by George Moore
“I don’t see, Alice, why you couldn’t have made King Cophetua marry the Princess. Who ever heard of a King marrying a beggar-maid? It seems to me most unnatural. Besides, I hear that lots of people are going to be present, and to be jilted before them all is not very pleasant. I am sure mamma wouldn’t like it.”
“But you are not jilted, my dear Olive; you do not like the King, and you show your nobleness of mind by refusing him.”
“I don’t see that; who ever refused a king?”
“Well, what do you want?” exclaimed May, “I never saw anyone so selfish in all my life; you would not be satisfied unless you played the whole piece by yourself. First you would have your sister beg the nuns to allow you to play the beggar-maid, then you didn’t like the part and refused to go on with it; and hadn’t Violet very kindly consented to give the Princess up to you — which she would have played beautifully — and agreed to act the beggar-maid, I don’t know what we should have done.”
Olive would probably have made a petulant and passionate reply, but at that moment the sound of laughter was heard. It was a man’s voice, and the merriment was vapid and loud.
The girls started to their feet, and, looking past the green garden, they watched a party of visitors who were coming up the drive.
“’Tis papa,” cried Olive, and, instantly, forgetting her troubles, she rushed forward, laughing as she went.
“And he is with mamma,” said Violet, and with an air of satisfaction she tripped after Olive. The three remaining girls lingered, then advanced shyly. From where they were they could see that someone was attracting a good deal of attention. Presently a tall, handsome man escaped from the two priests who were walking on either side of him, and, after kissing Olive, held her at arm’s length and admired her somewhat boisterously. The high aquiline nose which the daughter had inherited made the likeness obvious. Mr. Barton wore a flowing beard, his hair was long, and both were the colour of pale café au lait. His appearance was, therefore, somewhat romantic, and he spoke as if he were trying to speak up to it.
“Here is learning, and here is beauty, what could any father desire more?” he exclaimed, after he had bestowed a kiss upon Alice. “I used to kiss you all in old times, but I suppose you are too big now. How strange! how strange! There you are, a row of brunettes and blondes, who, before many days are over, will be charming the hearts of all the young men in Galway. And I suppose it was in talking of. such things you spent the morning?”
“Our young charges have been, I assure you, very busy all the morning. We are not as idle as you think, Mr. Barton,” said the nun, in a tone of voice that showed that she thought the remark extremely ill-considered. “We have been arranging the stage for the representation of a little play that your daughter Alice composed.”
“Oh, yes, I know, she wrote to me about it; ‘King Cophetua’ is the name, isn’t it? I am very curious indeed, for I have set Tennyson’s ballad to music myself. I sing it to the guitar — have not had time to have it written down. Life is so hurried, and I keep my thoughts fixed on one thing, or I should have sent it to you. However — however we are all going home to-morrow. I have promised to take charge of Cecilia, and Mrs. Scully is going to look after May.”
“Oh, how nice, how nice that will be!” cried Olive, and, catching Violet by the hands, she romped with her for glee. Then the nun, taking advantage of this break in the conversation, said:
“Come now, young ladies, it is after two o’clock, we shall never be ready in time if you don’t make haste — and it won’t do to keep the Bishop waiting.”
The priests smiled blandly, and, like a hen gathering her chickens, the Sister hurried away with Violet, Olive, and May.
“How happy they seem in this beautiful retreat!” said Mrs. Scully, drawing her black lace shawl about her huge grey-silk shoulders. “How little they know of the troubles of the world! I am afraid it would he hard to persuade them to leave their convent if they knew the trials that await them.”
“We cannot escape our trials, they are given to us that we may overcome them,” said one of the Fathers, who thought that Mrs. Scully’s remark called for a word of comment.
“I suppose so, indeed,” said Mrs. Scully; and, trying to find consolation in the remark, she sighed deeply. Then the other reverend gentleman, as if fearing further religious shop from his confrere, informed Mr. Barton, in a cheerful tone of voice, that he had heard he was a great painter.
“I don’t know — I don’t know,” replied Mr. Barton, “painting is, after all, only dreaming — I should like to be put at the head of an army, and sent to conquer Africa — my affairs keep me in Ireland — but when I am seized with an idea I have to rush to put it down.”
Finding no appropriate answer to these somewhat erratic remarks, the priest joined in a discussion that had been started, concerning the action taken by the Church during the present agrarian agitation. Mr. Barton, who was weary of the subject, stepped away, and, sitting on one of the terrace-benches between Cecilia and Alice, he feasted his eyes on the colour-changes that came over the sea, and, in long-drawn-out and disconnected phrases, explained his views on nature and art, until the bell was rung for the children to assemble in the school-hall.
It was a large room with six windows; these had been covered over with red cloth, and the wall opposite was decorated with plates, flowers, and wreaths woven out of branches of evergreen, oak, and holly. Chairs for the visitors had been arranged in a semicircle around the Bishop’s throne — a great square chair approached by steps, and rendered still more imposing by the canopy, whose voluminous folds fell on either side like those of a corpulent woman’s dress. Opposite was the stage. The footlights were turned down, but the blue mountains and brown palm trees of the drop-curtain, painted by one of the nuns, loomed through the red obscurity of the room. Benches had been set along both walls; between them a strip of carpet, worked with roses and lilies, down which the girls advanced when called to receive their prizes, stretched its blue and slender length.
As the girls entered, their voices reminded you of a tree full of April-talking birds. Alice was in great requisition. A kind of place of honour had been made for her, and those who sat next her were looked upon enviously. In the excitement of the moment it was forgotten they were going to lose her. For her, every heart was full of admiration; and many were the mental calculations made as to the number of prizes she would have carried off, had she not, for the last year, been placed by herself, outside of the school classes. There was a suspicion afloat that some special sign of approbation would be made to her; the form that it would take none ventured to predict; but it was thought that the usual blue ribbon for good conduct, in so exceptional a case as Alice’s, would not be considered sufficient. Then, as a breeze in a garden suddenly blows the flowers different ways, the conversation would change, and, leaning together, groups and couples discussed passionately their chances of obtaining rewards for their year’s labours. The little children were pushed out of the way, and they sat on the back benches, conscious of their inferiority in point of age. The youngest was a child of eight; but there were many of eleven and thirteen, and, like nurses, these, their narrow shoulders raised, lectured the little ones, all the while arranging their blue sashes for them. It was a pretty sight. The vague, sexless stare of infancy contrasted with the quick glances of the elder girls, whose sharp features hinted at a budding feminality.
Then, suddenly, a nun entered, and, in a voice full of trepidation and expectancy, announced that the Bishop was coming. The babbling of voices ceased, and, hurriedly, four girls hastened to the pianos placed on either side of the stage — two left-hands struck a series of chords in the bass, the treble notes replied, the eight hands went rattling over the keys; and, to the gallant measure of a French polka, a stately prelate entered. Everyone was on her feet in a moment, and the soft clapping of feminine palms resounded through the rooms, drowning for a moment even the slangy strains of the polka.
But, whe
n the Bishop was seated on his high throne, the back of which extended some feet above his head, and when the crowd of visitors had been accommodated with chairs around him, a nun made her way through the room, seeking anxiously among the girls. She carried in her hand a basket filled with programmes, all rolled and neatly tied with pieces of different coloured ribbon. These she distributed to the ten tiniest little children she could find, and, advancing five from either side, they formed in a line and courtesied to the Bishop. One little dot, whose hair hung about her head like a golden mist, nearly lost her balance; she was, however, saved from falling by a companion, and then, like a group of kittens, they tripped down the blue strip of carpet, and handed the programmes to the guests, who leaned forward as if anxious to touch their hands — to stroke their shining hair. The play was now ready to begin, and Alice felt she was going from hot to cold, for when the announcement printed on the programme, that she was the author of the comedy of “King Cophetua,” had been read, all eyes were fixed upon her: the Bishop, after eyeing her intently, bent towards the Reverend Mother and whispered to her. Doubtless it was very trying; Cecilia clasped Alice’s hand, and said, as the nun who had written the introductory music played the last bars, “You must not be afraid, dear, I know it will be all right.”
And the little play was as charming as it was guileless. The old legend had been arranged — as might have been expected from a schoolgirl — simply and unaffectedly. The scene opened in a room in the palace of the King, and when a chorus, supposed to be sung by the townspeople, was over, a minister entered hurriedly. The little children uttered a cry of delight; they did not recognise their companion in her strange disguise. A large wig, with brown curls hanging over the shoulders, almost hid the face that had been made to look quite aged by a few clever touches of the pencil about the eyes and mouth. She was dressed in a long garment, something between an ulster and a dressing-gown; it fell just below her knees, for it had been decided by the Reverend Mother that it were better that there should be a slight display of ankles than the least suspicion of trousers. The subject was a delicate one, and for some weeks past a look of alarm had not left the face of the nun in charge of the wardrobe. But these considerations only amused the girls, and now, delighted at the novelty of her garments, the minister strutted manfully about the stage. Bitterly she complained of the temper of the dowager Queen. “Who could help it if the King wouldn’t marry? Who could make him leave his poetry and music for a pretty face if he didn’t care to do so? He had already refused blue eyes, black eyes, brown eyes. However, the new Princess was a very beautiful person, and ought, all things considered, to he accepted by the King. She must be passing through the city at the moment.” On this the Queen entered. Alice’s face contracted with apprehension, for the little girl who played the part had shown such timidity at rehearsal that it was impossible to say that now, in the presence of an audience, she might not grow utterly disconcerted, and fly crying from the stage. The first words she spoke were inaudible, but, gathering courage as she went on, she trailed her white satin, with its large brocaded pattern, in true queenly fashion, and questioned the minister as to his opinion of the looks of the new Princess. But she gave no point to her words. The scene was, fortunately, a short one, and no sooner had they disappeared than a young man entered. He held a lute in his left hand, and with his right he twanged the strings idly. He was King Cophetua. This was the crucial point of the play, and not many words had been spoken before Alice saw her expectations fade, and a bitter sense of disappointment filled her mind. Many times during rehearsal Alice had warned May of the error she was falling into, but May did not seem able to accommodate herself to the author’s view of the character, and, after a few minutes, fell back into her old swagger. And now this was more exaggerated than it had ever been before. Excited by the presence of an audience, by the footlights, by the long coat under which she knew her large well-shaped legs could be seen, she forgot her promises, and strolled about like a man — as she had seen young Scully saunter about the stable-yard at home. She looked, no doubt, very handsome, and, conscious of the fact, she addressed her speeches to a group of young men, who, for no ostensible reason except to get as far away as possible from the Bishop, had crowded into the left-hand corner of the hall.
And so great was May’s misreading of the character, that Alice could hardly realise that she was listening to her own piece. Instead of speaking the sentence, ‘My dear mother, I could not marry anyone I did not love; besides, am I not already wedded to music and poetry?’ slowly, dreamily, May emphasised the words so jauntily, that they seemed to be poetic equivalents for wine and tobacco. There was no doubt that things were going too far; the Reverend Mother frowned, and shifted her position in her chair uneasily; the Bishop crossed his legs and took snuff methodically.
But at this moment the attention of the audience was diverted by the entrance of the Princess. May’s misbehaviour was forgotten, and a murmur of warm admiration rose through the red twilight. Dressed in a tight-fitting gown of pale blue, opening in front, and finishing in a train held up by the smallest child in the school, Olive moved across the stage like a beautiful bird. Taking a wreath of white roses from her hair, she presented them to the King. He had then to kiss her hand, and with much courtly grace he led her to a chair. In the scene that followed, Alice had striven to he intensely pathetic. She had intended that the King, by a series of kindly-put questions, should gradually win the Princess’s confidence, and induce her to tell the truth; that her affections had already been won by a knight at her father’s Court, that she could love none other. Touched by her candour, and interested in her story, the King in turn grows sentimental.
King: But if this knight did not exist; if you had never seen him, you would, I suppose, have accepted my hand?
Princess: You will not be offended if I tell you the truth?
King: No, I promise you.
Princess: Well, then, I could never have listened to your love.
King (rising hastily): Am I then so ugly, so horrible, so vile, that even if your heart were not engaged elsewhere you could not have listened to me?
Princess: You are neither horrible, nor vile, King Cophetua; but again promise me secrecy, and I will tell you the whole truth.
King: I promise you.
Princess: You are loved by a maiden far more beautiful than I; she is dying of love for your sake! she has suffered much for her love; she is suffering still.
King: And who is this maiden?
Princess: Ah! She is no more than a beggar-girl; she lives on charity, the songs she sings, and the flowers she sells in the streets. And now she is poorer than ever, for your royal mother has caused her to be driven out of the city.
Here the King weeps — he is supposed to be deeply touched by the Princess’s account of the wrongs done to the beggar-girl — and it is finally arranged between him and the Princess that they shall pretend to have come to some violent misunderstanding, and that, in their war of words, they shall insult each other’s parents so grossly that all possibilities of a marriage will be for ever at an end. Throwing aside a chair so as to bring the Queen within ear-shot, the King declares that his royal neighbour is an old dunce, and that there is not enough money in his treasury to pay the Court bootmaker; the Princess retaliates by saying that the royal mother of the crowned head she is addressing is an old cat, who paints her face and beats her maids of honour.
The play, that up to this point had been considered a little tedious, now riveted the attention of the audience, and when the Queen entered she was greeted with roars of laughter. Aghast, she stands on the threshold, unable to believe her ears, listening to the wild invective with which a powerful King and the Princess of a neighbouring State were attacking each other.
The applause was deafening. Olive had played her part better than had been expected, and all the white frocks trembled with excitement. The youths in the left-hand corner craned their heads forward so as not to lose a syllable of what
was coming, the Bishop recrossed his legs in a manner that betokened his entire satisfaction; and, delighted, the mammas and papas whispered together. But the faces of the nuns betrayed the anxiety they felt. Inquiring glances passed beneath the black hoods; all the sleek faces grew alive and alarmed. May was now alone on the stage, and there was no saying what indiscretion she might not be guilty of.
The Reverend Mother, however, had anticipated the danger of the scene, and had sent round word to the nun in charge of the back of the stage, to tell Miss Gould that she was to set the crown straight on her head, and to take her hands out of her pockets. The effect of receiving such instructions from the wings was that May forgot one half her words, and spoke the other half so incorrectly that the passage Alice had counted on so much— “At last, thank Heaven, that tiresome trouble is over, and now I shall be free to return to music and poetry” — was rendered into nonsense, and the attention of the audience lost. Nor were matters set straight until a high soprano voice was heard singing:
Buy, buy, who will buy roses of me?
Roses to weave in your hair.
A penny, only a penny for three,
Roses a queen might wear!
Roses! I gathered them far away
In gardens, white and red.
Roses! Make presents of roses to-day,
