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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