Part 2 (1/2)
I asked you down here to enjoy yourselves, not to argue. I apologize--all my fault--unpardonable of me. Come now--we have decided to stay as long as we can--we are all interested. It is not every generation that has the honor to sit by, and watch two systems meet at the crossroads and dispute the pa.s.sage to the Future. We'll agree not to discuss the ethics of the matter again. If the men marching out there to the frontier can agree to face the cannon--and there are as many opinions there as here--surely we can _look on_ in silence.”
And on that agreement we all went to bed.
But on the following day, as we sat in the garden after dinner, our attempts to ”keep off the gra.s.s” were miserably visible. They cast a constraint on the party. Every topic seemed to lead to the forbidden enclosure. It was at a very critical moment that the Sculptor, sitting cross-legged on a bench, in a real Alma Tadema att.i.tude, filled the dangerous pause with:
”It was in the days of our Lord 1348 that there happened in Florence, the finest city in Italy--”
And the Violinist, who was leaning against a tree, touched an imaginary mandolin, concluding: ”A most terrible plague.”
The Critic leaped to his feet.
”A corking idea,” he cried.
”Mine, mine own,” replied the Sculptor. ”I propose that what those who, in the days of the terrible plague, took refuge at the Villa Palmieri, did to pa.s.s away the time, we, who are watching the war approach--as our host says it will--do here. Let us, instead of disputing, each tell a story after dinner--to calm our nerves,--or otherwise.”
At first every one hooted.
”I could never tell a story,” objected the Divorcee.
”Of course you can,” declared the Journalist. ”Everybody in the world has one story to tell.”
”Sure,” exclaimed the Lawyer. ”No embargo on subjects?”
”I don't know,” smiled the Doctor. ”There is always the Youngster.”
”You go to blazes,” was the Youngster's response, and he added: ”No war stories. Draw that line.”
”Then,” laughed the Doctor, ”let's make it tales of our own, our native land.” And there the matter rested. Only, when we separated that night, each of us carried a sealed envelope containing a numbered slip, which decided the question of precedence, and it was agreed that no one but the story-teller should know who was to be the evening's entertainer, until story-telling hour arrived with the coffee and cigarettes.
I
THE YOUNGSTER'S STORY
IT HAPPENED AT MIDNIGHT
THE TALE OF A BRIDE'S NEW HOME
The daytimes were not ever very bad. Short-handed in the pretty garden, every one did a little work. The Lawyer was pa.s.sionately fond of flowers, and the Youngster did most of the errands. The Sculptor had found some clay, and loved to surprise us at night with a new centre piece for the table, and the Divorcee spent most of her time tending Angele's baby, while the Doctor and the Nurse were eternally fussing over new kinds of bandages and if ever we got together, it was usually for a little reading aloud at tea-time, or a little music. The spirit of discussion seemed to keep as far away before the lights were up as did the spirit of war, and nothing could be farther than that _appeared_.
The next day we were unusually quiet.
Most of us kept in our rooms in the afternoon. There were those stories to think over, and that we all took it so seriously proved how very much we had been needing some real thing to do. We got through dinner very comfortably.
There was little news in the papers that day except enthusiastic accounts of the reception of the British troops by the French. It was lovely to see the two races that had met on so many battle fields--conquered, and been conquered by one another--embracing with enthusiasm. It was to the credit of all of us that we did not make the inevitable reflections, but only saw the humor and charm of the thing, and remembered the fears that had prevented the plans of tunnelling the channel, only to find them humorous.
The coffee had been placed on the table. The Trained Nurse, as usual, sat behind the tray, and we each went and took our cup, found a comfortable seat in the circle under the trees, where a few yellow lanterns swung in the soft air.
Then the Youngster pulled a white head-band with a huge ”Number One”
on it, out of his pocket, placed it on his head after the manner of the French Conscripts, struck an att.i.tude in the middle of the circle, drew his chair deftly under him, and with the air of an experienced monologist began: