Puck — January 23, 1878 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

PUCK. PUCK’S COMEDY-STORIES. I LOVE AND LAMBS. MM. MEILHAC ann HAL Y. LN the delightful little parlor of a delightful 3 little country-house, not far from New ‘> York, two delightfully pretty girls sit chat- ting and talking. One is a blonde—dark-eyed, dark-haired. ‘Through her thin black gauze dress gleams the warm white of her superb neck and arms. You think of Juno immediately. The comparison is trite. But the subject ex- cuses it. Perhaps, too, Juno's face wore an expression of lazy superciliousness, and other- wise resembled that of the young lady. If so, one wonders what Paris was thinking about, on the occasion of the little episode of Mount Ida. But if the favored Venus looked anything like the little blonde in rose-pink, who lolls in the East Indian arm-chair and looks with bright quizzi- cal eyes at her companion, you begin to under- stand that the gentle shepherd probably came to his famous judgment by means of a private and unchronicled toss-up. ‘The fair one in the roseate wrapper, who calls herself Miss Sylvia Hardinge, is at this moment saying: “Do you mean what you say, Gabrielle ?” Juno is known to the nineteenth century by the name of Gabrielle Joscelyn. She answers: “Ido. I have my theory on the subject. Of ‘course, I may be mistaken. But I don’t think that a man has any right to be a lover unless he has a talent for it.” “You talk as if courtship were an art. Why don't you found a school for lovers, with prizes of eligible young women to the pupils showing the most aptitude for the business ?” “No, I am quite serious. Love is an art, and it presupposes genius in its followers. You see very nice men everywhere—good, honest, respectable people—excellent for husbands, no doubt. I don’t say anything against the class —I may have to take one of them myself some day. But a lover! an adorer! the ideal of a gitl’s dreams! Would you have her put up with mere merit —with the tiresome, solid vir- tues? IfI marry for love, I will marry a /over, not a husband.”” “Lovers don’t wear, my dear!”" sententiously responds the worldly-wise little blonde. “Well, when my lover gets shabby, I'll turn him and make him over again as a sober and durable husband.” “No, you won't. You'll probably find that he has a cotton back, and that there’s no turn- ing him.” “Don't be so horridly dressmakerish, Syl- via,” cries Miss Joscelyn, pettishly; I’m not speaking of the conventional butterfly of fashion, when I talk of a lover. But 1 don’t care fora husband whom no other woman would have. Give me a man whom all other women admire. I want their judgment to confirm mine. Any- thing but your commonplace, conventional creature, whom no one else appreciates. Am / commonplace ? am / conventional ?” “You are not!” laughs Sylvia. “Then why should I not demand from my husband what he looks for in me? Yes, I own it! I cling to the hero of our schoolgirl romances. I wish that every other woman should envy me my husband. It is the only guarantee I have that I haven’t chosen an in- ferior article. And you agree with me, too, though you won't say so. Would you have cared for your own Jack half as much as you do if you hadn't taken him away from a dozen girls?” “Who told you I care so much for Jack?” Venus is blushing a little - or it may be the reficction from her pink wrapper. “Don’t I know it? And quite right, too. I like Jack myself. I know a girl whose heart he nearly broke, two years ago, at Newport.” “Oh, you like Jack, do you? And you know a girl whose heart he nearly broke? Well, let me tell you that you are very much mistaken about Jack. He’s a very commonplace person, and that's the chief merit I find in him. I’ve sufficient confidence in myself to know that I'm satisfied with my bargain, and I rest safe in the conviction that no other woman will ever care to dispute my possession.” “If Jack doesn’t give you any trouble, it’s because his collection of hearts is complete.” “Gabrielle, how can you talk so? No, my dear, nothing of the sort. Since I have known Jack, I have made acquaintance with no jealous rivals - there have been no anonymous letters —no poisoned bouquets. Jack is just like everybody else; and our engagement has been the most plain and prosaic imaginable. He's a living testimony to the error of your ideas!” “Still I hold to the ideas; and I mean to carry them out!" “That's all that troubles me. 1 don’t mind you're having ideas; but I’m direfully afraid you may carry them into effect. You're per fectly capable of turning your back on a good fellow, who really loves you, just for the sake of some worthless— What is it, Sarah?” A servant has just entered with a card. “A gentleman to see Miss Hardinge.” «Peter Smith,’” reads Sylvia. “Smith! Do you know him ?” asks Gabrielle, rising, as if to leave the room. “Who doesn’t know Mr. Smith—more or less of him? But Peter Smith—1 don’t recall the name. What is he like, Sarah?” “Tike, mum? He's like —pretty much like any other gentleman, Miss Sylvia. 1 couldn't describe him, But he said he came all the way from New York to see you.” “Well, I certainly can’t close the shrine to anyone who has made such a pilgrimage. Show him in here, Sarah.” “1 will leave you,” says Gabrielle. “My dear! why should you?” “If this—Mr.—Smith has come all the way from New York, he probably has something important to tell you. In any case, I don’t care to be present.” “ But, Gabrielle!” “ Ifyou please, my dear!” And Juno marches out, her fair brow slightly clouded, leaving Syl- via to ask herself: “What is the matter? her. ‘The door opens, and the gentleman who is “like any other gentleman” enters. Sylvia perceives at a glance that the ingenuous Sarah's. description only lacked polish to constitute an epigram. “Miss Hardinge ?” ““Mr.—Smith?” She waves her visitor to a seat. He does not perceive the gesture; his eyes are fixed on the work-basket*Gabrielle has left in her recently vacated chair. “ Pray be seated.” “Thank you. I have taken the liberty— pardon me, I believe you have my card?” Sylvia consults it.“ Mr, Smith?” “Peter Smith.” “Peter Smith. Yes.”” “You do not know the name?” “Ah, yes—now I remember. You are papa’s friend. 1 have heard him speak of you.” “ Frequently, I suppose ?”” “Once or twice.” ro I can’t have vexed fo} 5 a “Tam—I think I may call myself a very in- timate friend of your father’s.” “Then it is he whom you wish to see?” “ Exact “But he is in San Francisco.” “San Francisco?” It “For his health.” : “San Francis—but he’s coming back?” “Tn three months.” “Three months ?”” “Or possibly six.” “Thank you!” calmly remarks Mr. Smith, settling himself in his chair, ‘I'll wait.” “ Sir? “I beg your pardon, madam-- but my busi- ness is —is extremely important.” “If your business is important, sir—” ‘‘Important—exactly. That is to say—not quite what you would call important, but then— ‘The fact is, six months ago I had a conversa- tion with your father—very interesting conver- ‘sation—on the subject of sheep-raising. Your father was kind enough to inform me that he had some superb sheep here—Southdown, I believe—or Brompton—or—or—Maduros—or some such brand—and he asked me—any day, when I hadn't anything better to do, to drop down here and -see ’em.” “And to-day, as you had nothing better to do—" “ Just so—I mean—as I—excuse me;madam, what are you doing?” “Tam going to ring for theservant. She will show you where to find the sheep.” “‘Madam—I beg of you—stay one moment! You take me for a madman—and you're not altogether wrong. But don’t be alarmed—I’m not dangerous. Only hear me, and have pity on me. I assure you, when I came here I had fifty excellent pretexts for my visit— but when I entered this room I couldn't find one! In- genious they were, too. Nothing like this mis- erable sheep business.” “What do you mean, sir?” “When I came into this room, I saw—"" “What ?” «That chair—empty!” “That chair?” “That chair. And the state of mind into which 1 have been thrown by its unexpected emptiness is—is pitiable.” “ Miss Joscelyn’s chair!” “She was here. My name was spoken in her presence—my fatal name! And she is gone! I knew it!” “Ah!” cries his hostess, her manner chang- ing, ‘‘this is growing interesting. Sit down again, Mr. Smith.” “If I speak to you thus, Miss Hardinge,” and Mr. Smith sits down opposite Sylvia, “it is because 1 know you to be a woman of in- telligence.” «Excuse me, sir, you were about to say—"" “And a woman of heart!” “Enough—” “And, anyway, I—I can't help myself “That reason would have been sufficient,” remarks Sylvia, with the shade of a frown. “ Proceed, if you please.” “Will you have the kindness to look at me? Look at me carefully, madam. Do you notice anything peculiar about me?” Bute “Nothing? Of course, you see absolutely nothing. I'm just like everybody else, am I not? You can not deny it. ‘That is my misery, madam. I am conventional — outrageously con- ventional. I am neither large nor little—stout nor thin—good-looking nor ugly —rich nor poor—clever nor stupid! 1 am nothing in par- ticular, And my name is Smith. Smith! Is there anything to match that name for common- place—for lack of distinction? In the comedy of life, madam, I am a super. Yes, I was born a super, and here, by a caprice of destiny, I find myself playing a leading réle.” “You have my sympathy, Mr. Smith.” “I need it! I am playing a role for which Iam not fit. I have played it badly. I have been hissed. Miss Joscelyn has hissed me!” “You are in love—with Miss Joscelyn?”