Stephen Archer and Other Tales, George MacDonald [free ebook reader txt] 📗

existence of that wine-cellar was revealed to you in a dream?"

"But I do, indeed. I had seen the wine-cellar built up just before we left for Madeira. It was my father's plan for securing the wine when the house was let. And very well it turned out for the wine, and me too. I had forgotten all about it. Everything had conspired to bring it to my memory, but had just failed of success. I had fallen asleep under all the influences I told you of-influences from the region of my childhood. They operated still when I was asleep, and, all other distracting influences being removed, at length roused in my sleeping brain the memory of what I had seen. In the morning I remembered not my dream only, but the event of which my dream was a reproduction. Still, I was under considerable doubt about the place, and in this I followed the dream only, as near as I could judge.

"The admiral kept his word, and interposed no difficulties between Kate and me. Not that, to tell the truth, I was ever very anxious about that rock ahead; but it was very possible that his fastidious honour or pride might have occasioned a considerable interference with our happiness for a time. As it turned out, he could not leave me Culverwood, and I regretted the fact as little as he did himself. His gratitude to me was, however, excessive, assuming occasionally ludicrous outbursts of thankfulness. I do not believe he could have been more grateful if I had saved his ship and its whole crew. For his hospitality was at stake. Kind old man!"

Here ended my father's story, with a light sigh, a gaze into the bright coals, a kiss of my mother's hand which he held in his, and another glass of Burgundy.


IF I HAD A FATHER.

A DRAMA.


ACT I.

SCENE.- A Sculptor's studio . ARTHUR GERVAISE working at a clay figure and humming a tune. A knock .


Ger. Come in. ( Throws a wet cloth over the clay. Enter WARREN by the door communicating with the house .) Ah, Warren! How do you do?

War. How are you, Gervaise? I'm delighted to see you once more. I have but just heard of your return.

Ger. I've been home but a fortnight. I was just thinking of you.

War. I was certain I should find you at work.

Ger. You see my work can go on by any light. It is more independent than yours.

War. I wish it weren't, then.

Ger. Why?

War. Because there would be a chance of our getting you out of your den sometimes.

Ger. Like any other wild beast when the dark falls-eh?

War. Just so.

Ger. And where the good?

War. Why shouldn't you roar a little now and then like other honest lions?

Ger. I doubt if the roaring lions do much beyond roaring.

War. And I doubt whether the lion that won't even whisk his tail, will get food enough shoved through his bars to make it worth his while to keep a cage in London.

Ger. I certainly shall not make use of myself to recommend my work.

War. What is it now?

Ger. Oh, nothing!-only a little fancy of my own.

War. There again! The moment I set foot in your study, you throw the sheet over your clay, and when I ask you what you are working at-"Oh-a little fancy of my own!"

Ger. I couldn't tell it was you coming.

War. Let me see what you've been doing, then.

Ger. Oh, she's a mere Lot's-wife as yet!

War. ( approaching the figure ). Of course, of course! I understand all that.

Ger. ( laying his hand on his arm ). Excuse me: I would rather not show it.

War. I beg your pardon.-I couldn't believe you really meant it.

Ger. I'll show you the mould if you like.

War. I don't know what you mean by that: you would never throw a wet sheet over a cast! (GER. lifts a painting from the floor and sets it on an easel . WAR. regards it for a few moments in silence .) Ah! by Jove, Gervaise! some one sent you down the wrong turn: you ought to have been a painter. What a sky! And what a sea! Those blues and greens-rich as a peacock's feather-eyes! Superb! A tropical night! The dolphin at its last gasp in the west, and all above, an abyss of blue, at the bottom of which the stars lie like gems in the mineshaft of the darkness!

Ger. You seem to have taken the wrong turn, Warren! You ought to have been a poet.

War. Such a thing as that puts the slang out of a fellow's bend.

Ger. I'm glad you like it. I do myself, though it falls short of my intent sadly enough.

War. But I don't for the life of me see what this has to do with
that . You said something about a mould.

Ger. I will tell you what I meant. Every individual aspect of nature looks to me as if about to give birth to a human form, embodying that of which itself only dreams. In this way landscape-painting is, in my eyes, the mother of sculpture. That Apollo is of the summer dawn; that Aphrodite of the moonlit sea; this picture represents the mother of my Psyche.

War. Under the sheet there?

Ger. Yes. You shall see her some day; but to show your work too soon, is to uncork your champagne before dinner.

War. Well, you've spoiled my picture. I shall go home and scrape my canvas to the bone.

Ger. On second thoughts, I will show you my Psyche. ( Uncovers the clay . WAR. stands in admiration. Enter WATERFIELD by same door .)

Wat . Ah, Warren! here you are before me! Mr. Gervaise, I hope I see you well.

War. Mr. Waterfield-an old friend of yours, Gervaise, I believe.

Ger. I cannot appropriate the honour.

Wat . I was twice in your studio at Rome, but it's six months ago, Mr. Gervaise. Ha! ( using his eye-glass ) What a charming figure! A Psyche! Wings suggested by-Very skilful! Contour lovely! Altogether antique in pose and expression!-Is she a commission?

Ger. No.

Wat . Then I beg you will consider her one.

Ger. Excuse me; I never work on commission-at least never in this kind. A bust or two I have done.

Wat . By Jove!-I should like to see your model!-This is perfect. Are you going to carve her?

Ger. Possibly.

Wat . Uncommissioned?

Ger. If at all.

Wat . Well, I can't call it running any risk. What lines!-You will let me drop in some day when you've got your model here?

Ger. Impossible.

Wat . You don't mean-?

Ger. I had no model.

Wat . No model? Ha! ha!-You must excuse me! (GER. takes up the wet sheet .) I understand. Reasons. A little mystery enhances-eh?-is convenient too-balks intrusion-throws the drapery over the mignonette. I understand. (GER. covers the clay .) Oh! pray don't carry out my figure. That is a damper now!

Ger. I am not fond of acting the showman. You must excuse me: I am busy.

Wat . Ah well!-some other time-when you've got on with her a bit. Good morning. Ta, ta, Warren.

Ger. Good morning. This way, if you please. ( Shows him out by the door to the street .) How did the fellow find his way here?

War. I am the culprit, I'm sorry to say. He asked me for your address, and I gave it him.

Ger. How long have you known him?

War. A month or two.

Ger. Don't bring him here again.

War. Don't say I brought him. I didn't do that. But I'm afraid you've not seen the last of him.

Ger. Oh yes, I have! Old Martha would let in anybody, but I've got a man now.-William!

Enter COL. GERVAISE dressed as a servant .

You didn't see the gentleman just gone, I'm afraid, William?

Col. G. No, sir.

Ger. Don't let in any one calling himself Waterfield .

Col. G. No, sir.

Ger. I'm going out with Mr. Warren. I shall be back shortly.

Col. G. Very well, sir. Exit into the house .

Ger. ( to WAR.) I can't touch clay again till I get that fellow out of my head.

War. Come along, then.

Exeunt GER. and WAR.

Re-enter COL. G. polishing a boot. Regards it with
dissatisfaction .

Col. G. Confound the thing! I wish it were a scabbard. When I think I'm getting it all right-one rub more and it's gone dull again!

The house-door opens slowly, and THOMAS peeps cautiously in .

Th. What sort of a plaze be this, maister?

Col. G. You ought to have asked that outside. How did you get in?

Th. By th' dur-hole. Iv yo leave th' dur oppen, th' dogs'll coom in.

Col. G. I must speak to Martha again. She will leave the street-door open!-Well, you needn't look so frightened. It ain't a robbers' cave.

Th. That be more'n aw knaw-not for sartin sure, maister. Nobory mun keawnt upon nobory up to Lonnon, they tells mo. But iv a gentleman axes mo into his heawse, aw'm noan beawn to be afeard. Aw'll coom in, for mayhap yo can help mo. It be a coorous plaze. What dun yo mak here?

Col. G. What would you think now?

Th. It looks to mo like a mason's shed-a greight one.

Col. G. You're not so far wrong.

Th. ( advancing ). It do look a queer plaze. Aw be noan so sure abeawt it. But they wonnot coot mo throat beout warnin'. Aw'll bother noan. ( Sits down on the dais and wipes his face .) Well, aw be a'most weary.

Col. G. Is there anything I can do for you?

Th. Nay, aw donnot know; but beout aw get somebory to help mo, aw dunnot think aw'll coom to th' end in haste. Aw're a lookin' for summut aw've lost, mou.