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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
The Bath Comedy is a captivating collection of works that exemplifies the playful yet insightful examination of social mores and personal relationships during the turn of the 20th century. The anthology showcases a rich tapestry of literary styles, from comedic dialogues to poignant narratives, set against the backdrop of the genteel English society. This assortment of narratives brings forth a vivid depiction of societal norms and personal endeavors, marked by its clever humor and eloquent prose. The variety of works within this collection affords readers a broad spectrum of reflections on the human condition, while remaining rooted in a charming yet critical lens through which everyday life is explored. Contributors Agnes and Egerton Castle, known for their collaborative storytelling and exploration of romantic and social themes, bring a wealth of knowledge and experience to this anthology. Their works are celebrated for their astute characterizations and the fusion of wit with societal critique, aligning with broader movements of the time that questioned rigid class structures and gender roles. By weaving together different voices and perspectives, this collection presents a mosaic of experiences that reflect both the unity and discord of human interactions common to the Edwardian era. The Bath Comedy presents an unparalleled opportunity for readers to immerse themselves in the multifaceted world of early 20th-century English society. As a curated volume rich with diverse elements, it invites readers to explore a myriad of perspectives that elucidate the period's societal intricacies and timeless human concerns. This anthology not only educates but also encourages thoughtful dialogue among its readers, making it an essential addition to the literary aficionado's collection, seeking to bridge historical narratives with contemporary reflections on humanity.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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The Bath Comedy
Table of Contents
Preface
The Royal Crescent—
"Open we here on a Spring day fine..."
the first scene of this Bath Comedy.
The precise year, however, may not be given. A sufficient reason for reticence in the matter of exact date will be found in the unfortunate predicament of the then Bishop of Bath and Wells: undoubtedly a most mortifying episode in the life of an invariably dignified Divine. Now there were several Bishops of Bath and Wells during the second half of the 18th century, and this trifling lack of circumstantiality will do away with the least trace of scandal.
The second half of the century, however, is admitted. The fact, indeed, would be revealed at once to the curious in the matter, by the mention, on the one hand, of the King's Circus (which dates from the last years of second George), and on the other by the reference to Bathwick Meadows as a solitary site and still fitted at the time to an honourable meeting, whereas it has been known as a place of popular resort (under the name of Sydney Gardens) since the year 1795.
A few other points, again (should anyone think worth his while to consider so trifling a question), might serve to fix within a few lustres the date of Mrs. Kitty Bellairs' cantrips as they affected, among other things, Lady Standish's domestic happiness, Mr. O'Hara's connubial hopes, and my Lord Verney's sentimental education.
It may be noticed, for instance, that the gentlemen wear their swords. That was, as most people know, a distinction strenuously denied them so long as the immortal Master of Ceremonies, Mr. Richard Nash, reigned as King of Bath. Now, his autocratic rule came to an end before George the Third was King. As another landmark it will be recalled that the notorious and indecorous encounter between Richard Brinsley Sheridan and that unpleasant personage, Captain Matthews, was the last duel with swords fought in the Kingdom: and it was fought in 1772.
Furthermore, our Captain Spicer (whether veraciously or not) claims to have been a favoured pupil of the famous Angelo—and such a perfecting course in the noble art could not have been acquired before the early sixties. Then, again, there is still a good deal of powder in our actors' head-dress. The slippers of our actresses are still delicious and high-heeled: the sandal of the nineties has not yet made its dreadful appearance. And the ladies visard, if not so universal as it once had been, is still an accepted institution.
It will suffice, in short, to say of our characters (if once more we may be allowed to paraphrase some of Mr. Austin Dobson's dainty verses) that
They lived in that past Georgian day, When men were less inclined to say That "Time is Gold" and overlay With toil their pleasure....
Those were, on the whole, rather more joyous times than our own, and more different than the mere lapse of one century seems to account for. The gentlemen then, dressed almost as handsomely, prinked and plumed themselves as elaborately, as the ladies. Gallantry in both senses and ready wit were their most precious claim: a fight was considered a full remedy to a slight, a sharp epigram to an injury. Heavy drinking was held an indispensable accompaniment to good-fellowship; and love-making was a far suppler art than seems known to this more earnest century—a pastime for "the quality," something on par with the gambling passion. "Virtue" not modesty, was woman's fair fame. A forcible abduction would at a pinch be argued as an undeniable compliment. Life ran like a dance then, with merry, tapping heels and light-hearted interchange of partner: those old-world days were much younger than ours.
So much for the times, and for the characters. For scenery we have this gem among prosperous towns. The grey stone city of wealthy, sedate residences, arranged with noble architectural effect in broad straight streets, wide open squares, parades, terraces, crescents; tier upon tier on the slope of a hill down to the water's edge; set serenely in a wooded valley, with much green in perspective beyond the lazy, slowly winding Avon.
Indeed, of its kind, Bath is unique among the cities of Europe: deprived as it is, by modern conditions, of its former social attractions, it is still one of the most beautiful.
Like so many very old towns, it has had a long Roman existence; its luxurious baths and other remains testify to its splendour when it was known as Aquae Solis. It filled, also, an important place in the land as a Mediaeval Borough, wall-girt and defensible: of that period the Abbey Church, the "Lantern of England" remains a handsome bequest. But, on the surface at least, there is now nothing to recall vividly any older past than the days of periwig, of powder and patches, of "wine and walnut" wit. Its characteristic charm, one which, happily, the present age has had little power to efface, is par excellence that of the 18th Century; for it was in early and middle Georgian years that, with a strange suddenness "The Bath" became an accepted centre of fashion and pleasure, and assumed its special physiognomy of leisure, wealth and exclusiveness.
This old-world air still hangs about the residential part of the Town and in a singularly haunting way. In those broad streets, calm and silent and almost deserted at most hours, in those high-windowed houses, typical of stateliness and cold elegance rather than of lolling comfort, the very atmosphere seems to this day redolent of "Chippendale" notions. The sordidly plain modern dress of man is painfully incongruous. The rattling cab is a discord. It would be a relief, much more than an astonishment, to note an obvious three-cornered hat, a broad-skirted coat, on one's fellow man, to hear on the flags the regular tramp of Chairmen swinging along some dainty charge deliciously powdered and rouged!
The course of an hundred and odd years has obliterated some scenes, and modified all to some extent. Orange Grove has lost, 'tis true, much of its discreet character; and its neighbouring chocolate rooms, so handy to intrigues, are now only memories. The Assembly Rooms are shorn of all fashion. The new Great Pump Room is not quite a replica of the old, though it has retained its general air—but the Crescents, Royal and Lansdowne, the Circus, Gay Street and Queen Square, the Parades, and the flags of Abbey Place, are still for us. At certain hours, if we have the mood, we can readily people them again in our mind's eye with notable guests of "The Bath" in its great days.... Dr. Johnson and my Lord Chesterfield, Pops, Oliver Goldsmith, Sheridan, Smollett, Chatham, Gainsborough, Fanny Burney, according to the fleeting thought—all "faithfuls of the Spa"—Greatness, Literature, Art, mere Fashion—or, again, shall we say Squire Bramble, or Lydia Languish, or Sir Anthony Absolute; or blushing, too ingenuous Evelina...?
Why, the place is alive with suggestion! Here a house front, with its carved stone wreaths and urns and bosses, with its pedimented windows or its shell-canopied door (still provided with its long since honorary link-extinguisher) if you look at it enquiringly, seems ready to tell its tale of by-gone life. But, unlike that of so many buildings of a past age, the tale of a house in Bath rarely takes the earnest romantic turn: it is irresistibly a "Comedy," comedy of intrigue and manners, of fashion and all its consequent frivolity (with perhaps just a little pathos, but never beyond the limits of elegance) Comedie à la Française mostly. Je trompe, tu trompes, nous trompons...!
In this guise the first stately building at the western extremity of the Royal Crescent, its pilasters, its stone steps, curvetting iron-work, clamoured to tell of Lady Standish's so nearly disastrous experiment on her husband's credulity. The corner house of Gay Street near George Street (opposite the alluring old-book store of Mr. Meehan—the genial Bath Antiquary) proclaimed at all the pores of its crumbling stones, as clearly as if the commemorative tablet had duly been erected, that the warm-hearted Irishman, the Honble. Denis O'Hara, had dwelt there in the year 17—. There is another house, at the southern corner of Queen Square, adorned with Cupid's heads and cornucopiae, which beyond all manner of doubt in that same year was the "lodging" (Fashion spoke of lodgings then!) of the ingenious young widow Bellairs. In the same manner the middle building, facing west, of Pierrepont's Street, one of the most correct in Bath, has still all the conscious air of having sheltered once that most excellent young man, Lord Verney.
One of the drawbacks of setting down a comedy in narrative form is the necessary curtailing of all descriptive passages and explanatory ethical disquisitions: in such a frame, pen and ink pictures of scenery, and the rendering of atmosphere, are out of place.
Let it therefore be borne in mind that, in this Butterfly Drama, with the exception of the penultimate scene enacted at the Inn in Devizes, the scenery is altogether cast in or about the handsome old grey town; in its lofty-ceiled, polished-floored rooms, rather bare; on its broad pavement, clean and trim and as little crowded as any conventional stage. Of the rest it must be understood that we are in the midst of what has been extolled as "the Bath manner" and that throughout, as was said of another, but world-wide known, Bath Comedy,
"Love gilds the scene, and woman guides the plot."A. & E. C.
49 Sloane Gardens, S.W.,April, 1900.
The Bath Comedy
SCENE I
"What? My sweet Lady Standish in tears!"
Mistress Kitty Bellairs poised her dainty person on one foot and cast a mocking, somewhat contemptuous, yet good-humoured glance at the slim length of sobbing womanhood prone on the gilt-legged, satin-cushioned sofa.
"Tears," said Mistress Kitty, twirling round on her heel to look at the set of her new sacque in the mirror and admire its delicate flowered folds, as they caught the shafts of spring sunshine that pierced into the long dim room from the narrow street. "Tears, my dear, unless you cry becomingly, which I would have you know not one in the thousand can, are a luxury every self-respecting woman ought to deny herself. Now I," said Mistress Kitty, and tweaked at a powdered curl and turned her head like a bird for a last glimpse at the mirror before sinking into an arm-chair and drawing closer to her afflicted friend, "have not shed a tear since I lost my first lover, and that is—I will not say how many years ago. I was a mightily precocious child! When I say a tear, mind you, 'tis a figure of speech. Far be it from me to deny the charm of a pearly drop—just one: enough to gather on the tip of the finger, enough just to suffuse the pathetic eye. Oh, that is not only permissible, 'tis to be cultivated. But such weeping as yours—sobs that shake you, tears that drench the handkerchief, redden the eyes, not to speak of the nose—fie! fie! it is clean against all reason. Come!" with a sudden gentle change of tone, putting her hand on the abased head, where fair curls luxuriated in all their native sunshine, "what is it all about?"
Lady Standish slowly and languidly drew herself into a sitting posture, and raised a countenance marred out of its delicate beauty by the violent passion of her grief. Swimming blue eyes she fixed upon the Mistress Kitty's plump dimpling face.
"Alas!" she breathed upon the gust of a sigh that was as wet as an April breeze, and tripped up by a belated sob. "Alas! you see in me the most miserable of women. Alas! my heart is broken!"
Here the kerchief, soaked indeed beyond all possible utility, was frantically held to streaming eyes once more.
"Mercy!" cried the pretty widow, "you could not take on worse if you had the smallpox: you a three-months' wife!"
"Ah me!" moaned Lady Standish.
"So," said Mistress Kitty, "he has been a brute again, has he? Come, Julia, weep on my bosom. What is it now? Did he kiss you on the forehead instead of on the lips? Or did he say: 'Zounds, madam!' when you upset a dish of tea over his waistcoat? Or yet did he, could he, the monster!—nay it is not possible, yet men are so—could he have whispered that Lady Caroline looked—passable last night?"
Lady Standish rose to her feet, crumpled her kerchief in one small hand and faced her friend with tragic passion.
"It is useless to blind myself," she said. "Cease to gibe at me, pray, Mistress Bellairs; I must face the truth! My husband loves me no longer. Oh! Kitty, Kitty," dropping from her height of tragedy very quickly and landing on a whimper again, "is it not sad? I have tried, Heaven is my witness, to win him back by the tenderest love, by the most pitiful pleading. He has seen me weep and pine. 'Rob me of your love,' I have told him, 'and you rob me of life.' And he, he—oh, how shall I tell you! As the days go by he is with me less and less. He walks abroad with others. His evenings he gives to strangers—ay, and half his nights—while I may sob myself to sleep at home. I saw him to-day but for two minutes—'twas half an hour ago. He entered here upon me, looking, ah Kitty! as only he can look, the most elegant and beautiful of men. I was singing, piping as a poor bird may to strive and call its mate to the nest. He passed through the room without a word, without a sign; he that used to say 'twas heaven to sit and listen to my voice. 'What!' I exclaimed as he reached the door, 'not a word for poor Julia?' Kitty, at the sound of that cry, wrung from my heart, he turned and frowned, and said—— (Oh, oh, oh.)"
"Ha!" cried Mistress Kitty, "what said he?" ("Heaven help him," said she aside; "the woman's a fountain.")
"He said," sobbed Julia, "'Mayn't a man even go for a stroll?' Oh, had you but heard the cold indifferent tone, you would have understood how it cut me to the heart. I ran to him and laid my hand upon his sleeve, and he said——"
Again grief overcame her.
"Well, what said he?"
"He said—oh, oh—he said, 'Julia don't paw me.'"
Mistress Kitty Bellairs, the reigning toast of Bath, the prettiest woman, in the estimation of her admirers, in all England, and the wittiest, laughed low to herself, then rose from her chair, took her tall friend by the shoulders, and walked her up to the mirror.
"Look at yourself," said she, "and look at me."
Lady Standish winced. The contrast between her own dishevelled hair, her marbled swollen countenance, her untidy morning gown, and the blooming perfection of the apparition beside her, was more than she could contemplate. Kitty Bellairs—as complete in every detail of beauty as a carnation—smiled upon herself sweetly.
"My dear," said she, "I have had thirty-seven declared adorers these three years, and never one tired of me yet. Poor Bellairs," she said with a light sigh, "he had two wives before me, and he was sixty-nine when he died, but he told me with his last breath that 'twas I gave him all the joy he ever knew."
Lady Standish ceased weeping as suddenly as if her tears had been mechanically turned off. She regarded the widow earnestly.
"Now, child," said Mistress Bellairs, with all the authority of her twenty-six years, "here we have been four weeks acquainted, and you have more than once done me the honour of saying that you considered me your friend."
"'Tis so," said Lady Standish.
"Then listen to me. There are three great rules to be observed in our dealings with men. The first rule comprises an extraordinary number of minor details, but briefly and comprehensively it runs thus: Never be monotonous! Second rule: Never let a man be too sure of you! Oh that is a wonderful wise maxim: reflect upon it. Third: Never, never let a man see how—well, how far from lovely you can look! Tush, tush, you are a better-looking woman than I am, but not when you have been blubbering and not when you are fretful."
Lady Standish suddenly sat down as if her limbs could support her no more. She looked up at the ceiling with tear-dimmed eyes.
"Pray," said Mistress Kitty inquisitorially ex cathedra, "how many times a day do you tell that unfortunate man that you love him? And, worse still, how many times a day do you want him to say that he loves you? I vow 'tis enough to drive him to cards, or wine, or something infinitely worse that also begins with a w! And, pray, if you spend all you have, and empty your purse, do you think your purse becomes a very valuable possession? 'Tis a mere bit of leather. Nay, nay, keep your gold, and give it out piece by piece, and do not give it at all unless you get good change for it. Oh," cried Kitty, a fine flush of indignation rising scarlet behind her rouge, "I marvel that women should be such fools!—to act the handmaid where they should ever rule as mistress; to cast forth unsought what they should dole out only to the supplicant on bended knee. Hath a man ever had from me an unsolicited avowal? Have I ever thrown the most ardent lover more than a 'perhaps' and 'it may be,' a smile, a dimple, a finger-tip? (What they have stolen I have not given, that is obvious! And, besides, 'tis neither here nor there.) And pray, Lady Standish, since when have you left off putting on rouge and having your hair tired and powdered, and wearing a decent gown of mornings and a modish sacque, and a heel to that pretty foot, a jewel in the ear and a patch beneath the lip?"
Lady Standish had ceased contemplating the ceiling; she was looking at her friend.
"But, madam," she said, "this is strange advice. Would you have me coquette with my husband, as if—God forgive me for even saying such a thing—as if I were not wife, but mistress?"
"La, you there," said Mistress Bellairs, and clapped her hands, "there is the whole murder out! You are the man's lawful, honest wife, and therefore all tedium and homeliness, all fretful brow and tearful eye. God save us! who shall blame him if he seek a pleasant glint of vice to change him of you?"
There fell a silence. Lady Standish rose indignant, grew red, grew pale, caught a glimpse of herself again in the mirror, shrank from the sight, and crept back to the sofa with a humble and convicted air. Then she cast a look of anguished pleading at Mistress Bellairs's bright unfeeling countenance.
"Tell me," she said with a parched lip, "what shall I do?"
"Do!" cried the widow, rising with a brisk laugh, "get some powder into your hair, and some colour into those cheeks! And when Sir Jasper returns (he left you in tears, he will be sullen when he comes home; 'tis a mere matter of self-defence) let him find you gay, distraite; say a sharp thing or two if you can; tell him you do not need his company this afternoon. Ah, and if you could make him jealous! 'Tis a very, very old trick, but then, you see, love is a very old game, the oldest of all. Make him jealous, my dear, make him jealous and you'll win the rubber yet!"
"Jealous!" cried the three-months' wife, and all the blood of the innocent country girl leapt to her brow. "Oh, madam, how could that be?"
"Look out a beau, nay, two or three, 'tis safer! Talk discreetly with them in the Pump-Room, let them fan you at the ball, let them meet you in Orange-Grove. Or, if you have not spirit enough—and indeed, my sweet life, you sadly lack spirit—start but an imaginary one, merely for the use of your lord and master: I wager you he will rise to the fly."
"I am afraid Sir Jasper could be very jealous," said the other uneasily. "I remember before we were wed, when my cousin Harry would ride with me to the meet, oh, how angry Sir Jasper was! He swore he would shoot himself, ay, and he was all for shooting Harry too."
"But he was not the less ardent with you on the score of it, I'll warrant him," said the experienced Mistress Bellairs.
"Ah, no," said Lady Standish, and her lip trembled over a smile, while the ready water sprang to her eyelashes, and: "Ah, no!" she said again. "Indeed, he loved me then very ardently."
"And he'll love you so still if you have but a spark of courage. Get you to your room," said the widow, goodhumouredly, "bustle up and play your part. Where is that woman of yours?"
She pushed Lady Standish before her as she spoke, herself rang the call-bell for the tire-woman, and gave a few pregnant suggestions to that worthy, who advanced all sour smiles and disapproving dips. Then she strolled back into the drawing-room and paused a moment as she slipped on her long gloves. Next she drew a letter from her pocket and began to read it with a thoughtful brow.
"No, no, Sir Jasper," she said half aloud, "you're a fine gentleman, and a pretty fellow, you have a neat leg, and an eloquent turn of speech, but I will not have the child's heart broken for the amusement of an idle day."
She took the letter between each little forefinger and thumb as if to tear it, thought better of it, folded it again and thrust it back into its place of concealment.
Presently she smiled to herself, and walked out of the long open window across the little strip of garden, and so through the iron gate into the shady back street.
SCENE II
Sir Jasper Standish halted on the flags of the Royal Crescent in front of his own door and his face darkened. He took a pinch of snuff.
"Now! I shall find my lady in tears. What a strange world it is! The girl you woo is as merry as a May day: the wife you wed is like naught but early November. Equinoctial gales and water enough to drown the best spirits that ever were stilled. 'Tis a damp life," said Sir Jasper, "and a depressing."
