Scene III.—The lawn in front of Northlake’s Villa.
Reading edition
Enter Whetstone and Bluegrass, with guitars, stealthily advancing through the shrubbery, and appearing upon the lawn.
Bluegrass.
Now do we stand upon the green lawn of fresh enterprise. Stand yourself ’neath yonder tree, and fix your eyes on the balcony [Whetstone takes position accordingly], while I, from behind this green projecting wing of shrubbery, project our ripening song [moving behind the shrubbery]. First, our song of salutation, with fresh words.
Bluegrass, under cover of the shrubbery, sings and plays, while Whetstone accompanies with pantomime.
The moon is on the hills, The glow-worm’s in the grass; The nightingales have bills, The owls have singing-class.
Bluegrass ceases singing while Whetstone continues pantomime.
Whetstone.
Give me more words!
Bluegrass.
I’ve forgotten the rest, and therefore take a rest.
Whetstone.
Look! the door is opening. [Door partly opens, and Pompey shows his head.] Great thunder—a black walnut!
Bluegrass.
Vanish, thou black January! [Pompey vanishes.] We’ll strike a mellower melody, and yonder balcony shall bear fruitage brighter than October. The prize of the troubadours in the courts of love was the golden violet.
Whetstone.
Give me no more sentimental nonsense. Sing a song of business.
Bluegrass.
That’s clever. I feel the inspiration. I’ll improvise a matter-of-fact descriptive ballad illustrating the moral maxim, Business before love.
Bluegrass sings and plays; Whetstone accompanies with pantomime, and joins in singing last line of each stanza.
Katie and Jack got up at morn, And she came with two ears of corn, And he came with his brassy horn, To drive the ducks to market, O! Now Katie’s ducks were white as snow, But Jackie’s ducks were black as crow; So o’er the hills away they go, Driving the ducks to market, O! Then Jackie blew his brassy horn, And Katie shelled her ears of corn, While the rooster crowed upon the thorn, Driving the ducks to market, O! Now Katie loved, and so did he, And he his horn hung on a tree; Oh, they were glad as the busy bee, Keeping the ducks from market, O! The moon fell down behind a hill; The sun winked at the miller’s mill; The lark got up upon his quill, Keeping the ducks from market, O! Alas! alas! green grew the grass, The duckies, hunting garden sass, Fell in a trap. Alas! alas! Keeping the ducks from market, O!
Then he cried chuckie, duckie, O! Then she cried duckie, chuckie, O! But oh, alas! it was no go, Driving the ducks to market, O!
MORAL.
The moral’s plain as the bumble-bee, Clear on the top of a tall tree. Oh, wait! if lovers you may be; First drive your ducks to market, O!
Enter Violet upon the balcony.
Violet.
I plainly see there’s business in this night. [Perceiving Whetstone.] Why, ’tis the self-same knight that did bedight another night, but far more musical. There’s a sad want of unity here, as no music, however rich, can me unite to yonder knight. [Addressing Whetstone.] Do my two eyes behold that Mayor Whetstone, of Cornville, near the capital of Illinois, called Hercules after his grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the Indians down the Mississippi?
Whetstone.
You do behold with two, unless with one you kindly wink upon me, which I half believe you do.
Violet.
Is thy meaning double or single?
Whetstone.
Sweet Miss Violet, I have been a man with an eye single to business, but who would double his business.
Bluegrass.
Don’t give her any quandaries.
Violet.
Why, thou hast changed thy voice!
Whetstone [aside].
Major, you rascal, assume my voice!
Bluegrass [assuming Whetstone’s voice].
Sweet Violet, it is the air, that’s sometimes tuneful and sometimes not, that doth effect the change.
Violet.
Thou art an artful man.
Bluegrass [assuming Whetstone’s voice].
Sweet Violet, ’tis even noted so.
Whetstone [aside].
Confound you, ’tis not so!
Bluegrass [assuming Whetstone’s voice].
I meant to say the air is so.
Violet.
If thou sowest the air with so, so, thy harvest will be no, no. The air upon this balcony well balances its fruitage.
Whetstone [aside].
You villain, we’re caught!
Violet.
I’ll not complain if thou wilt sing me another song.
Whetstone [aside].
Major, you rascal, another song!
Bluegrass [aside].
I don’t know any more.
Whetstone [kneeling].
Sweet Miss Violet, upon this green grass I vow to love you as long as grass grows. Oh, Miss Violet, you’re too young to know what you may lose. You may lose the real Merchant Prince of Cornville, near the capital of Illinois, called Hercules after his grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the real Indians reeling down the real Mississippi.
Violet.
Rise, thou mighty chief of merchandise. I set much store by thee.
Whetstone [rising and aside].
Major, my boy, did you hear that?
Violet.
Great Prince, it is my humor to be enamoured of thy union of business and romance. [Calls to Ninon within. Ninon enters. Bluegrass leaves the shrubbery and goes behind Whetstone, as his shadow.] Take no leaves from my shrubbery. What is’t that’s back of thee, Prince?
Whetstone.
’Tis but the shadow cast from me by the moonlight.
Violet.
The tree ’neath which thou standest is cedrine, and its laced boughs, filtering the moonlight, cast an interlacing shadow on the lawn; upon this plot, now, in part, a deeper shadow rests, like shadow upon shadow.
Bluegrass [sings in recitative, and Whetstone accompanies with pantomime].
’Tis but a shadow, ’tis but a shadow cast from me by the moonlight.
Ninon.
I hear ze voice of ze shadow, ze pretty shadow. Oh, zat I had ze shadow up on ze balcony! Charmant!
Violet.
Fie, Ninon, what wouldst thou with the fleeting shadow of this Merchant Prince? Thou hadst not even the shadow of sentiment.
Ninon.
Dear mistress, I see ze rainbow in ze shadow. Superbe!
Bluegrass [aside].
I’ve been too long a shadow.
Whetstone [aside].
You rascal, make yourself shorter!
Bluegrass.
Black slave that I am, thus to serve this merchant prince of merchandise!
Whetstone.
I’m a solid man, and my shadow lies solid.
Ninon.
Poor shadow, come off ze cold, cold ground!
Bluegrass [sings in recitative, and Whetstone accompanies with pantomime].
The shadow is slave to the substance. Who can separate them? None. Who can separate them? None,—none but Ninon.
Violet.
Ninon, ’tis marvellously good,—but we must go. [Slowly going.] Good-night alike to substance and shadow. Yet, stay! [Advancing.] Didst ever study arithmetic?
Bluegrass [sings in recitative, and Whetstone accompanies with pantomime].
Addition I have at my finger-tips. [Counting notes upon his guitar.] One, two, three, four, five. Multiplication I have by heart.
Whetstone [aside].
Throw in all the multiplication-table.
Bluegrass [sings in recitative, and Whetstone accompanies with pantomime].
Come, come, let us learn, let us sing. Come, come, let us learn the multiplication-table. Come, let us sing the multiplication-table.
Violet.
Thou art too multitudinous, and wert born for the opera; yet I will give thee a problem that thou shalt solve, not with thy digits, but with thy pedals. I will teach thee subtraction, and separate thy shadow from thy substance by plane trigonometry.
Whetstone [aside].
Major, steady! Listen for the click of the trigger.
Violet.
A triangle is a sweet instrument in the mathematics of love; for oft, about the first of April nights, I’ve watched the merry wild geese in the sky flying northward in musical and far-sounding triangles.
Whetstone.
I know them well. I have one in my brass band in Cornville.
Violet.
And yet triangulation by moonlight were a pleasant death, betwixt substance and shadow. Ninon, girl, quick! bring me my bronze-covered trigonometry.
[Exit Ninon.
Whetstone.
Hold on! There must be some mistake here. Please don’t pull any trigger on us!
Bluegrass [aside].
And make angels of us!
Whetstone.
Hold on, Miss Violet! I don’t want to be an angel yet.
Violet.
There’s no fairer weapon than a book, and I’ll make no angel of thee.
Bluegrass [aside].
Let’s cap the climax and capitulate.
Re-enter Ninon, with book.
Ninon.
Mistress Violet, here is ze book.
Violet.
I do not need it now. My memory serves me as well. Prince, fear not; trigonometry is a peaceful art that maids may practice, and thou beneath my patient yoke shalt help me draw this triangle. One side thereof shall be betwixt thy stationed shadow and myself, another ’twixt thy shadow and thyself, and the base side thereof shall be the distance ’twixt thee and me,—whose baseness shall increase if it decrease.
[Pauses.
Ninon.
Kind mistress, wilt thou have ze book?
Violet.
No book can help me. Now do I pause [pausing], for in this triangle one angle is obtuse and two acute; but my good angel shall help me. ’Tis better to be right than be acute; therefore it shall be a right-angled triangle. [To Whetstone.] Hence move you backward in the light. [Whetstone moves backward.] But also from your right. [He moves from his right.] Ninon, girl, see, the shadow doth not follow!
Bluegrass.
Now from this angle do I see my angel.
Ninon.
I know ze shadow, ze rainbow, ze major, ze grand lover!
Violet [to Whetstone, who has moved until he forms a right angle with Bluegrass and Violet].
Move no further. Thy shadow keeps no pace with thee, and fear might well oppress a wondering maid less mathematical. Ninon, take and reflect upon yon shadow. ’Tis thy sum total, and a happy one.
Enter Fopdoodle.
Fopdoodle.
Dear Miss Violet, I’m cured. The sheep’s blood is all out of me. Pa says I may bring you home with me; and Ma says I am a lamb with a golden fleece, but I must not alarm them by bleating—ba-bah. I have been badly off—but I assure you I am shorn of my malady. There is no longer any impediment of speech to our happiness. Oh, how I want to be a noble husband! Dear Miss Violet, may I, may I address you up so high, and I down so low? May I? May I?
Violet.
Thou hast too many Mays in thy calendar, but thou mayst have a cold March ere thou comest to a timely May.
Fopdoodle.
Star of Violet, come down to the earth. No, no. O earth of black, go up to the star of Violet. Yes, yes; but the earth can’t do it. What the deuce is the proper thing? Well, well—
Violet.
Thy question lies at bottom of a well too deep for a maid to fathom, looking down from a balcony.
Fopdoodle.
Dear Miss Violet, may I come up?
Violet.
Thy ardor is alarming!
Fopdoodle.
Dear Miss Violet, my servant, Tom, has a ladder waiting for me, and I will climb to thee. Don’t be alarmed; I am harmless, O dazzling Violet!
Violet.
Lovers should have in their hearts ladders of words better than any made with hands. Where is thy ladder?
Fopdoodle.
[Calling to Tom, around the corner] Tom, my man, bring your master love’s ladder.
Tom.
Good master, I come.
[Tom enters with a ladder and sets it against the wall.
Fopdoodle.
Don’t let it slip! Tom, my man, stand firm.
[He ascends.
Tom.
I obey, good master.
Bluegrass [sings in recitative and plays].
See! see! the bold burglar. Help! help! He ascends! he ascends!
Fopdoodle [halting].
I—I—I, Augustus Fopdoodle, a bad burglar man! I—I, the son of my father, Fopdoodle! Pray, sweet Miss Violet, who are those rude, bad men?
Bluegrass [sings in recitative and plays].
We are a triangle, and we’ll make a parallelogram of you. We are—we are—an accurate right-angled triangle, and we’ll make, we’ll make, a p-a-r—par, a-l—paral, l-e-l—parallel, o—parallelo, g-r-a-m—parallelogram—of you.
Whetstone.
Get down off the ladder!
Fopdoodle.
’Tis the voice of the barbarian, Whetstone,—my animal noun, my enemy!
Enter Jack.
Jack [to Fopdoodle].
Put the ladder back in the garden!
Fopdoodle.
Help me, good Jack!
[Jack takes hold of ladder, and Fopdoodle tumbles from it.
Fopdoodle [rising].
O dazzling Violet, my heart’s in ruins, and I’m turned down.
[Fopdoodle, Jack, and Tom move a short distance with ladder; when Tom holds, and Fopdoodle leans upon it.
Enter Scythe, observing no one, and with hand-net, in pursuit of a night-beetle buzzing in the air.
Scythe.
Where flies the beetle, I pursue. There, I hear it now! [The buzz of a flying beetle is heard.] Lovely night-beetle! Now you rise, and now you sink in curving flight. [He pursues, listening, till the sound ceases.] Now you’ve rested on a night-blooming flower, and I’ll approach more softly than lover does a dreaming maid, nor wake with rude-paced step your finer sense of airy motion. [He advances cautiously in search.]
Violet.
See, Ninon; he sees no one. In our time let maids be jealous. Science has its votaries as deeply rapt as love’s suitors.
Scythe [stopping, and observing the beetle on a flower].
What a rare and beautiful specimen for the Academy! Since early eve I’ve followed in the moonlight, through gardens, groves, and lawns. Now I’ll capture thee. [He throws his net over the flower, but the beetle, escaping, flies away with a buzzing sound, while he watches its course through his glass.] ’Tis a peerless beetle, with wings of purple filigreed with gold and silver, which leave in sparkling flight a trail of light. I’ll follow it till morning, but I’ll capture it.
[Exit Scythe in pursuit, and without having observed any one.
Violet.
Alack! few lovers are so ardent in their pursuit, and some do lag most grievously. [To Ninon] One was to come to-night, beneath my window, whom I’ve yet not seen.
Ninon.
But see, my mistress, something is coming up ze orchard path.
Violet [intently observing].
’Tis distant, and yet ’tis bigger than a man’s hand. Why, Ninon, ’tis a man. How near wouldst thou say he is?
Ninon.
Courage, my mistress! he has ze fleet pace of ze lover.
Enter Ideal.
Ideal.
Dear Violet, in hastening by the orchard path to meet thee ’neath thy window, I was detained by thy sweet sisters of the field, which sprang along my path in myriad gayety, while I in blissful fantasy did win them; and here, accompanied with my love, I tender thee this bunch of golden-hearted violets.
Violet.
Why, ’tis my Ideal! I’ll ne’er forsake thee; for were I to forsake my Ideal, that which were forsaken were better than that which were taken. To thee I’ll swift descend, and, descending, I’ll ascend.
[Exit Violet.
Ninon [following].
And I’ll descend to ze grand Major, for ze willing mistress makes ze willing maid.
[Exit Ninon.
Whetstone.
Major, I’m for a flank movement. We’re in the heat of battle. Let’s head them off! Let us on! She’s a prize! She’s a thoroughbred! What points she has! See the points and angles she gave us. She’s worth all! [Enter Violet and Ninon, who are joined by Ideal and Bluegrass.] She must not escape me; I’ll throw in the Eagle.
Bluegrass.
Hold! Not the Eagle.
Whetstone.
The bank, the steeple, the stores, the Academy, my farm on Pearl Creek,—all, all, everything,—but I’ll have her!
Ninon.
Dear Major, save ze Eagle!
Bluegrass.
Fear not; we’ll always share ze Eagle between us.
Ninon.
Ze grand Major will not share ze Eagle,—cut ze fedders off?
Bluegrass.
Never, my child of innocence, never! We’ll have one sparkling hearthstone, one sprightly boudoir, one full panoplied Eagle.
Ninon.
Oui, oui, très joli! charmant!
Enter Northlake and Catharine.
Northlake.
Good friends, and Mayor Whetstone, welcome all! It is a happy and auspicious time. This day the turn of Fortune’s fickle wheel Hath brought a double gift of joy to me. This is my wife, from whom I was estranged,— My Catharine, light of my youthful life,— Now reunited by a tenderer tie Than held our earlier years of wedded love. And this same day, by sudden rise of stocks On the Exchange, my fortune and my niece’s Have been restored to us. Swiftly hath flown The time since when, upon a troublous day, Yon Merchant Prince and I together planned Without her leave, as men too oft have done, To violate a gentle maiden’s heart. But she by maiden wit and nimble mirth Hath warded off and foiled our ruder blows; For Nature gives to helpless maids such powers To guard their hearts as are undreamt of men. Let us be glad that naught but harmless mirth Hath been the kind result of deeper plans. For, friends, good mirth is better than fine gold; ’Tis Heaven’s mercy shown to weary man, And falls upon the heart of melancholy As fall refreshing dews on earth at eve. And as in sparkling drops of crystal dew Night-clouded Earth doth clasp the light of stars, So doth the heart of melancholy catch, In sparkling laughter, the light of merry hearts.
Whetstone.
Major, now for my revenge! Send for my housekeeper, my castle-keeper. Order Susan. I’ll celebrate my nuptials on this sea-girt strand.
Bluegrass.
Shall I order the nuptial plumage?
Whetstone.
For both. At once.
Enter Punch with garments on each arm.
Punch.
Ladies and gentlemens, I have some beautiful wedding garments.
Enter Scythe, enthusiastically, with hand-net and beetle.
Scythe.
I’ve caught the beetle!
[Exhibiting a large beetle.
Whetstone.
Send it to my Cornville Museum!
Northlake.
A word with thee, my gallant Mayor Whetstone: There’s one within, who, having heard afar Thy strange adventures in this seaside town,— Thy loves, thy titles, and thy masquerades, And more especially thy fearful duel In the wood,—instanter boarded cars at Cornville To rescue and to succor thee in peril; She’s here,—she waits,—and now she doth appear.
He opens a door and Susan enters.
Whetstone.
Susan!
Susan.
Hercules!
Whetstone.
Dear Susan!
Susan.
Dear Hercules!
[They embrace.
Whetstone.
Oh, Susan!
Susan [surveying him].
Why, Hercules, how you’ve changed! I do declare! your clothes are full of wrinkles. How thin you’ve grown! you must have lost twenty pounds! I must make you, this very night, a cup of my elder-blossom tea; I’ve brought the blossoms with me [taking package from pocket]. Hercules, can it be that you would have forsaken your Susan?
Whetstone.
Why, Susan!
Susan.
I knew it could never be.
Whetstone [petting her].
That’s right, Susan; we’ll be married. Think of it, we’ll be married, Susan!
[Music. Pompey and Hannibal open doors on veranda, showing dining-hall; and Pompey announces that dinner is served.
Northlake.
May you all be my guests! There’s indoors spread a merry cap-sheaf to this mirthful wooing. Let all proceed within.
Violet [presenting Ideal].
Uncle, my Ideal.
Northlake.
Violet, my niece, happy art thou who hast for real thy Ideal.
Violet [persuasively].
Good uncle, thou wilt not cut down the tree in the orchard?
Northlake.
Nay, ’twill bear good fruit in good season.
Violet [to the company].
A philosophic uncle, and a kind one.
Curtain.