to Lady Oxford, and before the strangerrecovered himself, the pair were up the steps and proceeding down theavenue.
'A slight thing!' muttered Mr. Scrope in a sort of stupor. 'God,what's a strong thing, then?' and at that the passion broke out ofhim. 'It's the Parson now, is it?' he cried. 'Indeed, Mr. Wogan, aparson is very much like a cat. Whether he throws his cassock over thewall, or no, it is still the same sly, soft-footed, velvety creature,with a keen eye for a soft lap to make his bed in,' and with an oathhe started at a run after Kelly. Wogan, however, ran too, and he ranthe faster. He got first to the steps, sprang to the top of them, andturned about, just as Mr. Scrope reached the bottom.
'Wait a bit, my friend!' said Wogan.
'Let me go, if you please,' said Mr. Scrope, mounting the lowest step.
'You and I must have a little talk first.'
'It will be talk of a kind uncommon disagreeable to you,' said Mr.Scrope hotly, and he mounted the second step.
Wogan laughed gleefully.
'Why, that's just the way I would have you speak,' said he. Mr. Scropestopped, looked over Wogan from head to foot, and then glanced pasthim up the avenue.
'I have no quarrel with you, Mr. Wogan,' he said politely, and tookthe third step.
'And have you not?' asked Wogan. 'I'm thinking, on the contrary, thatyou took exception to my poetry.'
'Was the poetry yours? Indeed, I did not guess that,' he replied. 'Butthe greatest of men may yet be poor poets.'
'In this case you're mightily mistaken,' cried Wogan, and he stampedhis foot and threw out his chest. 'I am my poetry.'
Mr. Scrope squinted up the avenue under Wogan's arm.
'Damn!' said he.
Wogan turned round; Parson Kelly and her ladyship were just passingthrough the window into the house. Wogan laughed, but a trifle toosoon. For as he still stood turned away and looking down the avenue,Mr. Scrope took the last three steps at a bound, and sprang past him.Luckily as he sprang he hit against Wogan's shoulder, and so swung himround the quicker. Wogan just caught the man's elbow, jerked him back,got both his arms coiled about his body, lifted him off his feet, andflattened him up against his chest. Mr. Scrope struggled against thepressure; he was lithe and slippery like a fish, and his muscles gaveand tightened like a steel spring. Wogan gripped him the closer,pinioning his arms to his side. In a little Scrope began to pant, anda little after to perspire; then the veins ridged upon his face, andhis eyes opened and shut convulsively.
'Have you had enough, do you think?' asked Wogan; 'or shall I fall onyou? But you may take my word for it, whatever you think of mylove-poems, that I never yet fell on any man but something brokeinside of him.'
Mr. Scrope was not in that condition which would enable him toarticulate, but he seemed to gasp an assent, and Wogan put him down.He staggered backwards towards the house for a yard
or two, leanedagainst one of the trees, and then, taking out his handkerchief, wipedhis forehead; at the same time he walked towards the house, but withthe manner of a man who is dizzy, and knows nothing of his direction.
'Stop!' cried Wogan.
Scrope stooped, and turned back carelessly, as though he had not heardthe command. Indeed, he seemed even to have forgotten why he was outof breath.
'Mr. Wogan,' he said, 'I do not quite understand. It seems you writelove-poems to her ladyship, and yet encourage the Parson to courther.'
Wogan was not to be drawn into any explanation.
'Let us leave her ladyship entirely out of the question. There's thevalue of my poetry to be argued out.'
Mr. Scrope bowed, and they walked down the steps side by side, andthrough the opening in the hedge. A path led through the trees, andthey followed it until they came to an open space of sward. Woganmeasured it across with his stride.
'A very fitting place for the argument, I think,' he said, and tookoff his coat.
'What? In Smilinda's garden?' asked Scrope easily. 'Within view ofSmilinda's windows? Surely the common road would be the moreconvenient place.'
'Why, and that's true,' answered Wogan. 'It would have been anoutrage.'
'No,' said Scrope, 'merely a flaw in the argument. This is the nearestway. At least, I think so,' and he turned off at an angle, passedthrough a shrubbery, and came out opposite a little postern-gate inthe garden-wall.
'You know the grounds well,' said Wogan.
'It is my first visit,' replied Scrope, with a trace of bitterness,'but I have been told enough of them to know my way.'
He stepped forward and opened the gate. Outside in the road stood atravelling chaise with a pair of horses harnessed to it.
'There is no one within view,' said Wogan. The road ran to right andleft empty as far as the eye could reach; in front stretched the emptyfields.
'No one,' said Mr. Scrope, and he looked up to the sky.
'Well, I would as lief take my last look at the sunlight as atanything else, and I doubt not it is the same with you.'
Wogan, in spite of himself, began to entertain a certain liking forthe man. He had accepted each stroke of ill-fortune--his discomfitureat Lady Oxford's hands, the grapple on the steps, and now thisduel--without disputation. Moreover Wogan was wondering whether or nothe man had some real grievance against her ladyship and what motivebrought him, in what expectation, in his chaise to Brampton Bryan. Hefelt indeed a certain compunction for his behaviour, and he saiddoubtfully,
'Mr. Scrope, you and I might have been very good friends in othercircumstances.'
'I doubt it very much, Mr. Wogan.' Scrope shook his head and smiled.'Your poetry would always have come between us. I would really soonerdie than praise it.'
He looked up and down the road as he spoke, and then made an almostimperceptible nod at his coachman.
'That field opposite will do, I think,' Scrope said, and advanced fromthe doorway to the side of his chaise as though he was looking forsomething. It was certainly not his sword; Wogan now thinks it was hispistols. Wogan felt his liking increase and was inclined to put theencounter off for a little. It was for this reason that he steppedforward and passed an arm through Scrope's just as the latter had seta foot on the step of the chaise, no doubt to search the better forwhat he needed.
'Now what's amiss with the poem?' asked Wogan in a friendly way.
'It is altogether too inconsequent,' replied Scrope with a suddenirritation for which Wogan was at a loss to account.
'But my dear man,' said he, 'it was not intended for a syllogism.'
Scrope took his foot off the step and turned to Wogan as though a newthought had sprung into his brain.
'Mr. Wogan,' he said, 'I shall have all the pleasure imaginable inpointing out the faults to you if you care to listen and have theleisure. Then if you kill me afterwards, why I shall have done yousome slight service and perhaps the world a greater. If I kill you, onthe other hand, why there's so much time wasted, it is true, but I amin no hurry.'
There was no escape from the duel; that Wogan knew. Mr. Scrope hadinsulted the Parson, Lady Oxford, and himself; he was aware besidesthat the Parson and Wogan, both of them at the best suspectedcharacters, were visiting the Earl of Oxford; and he had, whether itwas justified or no, a hot resentment against the Parson. He might,since he knew so much, know also more, as, for instance, the namesunder which the Parson and Wogan were hiding themselves. It would notin any case need a very shrewd guess to hit upon their business, andif Mr. Scrope got back safe to London, why he might make himselfconfoundedly unpleasant. Wogan ran through these arguments in hismind, and was brought to the conclusion that he must most infalliblykill Mr. Scrope; but at the same time a little of his companymeanwhile could do no harm.
'Nor I,' replied Wogan accordingly. 'I shall be delighted to confuteyour opinions.'
Mr. Scrope bowed; it seemed as though his face lighted up for amoment.
'There is no reason why we should stand in the road,' he said, 'whenwe can sit in the chaise.'
'Very true,' answered Wogan.
Scrope mounted into the chaise. Wogan followed upon his heels. Theysat down side by side, and Scrope pulled out the verses from hispocket. He read the dedication once more:
'Strephon to Smilinda running barefoot over the grass in a gale ofwind.'
'Let me point out,' said he, 'that you have made the lady run barefootat the very time when she would be most certain to put on her shoesand stockings. And that error vitiates the whole poem. For the wind issevere, you will notice. So when she reprimands the storm, she shouldreally reprimand herself for her inconceivable folly.'
'But Smilinda has no shoes and stockings at all in the poem,' repliedWogan triumphantly.
'That hardly betters the matter,' returned Scrope. 'For in that caseher feet might be bare but they would certainly not be snowy.'
He stooped down as he spoke and drew from under the seat a bottle ofwine, which he opened.
'This,' he said, 'may help us to consider the poem in a morecharitable light.'
He gave Wogan the bottle to hold, and stooping once more fetched out acouple of glasses. Then he held one in each hand.
'Now will you fill them?' he said. Wogan poured out the wine and whilepouring it:
'Two glasses?' he remarked. 'It seems you came prepared for theconversation.'
Scrope raised his eyes quickly to Wogan's face, and dropped them againto the glasses.
'One might easily have been broken,' he explained.
They leaned back in the chaise, each with a glass in his hand.
'It is to your taste, I hope,' said Scrope courteously.
Wogan smacked his lips in contentment.
'Lord Oxford has no better in his cellars.'
'I may agree without boastfulness. It is indeed Florence of a rarevintage, which I was at some pains to procure.' He laughed with aspice of savagery and resumed the consideration of Wogan's verses.
'You seem to me to have missed the opportunity afforded by your galeof wind. A true poet would surely have made great play with the lady'spetticoats.'
'Smilinda had none,' again replied Wogan in triumph, and he emptiedhis glass.
'No shoes and stockings and no petticoats,' said he in a shockedvoice. 'It is well you wrote a poem about her instead of painting herportrait,' and he filled Wogan's glass again, and added a little tohis own, which was no more than half empty.
'Don't you comprehend, my friend,' exclaimed Wogan, 'that Smilinda's anymph, an ancient Roman nymph?'
'Oh, she's a nymph!'
'Yes, and so wears no clothes but a sort of linsey-wolsey garmentkirtled up to her knees.'
'Well, let that pass. But here's a line I view with profounddiscontent. "The grass will all its prickles hide." Thistles haveprickles, Mr. Wogan, but the grass has blades like you and me; only,unlike you and me, it has no scabbards to sheathe them in.'
'Well,' said Wogan, 'but that's very wittily said,' and
he laughed andchuckled.
'It is not bad, upon my faith,' replied Scrope. 'Let us drink to it infull glasses.'
He emptied the bottle into Wogan's glass and tossed it into the road.
'Now here's something more. The wind, you observe, makes lutestringsof Smilinda's hair.'
'There is little fault to be discovered in that image, I fancy,' saidWogan, lifting his glass to his lips with a smile.
'It is a whimsical image,' replied Scrope. 'It is as much as to callher hair catgut.'
Wogan was startled by the criticism. He sat up and scratched his nose.
'Well, I had not thought of that,' he said. He was somewhatcrestfallen, and he looked to his glass for consolation. The glass wasempty; he looked on to the road where the empty bottle rolled in thedust.
'I have its fellow,' said Scrope, interpreting Wogan's glance. Heproduced a second bottle from the same place. The second bottlebrought them to the end of the verse. There was, however, a littlediscussion over the last line, and a third bottle was broached toassist.
'"At least that is what I expect." It is a very vile line, Mr. Wogan.'
'It is, perhaps, not so good as the others,' Wogan admitted. 'But youmust blame the necessities of rhyming.'
'But the art of the poet is to conceal such necessities,' answeredScrope. 'And observe, Mr. Wogan, you sacrifice a great deal here toget an accurate rhyme, but in the remaining two lines of the nextverse you do not trouble your head about a rhyme at all.'
'Oh, let me see that!' said Wogan, holding out a hand for the paper.He had clean forgotten by this time what those two lines described.
'Allegiance, Mr. Wogan,' said Scrope, politely handing him the verses,'is no rhyme to obedience.'
'Allegiance--obedience--obedience--allegiance,' repeated Wogan asclearly as he could. 'Nay, I think it's a very good rhyme.'
'Oh!' exclaimed Scrope in a sudden comprehension. 'If you tell me theverses are conceived in the Irish dialect, I have not another word tosay.'
Now Mr. Wogan, as a rule, was a little touchy on the subject of hisaccent. But at this moment he had the better part of three bottles ofadmirable Florence wine under his belt and was so disposed to seegreat humour in any remark. He grew uproarious over Mr. Scrope'switticism.
'Sure, but that's the most delicate jest I have heard for months,' hecried. 'Conceived in the Irish dialect! Ho! Ho! I must tell it at theCocoa Tree--though it hits at me,' and he stood up in the chaise.'Obedience--allegiance.' Mr. Scrope steadied him by the elbow. 'Faith,Mr. Scrope, but you and I must have another crack one of these days.'He put a foot out on the step of the chaise. 'I love a man that hassome warmth in his merriment--and some warmth in his bottle too.' Hestepped out of the chaise on to the ground. 'The best Florence I havetasted--the best joke I have heard--the Irish dialect. Ha, ha!' and hewaved a hand at Scrope. Scrope called quickly to the coachman; thenext instant the chaise started off at a gallop.
Wogan was left standing in the road, shouting his laughter. When thecoach chaise was some thirty yards away, however, his laughter stoppedcompletely. He rubbed his hand once or twice over his bemusedforehead.
'Stop!' he yelled suddenly, and began to run after the chaise. Scropestood up and spoke to the driver. The horses slackened their paceuntil Wogan got within twenty yards of it. Then Scrope spoke again,and the coachman drove the horses just as fast as Wogan was running.
'You have forgotten something, my friend,' cries Wogan.
'And what's that?' asked Scrope pleasantly, leaning over the back ofthe chaise.
'You have forgotten the duel.'
'No,' shouted Scrope with a grimace. 'It is you that forgot that.'
'Ah, you cheese-curd!--you white-livered coward!' cried Wogan, 'and Itaking you for a fine man--equal to myself--you chalky cheese-curd!'He quickened his pace; Scrope called to the coachman; the coachmanwhipped up his horses. 'Oh wait a bit till I come up with you. I'lleat you in your clothes.'
Wogan bounded along the road, screaming out every vile epithet hecould lay his tongue to in the heat of the moment. His hat and wigfell off on the road; he did not stop, but ran on bareheaded.
'But listen, the enamoured air Makes lutestrings of thy locks so fair,'
quoted Scrope, rubbing his hands with delight. Wogan's fury redoubled,he stripped off his coat and ran till the road grew dizzy and the airflashed sparks at him. But the chaise kept ever at the same distance.With this interval of twenty yards between them, chaise and Wogandashed through the tiny street of Brampton Bryan. A horde of littleboys tumbled out of the doors and ran at Wogan's heels. The more hecursed and raved, the more the little boys shouted and yelled. Scropein the chaise shook with laughter, clapped his hands as if incommendation of Wogan's powers, and encouraged him to greater efforts.They passed out of the village; the children gave up the pursuit, andsent a few parting stones after Wogan's back; in front stretched theopen road. Wogan ran half a mile further, but he was too heavilyhandicapped with his three bottles of wine, and Scrope's horses werefresh. He shouted out one last oath, and then in a final spasm of furysat down by the roadside, stripped off his shoe, and springing intothe middle of the road, hurled it with all his might at the retreatingchaise. The shoe struck the top of the hood, balanced there for amoment, and bounced over on to the seat. Scrope took it up and wavedit above his head.
'The grass will all its prickles hide, Nor harm thy snowy feet and bare.'
The driver plied his whip; the chaise whirled out of sight in a cloudof dust; and the disconsolate Wogan hobbled back to Brampton Bryanwith what secrecy he could.
Mr. Scrope was on his way with the road to London open, were hedisposed to follow it. Mr. Wogan seemed to see his chaise flashingthrough the turnpikes, and his sallow cheeks taking on an eager colouras the miles were heaped behind him.
He knew that Mr. Kelly and Nicholas Wogan were at Lord Oxford's houseat Brampton Bryan. He knew enough, therefore, to throw some disorderon the Chevalier's affairs were he disposed to publish his news. Butnot in that way did he take, at this time, his revenge upon theParson.