Chapter V

Marionetta felt secure of Scythrop's heart; and notwithstanding the

difficulties that surrounded her, she could not debar herself from the

pleasure of tormenting her lover, whom she kept in a perpetual fever.

Sometimes she would meet him with the most unqualified affection;

sometimes with the most chilling indifference; rousing him to anger by

artificial coldness--softening him to love by eloquent tenderness--or

inflaming him to jealousy by coquetting with the Honourable Mr

Listless, who seemed, under her magical influence, to burst into

sudden life, like the bud of the evening primrose. Sometimes she would

sit by the piano, and listen with becoming attention to Scythrop's

pathetic remonstrances; but, in the most impassioned part of his

oratory, she would convert all his ideas into a chaos, by striking up

some Rondo Allegro, and saying, 'Is it not pretty?' Scythrop would

begin to storm; and she would answer him with,

'Zitti, zitti, piano, piano,

Non facciamo confusione,'

or some similar facezia, till he would start away from her, and

enclose himself in his tower, in an agony of agitation, vowing to

renounce her, and her whole sex, for ever; and returning to her

presence at the summons of the billet, which she never failed to

send with many expressions of penitence and promises of amendment.

Scythrop's schemes for regenerating the world, and detecting his seven

golden candle-sticks, went on very slowly in this fever of his spirit.

Things proceeded in this train for several days; and Mr Glowry began

to be uneasy at receiving no intelligence from Mr Toobad; when one

evening the latter rushed into the library, where the family and the

visitors were assembled, vociferating, 'The devil is come among

you, having great wrath!' He then drew Mr Glowry aside into another

apartment, and after remaining some time together, they re-entered the

library with faces of great dismay, but did not condescend to explain

to any one the cause of their discomfiture.

The next morning, early, Mr Toobad departed. Mr Glowry sighed and

groaned all day, and said not a word to any one. Scythrop had

quarrelled, as usual, with Marionetta, and was enclosed in his tower,

in a fit of morbid sensibility. Marionetta was comforting herself at

the piano, with singing the airs of Nina pazza per amore; and the

Honourable Mr Listless was listening to the harmony, as he lay

supine on the sofa, with a book in his hand, into which he peeped at

intervals. The Reverend Mr Larynx approached the sofa, and proposed a

game at billiards.

THE HONOURABLE MR LISTLESS

Billiards! Really I should be very happy; but, in my present exhausted

state, the exertion is too much for me. I do not know when I have been

equal to such an effort. (He rang the bell for his valet. Fatout

entered.) Fatout! when did I play at billiards last?

FATOUT

De fourteen December de last year, Monsieur. (Fatout bowed and

retired.)

THE HONOURABLE MR LISTLESS

So it was. Seven months ago. You see, Mr Larynx; you see, sir. My

nerves, Miss O'Carroll, my nerves are shattered. I have been advised

to try Bath. Some of the faculty recommend Cheltenham. I think of

trying both, as the seasons don't clash. The season, you know, Mr

Larynx--the season, Miss O'Carroll--the season is every thing.

MARIONETTA

And health is something. N'est-ce pas, Mr Larynx?

THE REVEREND MR LARYNX

Most assuredly, Miss O'Carroll. For, however reasoners may dispute

about the summum bonum, none of them will deny that a very good

dinner is a very good thing: and what is a good dinner without a good

appetite? and whence is a good appetite but from good health? Now,

Cheltenham, Mr Listless, is famous for good appetites.

THE HONOURABLE MR LISTLESS

The best piece of logic I ever heard, Mr Larynx; the very best,

I assure you. I have thought very seriously of Cheltenham: very

seriously and profoundly. I thought of it--let me see--when did I

think of it? (He rang again, and Fatout reappeared.) Fatout! when

did I think of going to Cheltenham, and did not go?

FATOUT

De Juillet twenty-von, de last summer, Monsieur. (Fatout retired.)

THE HONOURABLE MR LISTLESS

So it was. An invaluable fellow that, Mr Larynx--invaluable, Miss

O'Carroll.

MARIONETTA

So I should judge, indeed. He seems to serve you as a walking memory,

and to be a living chronicle, not of your actions only, but of your

thoughts.

THE HONOURABLE MR LISTLESS

An excellent definition of the fellow, Miss O'Carroll,--excellent,

upon my honour. Ha! ha! he! Heigho! Laughter is pleasant, but the

exertion is too much for me.

A parcel was brought in for Mr Listless; it had been sent express.

Fatout was summoned to unpack it; and it proved to contain a new

novel, and a new poem, both of which had long been anxiously expected

by the whole host of fashionable readers; and the last number of a

popular Review, of which the editor and his coadjutors were in high

favour at court, and enjoyed ample pensions[5] for their services to

church and state. As Fatout left the room, Mr Flosky entered, and

curiously inspected the literary arrivals.

MR FLOSKY

(Turning over the leaves.) 'Devilman, a novel.' Hm. Hatred--revenge--

misanthropy--and quotations from the Bible. Hm. This is the morbid

anatomy of black bile.--'Paul Jones, a poem.' Hm. I see how it is.

Paul Jones, an amiable enthusiast--disappointed in his affections--

turns pirate from ennui and magnanimity--cuts various masculine

throats, wins various feminine hearts--is hanged at the yard-arm! The

catastrophe is very awkward, and very unpoetical.--'The Downing Street

Review.' Hm. First article--An Ode to the Red Book, by Roderick

Sackbut, Esquire. Hm. His own poem reviewed by himself. Hm--m--m.

(Mr Flosky proceeded in silence to look over the other articles

of the review; Marionetta inspected the novel, and Mr Listless the

poem.)

THE REVEREND MR LARYNX

For a young man of fashion and family, Mr Listless, you seem to be of

a very studious turn.

THE HONOURABLE MR LISTLESS

Studious! You are pleased to be facetious, Mr Larynx. I hope you do

not suspect me of being studious. I have finished my education. But

there are some fashionable books that one must read, because they are

ingredients of the talk of the day; otherwise, I am no fonder of books

than I dare say you yourself are, Mr Larynx.

THE REVEREND MR LARYNX

Why, sir, I cannot say that I am indeed particularly fond of books;

yet neither can I say that I never do read. A tale or a poem, now and

then, to a circle of ladies over their work, is no very heterodox

employment of the vocal energy. And I must say, for myself, that

few men have a more Job-like endurance of the eternally recurring

questions and answers that interweave themselves, on these occasions,

with the crisis of an adventure, and heighten the distress of a

tragedy.

THE HONOURABLE MR LISTLESS

And very often make the distress when the author has omitted it.

MARIONETTA

I shall try your patience some rainy morning, Mr Larynx; and Mr

Listless shall recommend us the very newest new book, that every body

reads.

THE HONOURABLE MR LISTLESS

You shall receive it, Miss O'Carroll, with all the gloss of novelty;

fresh as a ripe green-gage in all the downiness of its bloom. A

mail-coach copy from Edinburgh, forwarded express from London.

MR FLOSKY

This rage for novelty is the bane of literature. Except my works and

those of my particular friends, nothing is good that is not as old as

Jeremy Taylor: and, entre nous, the best parts of my friends' books

were either written or suggested by myself.

THE HONOURABLE MR LISTLESS

Sir, I reverence you. But I must say, modern books are very

consolatory and congenial to my feelings. There is, as it were, a

delightful north-east wind, an intellectual blight breathing through

them; a delicious misanthropy and discontent, that demonstrates the

nullity of virtue and energy, and puts me in good humour with myself

and my sofa.

MR FLOSKY

Very true, sir. Modern literature is a north-east wind--a blight of

the human soul. I take credit to myself for having helped to make it

so. The way to produce fine fruit is to blight the flower. You call

this a paradox. Marry, so be it. Ponder thereon.

The conversation was interrupted by the re-appearance of Mr Toobad,

covered with mud. He just showed himself at the door, muttered 'The

devil is come among you!' and vanished. The road which connected

Nightmare Abbey with the civilised world, was artificially raised

above the level of the fens, and ran through them in a straight line

as far as the eye could reach, with a ditch on each side, of which the

water was rendered invisible by the aquatic vegetation that covered

the surface. Into one of these ditches the sudden action of a

shy horse, which took fright at a windmill, had precipitated the

travelling chariot of Mr Toobad, who had been reduced to the necessity

of scrambling in dismal plight through the window. One of the wheels

was found to be broken; and Mr Toobad, leaving the postilion to

get the chariot as well as he could to Claydyke for the purpose of

cleaning and repairing, had walked back to Nightmare Abbey, followed

by his servant with the imperial, and repeating all the way his

favourite quotation from the Revelations.

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