Chapter 157
[Bunthorne, C.]
ANGELA [R. of BUNTHORNE] Mystic poet, hear our prayer, Twenty love-sick maidens we-- Young and wealthy, dark and fair, All of county family.
And we die for love of thee-- Twenty love-sick maidens we!
MAIDENS Yes, we die for love of thee-- Twenty love-sick maidens we!
BUNTHORNE [crossing to L.] Though my book I seem to scan In a rapt ecstatic way, Like a literary man Who despises female clay, I hear plainly all they say, Twenty love-sick maidens they!
[BUNTHORNE crosses to C.]
DRAGOONS [to each other] He hears plainly all they say, Twenty love-sick maidens they!
SAPHIR [L. of BUNTHORNE] Though so excellently wise, For a moment mortal be, Deign to raise thy purple eyes From thy heart-drawn poesy.
Twenty lovesick maidens see-- Each is kneeling on her knee!
[All kneel.]
MAIDENS Twenty love-sick maidens see-- Each is kneeling on her knee!
BUNTHORNE [going R.] Though, as I remarked before, Any one convinced would be That some transcendental lore Is monopolizing me, Round the corner I can see Each is kneeling on her knee!
DRAGOONS Round the corner he can see Each is kneeling on her knee!
Now is not this ridiculous, and is not this preposterous?
A thorough-paced absurdity -- ridiculous!
preposterous!
Explain it if you can.
MAIDENS DRAGOONS
In a doleful train Now is not this ridiculous, Two and two we walk all day, and is not this preposterous?
A thorough-paced absurdity-- None so sorrowful as they explain it if you can.
For we love in vain! Instead of rus.h.i.+ng eagerly None so sorrowful as they to cherish us and foster us, They all prefer this melancholy literary man.
Who can only sigh and say, Instead of slyly peering at
Woe is me, alackaday! They're actually sneering at us, fleering at us, jeering at us!
Pretty sort of treatment for a military man!
Woe is me, alackaday! They're actually sneering at us, fleering at us, jeering at us!
Pretty sort of treatment for a military man!
Twenty love-sick maidens we, Now is not this ridiculous, and is not this preposterous?
They all prefer this melancholy literary man.
And we die for love of thee! Now is not this ridiculous, and is not this preposterous?
They all prefer this melancholy, Yes, we die for love of thee! melancholy literary man.
Now is not this ridiculous, and is not this preposterous?
COLONEL [R.C.] Angela! what is the meaning of this?
ANGELA [C.] Oh, sir, leave us; our minds are but ill-tuned to light love-talk.
MAJOR [L.C.] But what in the world has come over you all?
JANE [L.C.] Bunthorne! He has come over us. He has come among us, and he has idealized us.
DUKE Has he succeeded in idealizing you?
JANE He has!
DUKE Good old Bunthorne!
JANE My eyes are open; I droop despairingly; I am soulfully intense; I am limp and I cling!
[During this BUNTHORNE is seen in all the agonies of composition.
The Ladies are watching him intently as he writhes. At last he hits on the word he wants and writes it down. A general sense of relief.]
BUN. Finished! At last! Finished!
[He staggers, overcome with the mental strain, into the arms of the COLONEL.]
COLONEL Are you better now?
BUN. Yes -- oh, it's you! -- I am better now. The poem is finished, and my soul has gone out into it. That was all. It was nothing worth mentioning, it occurs three times a day.
[Sees PATIENCE, who has entered during this scene.]
Ah, Patience! Dear Patience!
[Holds her hand; she seems frightened.]
ANGELA Will it please you read it to us, sir?
SAPHIR This we supplicate. [All kneel.]
BUN. Shall I?
DRAGOONS No!
BUN. [annoyed -- to PATIENCE] I will read it if you bid me!
PATIENCE [much frightened] You can if you like!
BUN. It is a wild, weird, fleshy thing; yet very tender, very yearning, very precious. It is called, "Oh, Hollow! Hollow!
Hollow!"