LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1640, 23 May 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

PICKING CP THE PIECES. A Comedy. [Blackwood’s Magazine.] It is morning in Mrs Melton’s apartment in Florence. All the furniture is gathered into the middle of the room, aud covered with a sheet, Mrs Melton is a widow ami no longer young. Lord Dawlish, who comes to call, has also forgotten hH youth Dawlish—Good morning, Mrs Melton, I hope— Holloa! There is nobody here. What is all this about ? (After soma consideration he proersda to investigate the extraordinary erecti -n with the point of his stick. After c mvincing himself of its nature, he lifts a side of the sheet, pulls out an easy chair, iu-pects it, and fir-ally sits ou it.) She is an extraordinary woman. I don’t know why I like her, I don’t know why she likes mo. I suppose that she does like me. If not, what a bore I must be ! I come here every day—and stay. I suspect that I am an awful fellow to stay, I suppose that I ou .-ht to go now. '1 hia furniture trophy don’t look like being at home to callers. But perhaps she is out ; aud then I c?,u go on sitting hero I must sit somewhere. May I smoke ? I dare say; thank ye I will. Smoke? Smoko, There is a proverb about smoke. I wonder how I came to know so many proverbs. I don’t know much, “ There is no smoke without fire.” Yes, that’s it. There is uncommon little fire in a cigarette. Little fire and much stroke. Yes, that’s like this -I mean —. Let mo—what d’ye call it ?—review my position. Hero I sit Here I sit every day. That is smoke I suppose—plenty of smoko. Is there any fire ? That is the question. I wish people would mind their own business. It is trouble enough to mind one’s own business, I should think. But yet there are people—there’s that Fdtterly, for instance little snob. Flltterly makes it the business of his life to go about saying that I am going to be married ; and f.ll because here it a woman who is pot such an intolerable bo:o as—as otijev. people. Flitfcerly is the sort of man who says that there is no smoko without fire. What is this ? That is what I want to know. Is thip business of mine all smoke, all cigarette and soda, or—confound Flitterly ! I wonder if I ought to pull his nose. I am afraid that that sort of thing is out of date. I don't think I could pull a nose, unless somebody showed mo how. Perhaps if somebody held him steady I might. I don’t think I could do it. lie has got such a ridiculous little nose. I wonder if I ought to give up coming here. I don’t know where I should go to I wonder if lam bound in honor, aud all that. Perhaps this is out of date, too. I sometini’s think that I am cut of da’c myself. (Afcer this ho fi hos under the sheet with his stick and brings to light a photograph book, which he* studies as he continues to meditate.) I wonder if she would take me if I asked hr. I don’t b lievo she would; she is a most extraordinary woman. Who is this, 7. wonder ? I never saw this hook before I suppose that is the sort of inan women admire. He would know how to pnli a nose. I dire say lie has pullpd lots of noses in hia -lay. Docs it for exercise Suburban cad. A kind of little Tooting lady-killer. I wonder she puts such a fe low in her book, Wny hero ko is again, twice as big and fiercer. Htra is a other—and another. Hang him, he is all over the book (Ho pitches the b >ok under the sheet. Then Mrs Melton comes in wearing along apron, and armed with duster and feather-

brush ) Mrs Molten—Lord Dawlish! What are you doing h-ro ?

D —‘Nothing Mrs M.—How well you do it! J). Thank yon. Mrs M. —Bat you are doing ni tiling 5 you are smoking,

D.—Ami? I bog yonr pardon. Mrs JVt.—Aud yon shall do more ; you shall help me. I have been up to my eyes in work since seven o’clock, D.— Seven! why don’t you make some body else do it ? Mrs M. —Because I do it so well. I hava genius for dusting, and Italian servants have not. In this old city they have an unfeigned respect for the dnst of ages. I).—Have they? Howfimoy! Rut they might help you, I should think. Where are they? There was nobody to let mo in, Where are your servants ? Mrs M, —Gone. D.—Gone I Mrs M.~ Gone and left me free. I packed them all off—man aud maid, bag and baggage, D. But who will look after you ? Mrs M —I. lam fully equal to the task. But come, bo useful. You shall help me to arrange the furniture. D.—Help ! 11 Mrs M.— Ves ; help! Yon! I am not quite sure that you can't. (As ho proceeds to brush the back of a chair with a feather brush, it occurs to him to apologise for his intrusion ) D.—l suppose I ought to apologise for coming so early. Somehow I found myself in the Palazzo—and the door of your apartments was open, so I came in. I took the liberty of an old friend. Mrs M—l believe wo have been acquainted for at least a month. D.—Only a month ! It is not possible. It must bo more than a month. Mis M.—Apparently our precious friendship has not made the time pass quickly. Ik —No, I mean that it never does pass quickly, Mrs M.—Work, work, work! It’s work that makes the day go quick. lam busy from morning till night, and time flies with mo. Ik—Then you shorten your life. Mrs M —And keep it bright. Bet ter one hour of life than a nentury of existence ! Dear, dear ! how did my beat photograph bonk get knocked down hero ? D.—l am afraid that that was my awkwardness. I was looking at it, and it—went down there, Mrs M.—Don’t let it break from you again. Here, take it, and sit down and be good. You have no genius for dusting. D—Nobody ever called me a genius. I have been called all sorts of names, but nobody ever went so far as to call me a genius. Mrs M.—And yet you ain’t stupid. I always maintain that you are not really stupid. D —Ain’t I F Thank you. Who is this man—this fine-looking man with the frown and whispers ? Mrs M, —He is handsome, isn’t he ? D.—l don’t know. lam not a judge of male beauty. Mrs M.—Men never admire each other. They are too envious and too vain. D.—Are they? And women? What are women ? Mrs M.—What are women? What are they not ? Oh for one word to comprehend the sex 1 Women are—yes, women are worn aoly. D.—That sounds true. And women are effeminate. Mrs M.—Only females are effeminate, D.—Oh ! I wonder what that means. Mrs M.—But John is handsome. Ask any woman. D.— John! Mrs M. Yes, thaVs John—my cousin. D. —I hate cousins. They are so familiar and so p< rsonal. Mrs M, —I like them. They are so — so— D.—Cousinly. Mrs M. —Precisely, D—' ’ousius are cousinly. Does he dye his whiskers P Mrs M—Dye! Never. He has too much to do. John is a great man—a man of will, a man of force, a man of iron. That’s what I call a man. D,—Po you ? Ido not call an iron man a man. Mrs M.—Ho is the first of American engineers. D.—A Yankee stoker. Mrs M.—Dear John! He is a good fellow. Ho gave me that little jar by your hand. D. —Dear John is not a judge of china. I always hated that little jar. I shall break it some day. Mrs M.—lf you do, I’ll never tpeak to you again. D.—Please do. Tell me some more about John. Has not he got a fault, not even a little one ? Mrs M.—He has the fault of all men—vanity. He knows that he is handsome. D.—l thought he dyed his whiskers. Mrs M.—He dots not dye his whiskers. Ik—You seem very keen about the whiskers. H ere they are In all sizes, and from all over the world —carte de visite whiskers, cabinet whiskers, Rembrandteffect whiskers, whiskers from Naples, from Now York, fropi Baker street. You must like them very much. Mrs M.—l like the man. I like selfrespect, bravery aud perseverance. I like honeft work, ih, Lord Dawhsh, whafc a shame it is that you don’t do s-imothing! D.—Do something ? I? Id) something. I—well, I go about. Mrs M.— Oh 1 you go about. I). —Yes, with a dog in Eng and, without a dog abroad. Mrs M, Oh! abroad without a dog. I regret that I shall never have the pleasure of receiving the cur. D.—The cur’s a collie. Mrs M. —And so you think the man fulfils his destiny by going about? D.—Somebody must go about, you know. Mrs M. Yes, a squirrel in a cage. What you want is work. You ought to take a line. D. Go fishing ? Mrs M. —Be serious and listen to me. Here you arc in FJoreuce. D, —I believe 1 am. Mrs M. —You are in the midst of priceless treasures. The finest works of art are ali around you. D.—l believe they are. Mr« M.—Take a line; take up something; for instance, the Greek statues. D. —Ain’t I rather old to play with marbles ? Mrs M.—Not a bit. Nobody is old who isn’t old on purpose. Compare, classify and make a book, or even a pamphlet. D.—T hate pamphlets. They are always coming by the post. Mrs M. —I suppose it’s not the thing for a man in your position to turn author ? D. —I don’t think I ever did hear of one of our lot writing books. But that don’t much matter. I should like to take a line, or a course, or a—l took a course of waters once at Homburg, or Kissingen, or somewhere, but they camo to an end, like other things, Mrs M.—Lord Dawllsh, are you joking ? D.—No. Mrs M.—Then be serious ; take up a subject, set to work, produce your pamuhlet—at least a pamphlet. It might grow into a book. D. —Heaven foibid. I could not do it. Mrs M.—Why not? D.—Writing a book is so infernally public. 1 should be talked about. Mrs M.—How dreadful! The owl, who is modest withal, and shrinks from notoriety, remains at home until sunset. D. —You called me a squirrel before. Are you going through all the zoological whatd o-call-’em ? Mrs M. Perhaps even I shall be talked about before long. D. I should u t wonder If you were. Vm M.— Ye?, even I, humble individual as 1 am, mey, perhaps, be talked about when I set up my studio. 1) —Your what? Mrs M. —My studio. Yes, I’ve quite made up my mind There are many worse painters in Florence than myself. 1 mean to be a real painter, and not longer play with color. D. And sell your pictures ? Mrs M - For the largest possible prices. I).—la not thr.t aa odd sort of thing for a lady ? Mr 3 M. —No. We have changed all that, H>ny women paint nowadays.

I).—I have heard so. Mrs M—l believe that you are making jokes this morning. D.—l don’t think so, I don’t like jokes ; they are very fatiguing. It’s John’s fault. Mrs M.—What’s John’s fault. D,—No man likes to have another crammed dow > his throat—unless ho is a confounded cannibal. Mrs M—Very well, I will refrain from cramming anybody down yonr throat. But I won’t let you off. I feel that I have a mission. D.—Good heavens ! Mrs M, —I have a mission to reform you. D.—Please don’t do it. Mrs M.—l must. Why don’t yon do your proper work ? Why not go back to England and take ewe of your property ? D.—Because my agent takes care of it so much better than I could. I inherited my place, and I can’t get rid of it. Rut, luckily, land can’t follow me about. That is why I come abroad. Mrs M.—Without the dog ? D.—He stays with the land. He likes it. He hates travelling. Mrs M.—So would you if you travelled in a dogboy. D.—l wish you would not talk about me, I am so tired of myself. Mrs M.—But you interest me. D.—Thank you. That is gratifying. Don’t let us pursue the subject further. Mrs M. —I must. It’s my mission. I picture the pleasures of an English country life. You build cottages; you drain fields ; you carry flannel to the old women. D.—No; I could not do it. I don’t think I could carry flannel to an eld woman. Mrs M.—So much for duties. Then for amusement. Arey-'u fond of shooting? D.—Pheasants are all no much alike, I gave up shooting when my sister took to it. Mrs M. —Your sister ! D. —She is a keen sportsman—awfully keen. I went out with her once. I feel them still sometimes iu my back when it’s cold weather. Mrs M. —You like hunting better? In this country they shoot the fox. D. —Do they ? That must be curious. I wonder if I could bring myself to try that, I almost think that— Mrs M.—Go home and hunt. D.—l have given up bunting. Bather rough on Teddie, don’t you think ? Mrs M.—Who’s Teddie ? D.—Don’t you know Teddie? Mrs M.—ls ho the dog ? D -—No; he is my brother. I thought that everybody knew Peddle, Teddie knows eveiybody, Teddie likes me to hunt. He is always bothering me to buy horses with tricks. Or to go by excursion trains. Or to shoot lions iu Abesinia. He is an awful ambitious fellow, Teddie. Don’t you think we might change the subject ? Mrs M.—Not yet. I have not done my duty yet. Politics! Oh for political influence ! Oh for power! Why, you must be—of course you are a thingummy what’shis name, D.—Very likely, if you say so. Mrs M—An hereditary legislator. Think of that. Think of your influence in the country ; of the power you might wield. Go in for politics. D.—Well, you know I—l inherited my politics with my pheo, and I can’t get rid of them. Put Teddie does them for me. He was always rather a muff, Teddie was ; and so they put him into politics, (To he continued.)