More boldly yet, my trusty knight! More boldly yet! I will bathe thy wounds with my tears, and staunch thy red blood with my kisses!
The Man.
What though I die upon the field of battle, it will be as brave men die; making thy triumph but an empty one with my never-failing challenge, "Thou hast not vanquished me yet, nor wilt thou ever!" In very truth it will be I who will have gained the victory, thou bitter foe of mine: for until my last faint breath shall have been drawn I shall have refused to own thy power!
His Wife.
More boldly yet, my knight I More boldly yet!Iwill die with thee!
The Man.
Ha! Come forth to battle! Let us flash our swords, and join our bucklers, and rain such blows upon each other's crests as shall cause the very earth to shake again! Ha! Come forth, come forth!
[For a few seconds the Man and his Wife retain their respective attitudes. Then they turn to one another and em-brace.]
The Man.
Thus will we deal with life, my little helpmeet. Will we not, eh? What though it blink at us like an owl that is blinded by the sun, we will yet force it to smile.
His Wife.
Yes, and to dance to our singing, too. Together we will do it.
The Man.
Yes, together, my paragon among wives, my trusty comrade, my brave little armour-bearer. So long as I havetheeby my side, nothing can make me fear. A fig for poverty! We may be poor to-day, but we shall be rich to-morrow.
His Wife.
And what does hunger matter? To-day we may be without a crust, but to-morrow we shall be feasting.
The Man.
Think you so? Well, 'tis very likely. But I shall require a great deal of satisfying. What think you of this for our dailymenu?First meal in the morning, tea, coffee, or chocolate, whichever we prefer; then a breakfast of three courses; then luncheon; then dinner; then supper; then——
His Wife.
Yes; and always as much fruit as possible. I adore fruit!
The Man.
Very well. I will go out and buy it myself—buy it in the market-place, where it is cheapest and most fresh. Besides, we shall be having our own fruit garden before long.
His Wife.
But we have no land yet?
The Man.
No, but I shall soon be buying some. I have always wished to possess an estate, not only as a pleasure-ground, but also as a place where I may build a house from my own designs. The rascally world shall see what an architect I am!
His Wife.
I should like the house to be in Italy, close to the sea: a villa of white marble, set in the midst of a grove of lime-trees and cypresses, with white marble steps leading down to the blue waters.
The Man.
Yes, I see your idea. It would be capital. Yetmyplan, rather, is to build a castle on a Norwegian mountain, with a fjord below, and the castle parched on a peak above. Have we no paper? Well, never mind. I can show you on the wall what I mean. This is the fjord. Do you see?
His Wife.
Yes. How beautiful!
The Man.
And here are the deep, sparkling waters, reflecting the tender green of the grass above. Here, too, is a red, black, and cinnamon-coloured cliff. And there, in that gap (just where I have made that smudge), is a patch of blue sky, gleaming through a fleecy white cloud.
His Wife.
Nay, it is not a cloud. Rather, it is a white boat, with its reflection in the water, like two white swans joined breast to breast.
The Man.
And see, over all there rises a mountain, with sides of brilliant green, except just at the top, where it is more misty and rugged. Here, too, are sharp spurs, and dark shadows of clefts, and wisps of cloud.
His Wife.
Oh, it looks like a ruined castle!
The Man.
Andhere—on that "ruined castle," as you call it (just where I have put that mark in the centre)—I will build me a stately mansion.
His Wife.
But it will be so cold up there—so windy?
The Man.
Nay, I shall give the mansion stout walls and huge windows of plate-glass; and then at night, when the winter storms are raging and the fjord is tossing below, we shall draw the curtains over the windows, and heap up a roaring fire (I shall make enormous fireplaces, you know—large enough to hold whole trunks of trees, whole beams of pine).
His Wife.
Ah! it will be warm enoughthen.
The Man.
Yes, indeed; and the whole interior will be quiet and restful, for I mean to have soft carpets everywhere, and the walls lined with thousands and thousands of books, and everything looking snug and cheerful. And you and I will sit before the fire on a white bearskin; and when you say to me, "Shall we go and look at the storm?" I shall answer, "Yes," and we shall run to the largest of the great windows, and draw aside the curtains: and then, my God, what a night it will look like.
His Wife.
Snowflakes whirling by!
The Man.
Yes; like little white horses galloping, or myriads of tiny, frightened souls, pale with fear and seeking shelter in the night. And there will be such a howling and a roaring!
His Wife.
And I shall say that I am cold, and give a shiver.
The Man.
And then we shall scamper back to the fire, and I shall call aloud, "Ho, there! Bring me the ancestral goblet—the one of pure gold from which Vikings have drunk—and fill it with aureate wine, and let us drain the soul-warming draught to the dregs!" Meanwhile we shall have had a chamois roasting on the spit, and again I shall call aloud, "Ho, there! Bring hither the venison, that we may eat it!" Yes, and in about two seconds I shall be eatingyou, little wife, for I am as hungry as the devil.
His Wife.
Well, suppose they have brought the roast chamois? Go on. What next?
The Man.
What next? Well, once I have begun to eat it, there will soon be little of it left—and therefore nothing more to tell. But what are you doing to my head, little playmate?
His Wife.
I am the Goddess of Fame. I have woven you a chaplet of the oak-leaves which the neighbours brought, and am crowning you with it. Thus shall fame—yes, real, resounding fame-some day be yours.
[She crowns him with the chaplet.]
The Man.
Yes, fame, fame, resplendent fame! Look here on the wall as I draw. This is myself advancing. Do you see? But who is that with me?
His Wife.
The Man.
Yes. And see how people are bowing down to us, and whispering about us, and pointing us out with their fingers. Here is a city father shedding tears of joy as he exclaims, "Happy is our town to have been the birthplace of such children!" Here, too, a certain young man turns pale with emotion as he gazes upon his handiwork; for fortune has smiled upon him at last, and he has built a City Hall that is the pride of all the land.
His Wife.
Yes, even as you aremypride. And even as I have placed this wreath of oak-leaves upon your head, so will the day come when you are accorded one of laurels.
The Man.
But look again. Here are other magnates of my native town advancing to pay me their respects. They make low bows—yes, to the very ground—and say, "Our town rejoices at having been accorded the honour of——"
His Wife.
Oh!
The Man.
What is it?
His Wife.
I have found a bottle of milk I
The Man.
Surely not?
His Wife.
And bread!—beautiful spiced bread!—and a cigar!
The Man.
Impossible! You must be joking. Or you must have mistaken some of the damp from these accursed walls for milk.
His Wife.
No, no. Indeed I have not.
The Man.
And a cigar! Cigars do not grow on windowsills. They cost money, and have to be bought in shops. What you see is only a piece of black twig, or something of the kind.
His Wife.
But look for yourself. I am sure it must be the neighbours who have left these things for us.
The Man.
The neighbours? Well, of a truth they may have been the instruments, but the work has been the work of God himself. And even if it were devils who have brought the things here, it should not prevent you from coming and sitting on my knee, little wife.
[The Man's Wife seats herself upon his knee, and they proceed to eat; she breaking off little bits of bread, and placing them between his lips, while he feeds her with milk out of the bottle.]
The Man.
I believe it is cream, it looks so good.
His Wife.
No, it is milk. You must bite your bread more carefully, or you will choke.
The Man.
No, no, I shall not. Let me have some more of the crust—of that nice brown crust.
His Wife.
But I amsureyou will choke before you have finished.
The Man.
No, no. See how easily I swallow.
His Wife.
You are making the milk run down my neck! How dreadfully it tickles!
The Man.
Then let me lick it up. Not a drop of it ought to be wasted.
His Wife.
How thrifty you are growing!
The Man.
Be ready. Now, then! Quick!—Ah, everything good comes to an end too soon. I believe that this bottle must have got a false bottom to it, to make it look deeper. What rascally fellows those bottlemakers are!
[The Man lights the cigar, and sinks back in the attitude of a blissfully tired man, while his wife ties her hair with the new riband, and goes to look at herself in the darkness of the window-panes.]
The Man.
This cigar must have cost a fortune, it is so mellow and strong. In future I mean always to smoke this brand of cigars.
His Wife.
But do you not see how nice I look?
The Man.
Yes, I see. I see the new riband, and I see, too, that you wish me to kiss your pretty little neck.
His Wife.
But I will not allow it, sir. You are getting much too free. Puff away at your cigar if you wish, but my neck——
The Man.
Eh what? Is it not mine too? Devil take me if I do not assert my proprietorship!
[She pretends to dart away, but he pursues and kisses her.]
The Man.
There! I have asserted my rights. And now, little wifie, you must dance. Imagine this to be a splendid, a supernaturally beautiful palace.
His Wife.
Very well. I have imagined it.
The Man.
And that you are the queen of the ball.
His Wife.
I am ready.
The Man.
And that counts, marquises, and city magnates keep requesting the honour of your hand, but you persistently refuse them, and choose, instead, a man like—like—oh, a man in a beautiful gala dress, a real live prince. What did you say?
His Wife.
That I do not like princes.
The Man.
Good gracious! Whomdoyou like, then?
His Wife.
I like architects of genius.
The Man.
Very well, then. Imagine such a man to have asked you to dance with him (for I suppose you would not care to have the empty air for a partner, would you?).
His Wife.
I have imagined him.
The Man.
Good! Imagine, too, A marvellous orchestra, with a Turkish drum beating pom, pom, pom.
[He begins to thump the table with his fist]
His Wife.
But, my dearest one, it is only in acircusthat they beat a drum like that, to attract the people—not in a palace.
The Man.
What a fool I am! Very well, then. Never mind that part. Let us begin again. Imagine a fiddle pouring out its soul in melody, and a flute tootling tenderly, and a double-bass droning like a beetle. Thus:—
[The Man hums a tune as he sits crowned with his chaplet of oak-leaves. The tune is the same as is played during Act III, on the occasion of the grand, ball given by the Man. His wife dances to his humming, looking comely and graceful as she does so.]
The Man.
Ah, my little pet goat!
His Wife.
Nay, I am' the queen of the ball.
[The tune and the dance grow merrier and merrier, until the Man rises to his feet, and dancing lightly where he stands, takes his wife round the waist, and dances with her—his chaplet slipping down to one side as he does so. Meanwhile the Being in Grey looks on imperturbably—the candle in his hand continuing to burn steadily with a clear light.]
[A grand ball is in progress in the salon of the mansion which the Man has built for himself. The scene is a large, square, lofty room with smooth, white walls and ceiling and a polished floor. Yet a certain discrepancy in the proportions of some of the minor features of the apartment conveys to the beholder a sort of vague, unsatisfactory impression, as though something were wanting, or discordant, or superfluous, or bizarre—one cannot exactly tell which. For instance, the doors are small as compared with the windows, and constitute, with the latter, the only features breaking the monotony of the apartment's outline. The windows, too, are of immense size. Reaching almost to the ceiling, they are placed only in the rear wall, and in close juxtaposition to one another, while their panes show black with the darkness of the outer night, and neither spot nor speck breaks the wall spaces between them. Eloquent testimony to the wealth of the Man is afforded by the superabundance of gilding on the cornices, chairs, and picture-frames; yet the pictures are but few in number, and confined to the side walls, of which they form the sole adornment. Light is furnished by hoop-shaped lustres and a few scattered electric globes. Nevertheless, though the ceiling is in brilliant relief, the rest of the room is in slight shadow—a circumstance which imparts a kind of greyish tinge to the walls. In general, the scene has about it an air of pallor and chill.
[The ball is in full swing—the music being furnished by an orchestra of three players, each of whom bears a certain resemblance to his instrument. The fiddler has a long, thin neck and a small head ornamented on both sides with little tufts of hair. His body is grotesquely curved in outline, and he has a handkerchief neatly folded on his shoulder, to form a pad for his fiddle. The flute player resembles his flute in that he is exceedingly tall and thin, with long, lean face and taper legs; while the man with the double-bass is short, with broad, rounded shoulders, a fat body, and baggy trousers. All three executants play with an energy which is manifested even in their faces as they grind out the tune and sway their heads and bodies to and fro to the rhythm. The tune in question (which is never once changed throughout the ball) consists of a short, polka-like air, made up of two separate parts, and charged with a sort of vapid, jaunty, staccato lilt. All the instruments are slightly out of tune with one another, and this sometimes causes the discrepancies in pitch and tempo to give rise to an extraordinary series of dissonances and gaps in the melody. The following is the tune:—
0080
To these strains a number of young men and girls are dancing a legato measure in a graceful, refined manner. To the first phrase of the tune they advance and meet; to the second phrase they retire; to the third and fourth they advance and retire as before—all with a rather stately, old-fashioned demeanour.
[Along the walls are seated a number of chaperons and other guests, in a variety of studiedly affected attitudes. Their movements are stiff and angular, and their remarks stilted and spasmodic. Never is the correctness of their tone lowered by, for instance, light laughter or whispering. Gazing straight in front of them, with their hands primly folded on their laps and their wrists stuck out so sharply as to convey the impression that those members have been fractured, these onlookers mouth their sentences in the sententious fashion of copybooks, and express, in their whole bearing, a sort of disdainful weariness. Indeed, so absolutely monotonous and uniform in expression are their fades that the latter would seem to have been turned out of one and the same mould—a mould which has stamped them with a stereotyped air of conceit and arrogance, coupled with a certain dull respect for the Man's wealth. The dancers are dressed in white, the musicians in black, and the remaining guests in white, black, or yellow. In the right-hand front corner of the stage (a corner in deeper shadow than the rest of the scene') stands the motionless figure of the Being in Grey. The candle in his hand is now burnt away for two-thirds of its length, yet its flame is still strong and yellow, and continues to throw lurid gleams over the statuesque face and chin of the Being.]
Dialogue of the Guests.
I feel it my bounden duty to remark that to be numbered among the guests at any ball given by the Man is indeed an honour!
Yes; and to that you might have added that only a very limited circle of persons are permitted to attain to that honour. My husband, my sons, my daughters, and myself are profoundly sensible of the privilege which has been accorded us.
I am truly sorry for those who have not had the good fortune to receive an invitation to the ball. Never this night, I fear, will they be able to close their eyes in sleep, by reason of the pangs of envy. Yet on the morrow they will not hesitate to speak in disparaging terms of the fêtes which the Man periodically gives.
Ah, but never have they looked upon such brilliancy as we see here to-night!
No, never! Nor, you might have added, upon such luxury and wealth!
Nor upon such enchanting, such soul-emancipating gaiety! If this be not gaiety, then I know not what gaiety is. But let that pass. 'Tis ill quarrelling with persons who writhe in the pangs of envy. Yet I will venture to foretell that those same persons will presumptuously assert that these were not gilded chairs upon which we are now sitting—not gilded chairs!
No; mere deteriorated articles, purchased, for a trifling sum, from some secondhand dealer!
They will say, too, that those beautiful electric globes were tallow candles of the commonest quality!
Yes—mere farthing dips!
Or trashy oil lamps! Oh, tongues of envy!
Peradventure they will have the effrontery to deny that the mansion has gilded cornices?
Or that to the pictures on the walls there are the massive gilded frames which we see before us? For my part, I seem to hear the veritable chink of gold in this palace.
Well, at all events we behold its glitter: and that, in my opinion, is as good.
Seldom has it fallen to my lot to enjoy such ravishing strains as those which always greet our ears at balls given by the Man. They constitute the veritable music of the spheres, and waft the soul from earth to higher regions.
Yes, in truth do they! Yet we have some reason to expect that the music should be of the finest quality, seeing that the Man is in a position to pay the immense fees demanded by the musicians. You must recollect that this is the most distinguished orchestra of the day, and plays at all the mostrecherchéfunctions.
Ah, one could listen to such strains for ever! They simplyenchantone's sense of hearing! I may inform you that, for days and nights after one of these balls given by the Man, my sons and daughters never cease to hum the tunes which they have heard there.
At times I seem to hear such divine music when I am walking in the streets. I gaze around me, but neither instrument nor player is to be seen.
AndIhear it in my dreams.
What appears to me so especially excellent about these musicians is that they play with suchabandon. Though aware of the immense fees which they are entitled to demand for their services, they are yet good enough to refrain from giving nothing in return. That seems to me particularly right and proper.
Yes. 'Tis as though the musicians completely-identified themselves with their instruments, so great is the verve with which they surrender themselves to their playing.
Or, rather, as though their instruments identified themselves with them.
How rich it all is!
Flow sumptuous!
How brilliant!
How luxurious!
[And so on, for a considerable time, like a pack of dogs barking one against the other.]
I would have you to know that, in addition to thissalon, the mansion contains no fewer than fifteen magnificent apartments. I have seen them all. The dining-room is fitted with a fireplace which can accommodate whole trunks of trees. The drawing-room, too, and boudoir are simplygorgeous, while the state bedroom is not only an apartment of the most gigantic dimensions, but is actually furnished with bedsteads to which baldaquins are attached!
Indeed? You surprise me! Baldaquins?
Yes, I saidbaldaquins. Pray permit me to continue what I was saying. The son of the house lives in a beautiful, bright nursery, lined throughout with yellow wood and gilding, so that the sun seems for ever to be shining there. And the little fellow is so charming! He has curls like the rays of the sun himself.
Yes, indeed! When one looks upon him one involuntarily exclaims, "The sun has just come out."
And when one gazes into his eyes one involuntarily thinks, "Ah! Now are the chill autumn and winter passed, for there is blue sky to be seen."
The Man loves the boy to distraction. He has just bought him a pony—a beautiful, pure white pony—to ride on. Now,mychildren——
Well, as we were saying. Have I yet told you of the bathroom?
No, you have not.
It is a truly marvellous apartment.
Ah! Is it indeed?
Yes; with hot water always laid on. Then there is the Man's study, replete with books—endless books. He is said to be immensely clever—and of a truth you could tell that from the number of the books alone.
I have seen the gardens. Haveyou?
Indeed? No, I have not.
And I am not ashamed to confess that they simply astounded me. In them I saw the most marvellous lawns—all of an emerald green, and mown with surprising neatness, with little paths intersecting them, lined with the finest of red sand. And the flowers, too! And the palm-trees!
Palm-trees?
Yes, I saidpalm-trees. Every shrub is pruned into a shape of some kind, such as a pyramid or a column of green foliage. Then there is a fountain with huge globes of glass, and, in the centre of the main lawn, a number of plaster gnomes and sirens.
How splendid!
How brilliant!
How luxurious!
[And so on, as before.]
The Man also did me the honour to show me his coach-houses and stables, until I found myself wholly unable to repress the admiration evoked in me by the spectacle of the horses and carriages which they contained. His motor-car, too, made a great impression upon me.
And, to think of it, he has no fewer thanseventeenattendants for his person alone, in addition to the general staff of cooks, kitchen-maids, housemaids, gardeners, and so forth!
And grooms, surely?
Yes, and grooms.
Of course, it is only right and proper that the Man and his Wife should have everything done for them, seeing that they are personages of such high degree.
Yes; and for the same reason it is all the more an honour for us to be included among the number of their guests.
But do you not find the music just a trifle—well,monotonous?
No, I do not, and I am surprised thatyoushould do so. Surely you know who the musicians are?
Yes; I was but jesting. I could listen to such strains for ever. There is something in them which especially appeals to me.
And to me also.
It is delightful to be able to surrender oneself to their influence, and to become absorbed in dreams of ecstatic bliss.
It is not too much to say that they waft one's soul to the very empyrean.
How delightful it all is!
How splendid!
How luxurious!
[And so on, as before.]
But I see a movement at that door. Probably the Man and his Wife are making their entry into thesalon.
See how the musicians are redoubling their efforts!
There they come! There they come!
Yes, there they come! There they come!
[The Man and his Wife appear at a low door on the right, accompanied by the Man's Friends and Enemies. They cross the salon obliquely to a door on the left, walking in solemn procession, and causing the dancers to divide and leave a clear space for them. The musicians play more loudly, and more extravagantly out of tune, than ever.
[The Man looks much older than he did in Act II, and a sprinkling of grey is noticeable in his long hair and beard. Yet his face is still handsome and vigorous. He walks with a sort of calm dignity and aloofness, and gazes straight in front of him, as though he were not aware of the presence of the surrounding company. His Wife, too, looks older, but still beautiful, as she leans upon his arm. Like her husband, she seems to see none of the surrounding company, but gazes in front of her with a strange, half-apprehensive expression. They are both of them magnificently dressed.
[Behind the Man and his Wife come the Man's Friends. The latter are uniformly like one another, with aristocratic faces, high, open foreheads, and candid eyes. They move with dignity—expanding their chests, setting down their feet with firmness and assurance, and gazing from side to side with faintly condescending smiles. They wear white buttonholes.
[Following them at a respectful distance come the Man's Enemies. These also bear a strong general resemblance to one another—their faces being vicious and cunning, their brows low and beetling, and their hands slender and apelike. They move as though ill at ease—jostling one another, hunching their shoulders, hiding behind one another, and throwing sharp, mean, envious glances about them. They wear yellow buttonholes.
[In this manner the procession moves slowly across the salon, without a word being spoken by any one of its members. The sound of their footsteps, combined with the strains of the musicians and the acclamations of the guests, gives rise to a sort of confused, discordant din.
Acclamations of the Guests.
There they are! There they are! What an honour for us!
How handsome he is!
What a manly face!
Look, look!
Yet he does not deign us even a glance!
No; although we are his guests!
He has not so much as seen us!
No matter. This is a great honour for us. And there is his Wife! Look, look!
How lovely she is!
But how proud!
Look at her diamonds, her diamonds!
Her diamonds, her diamonds!
And her pearls, her pearls!
And her rubies, her rubies!
How splendid! We are indeed honoured!
Yes, are we not? What an honour, what an honour!
[And so on, and so on.]
And there come the Man's Friends!
Look, look!
What aristocratic faces!
And what a haughty bearing!
Yes, for they reflect his glory.
And how attached to him they are!
And what true friends to him!
What an honour to be one of their number! They look at everything as though it were theirs.
Yes; they are at home here.
What an honour for us! What an honour! [And so on, and so on.]
And there come the Man's Enemies! Look, look! The Man's Enemies!
They crouch like whipped dogs!
Yes, for the Man has tamed them.
Yes, he has muzzled them.
See how they droop their tails between their legs!
And how they slink along!
And how they jostle one another!
Booh! Booh!
[General laughter.]
What vulgar faces!
And what greedy looks!
What a cowardly bearing!
What an envious air!
They are afraid to look at us.
Yes. They know that we have a better right than they to be here.
They need frightening a little more.
The Man will thank us for doing it.
Booh! Booh!
[The Guests receive the Man's Enemies with renewed jeers and laughter, while the Enemies crowd nervously upon one another, and throw sharp glances to right and left.]
There! They are going now! They are going now!
Truly an honour of the greatest kind has been done us!
Yes, they are going now!
Booh! Booh!
They have gone! They have gone!
[The procession disappears through a doorway to the left, and the din dies down a little. The music plays less loudly than before, and the dancers spread themselves over the floor again.]
Where have they gone to?
To the great dining-room, I suppose, where supper is to be served.
Then we may take it that we too will be invited presently?
Yes. Has not a lackey come to summon us?
I think it is high time we were sent for. If supper be served much later than this, we shall all of us sleep badly.
Yes, I assure you Ialwayssup early.
A late supper lies so heavily on one's stomach!
The music still goes on.
Yes, and so do the dancers. Yet I am surprised that they have not tired of it.
How rich it is!
How sumptuous!
[And so on, as before.]
Did you see how many covers were laid for supper?
No. I had barely time to begin counting them before the butler entered the room and I had to depart.
Surely we have not been forgotten?
My good madam, please remember that (in his own eyes, at least) the Man is a very great personage, and that we are personages ofsmallaccount.
No matter. My husband often asserts that it iswewho dothe Manhonour by accepting his invitations—notthe Manwho doesushonour by according them. We are rich ourselves, for that matter.
And if one should also take into account the reputation of his wife——!
Has any one seen a footman, sent to summon us to supper? Perhaps he is looking for us in one of the other rooms?
How rich the Man must be!
Yet wealth may be acquired without dipping one's hands into other people's pockets.
Hush! Only the Man's Enemies say that.
Indeed? And do they not comprise among their number men of the highest honour? My husband is one of them.
How late it is getting!
I think there must have been some misunderstanding here. I can scarcely suppose that we havepurposelybeen forgotten.
Well, if you cannot suppose that, I must say that your knowledge of life and men is grossly deficient.
I am surprised. We ourselves are rich, but——
Hark! I think I heard some one call us.
'Twas only your fancy.No onehas called us.
I feel it my bounden duty to remark that I cannot conceive how we ever came to permit ourselves to patronize a house which possesses such a dubious reputation. Of a surety we ought to pick and choose our acquaintances more carefully.
[Enter a footman, who cries aloud: "The Man and his Wife request the honour of their guests' company at supper." Upon this the Guests resume their conversation with a sigh of relief.]
What a splendid livery!
So the Manhasinvited us, after all!
I knew it was only a misunderstanding.
The Man issogoodhearted! In all probability he and his party themselves have not yet sat down to supper.
Itoldyou a lackey would be sent to summon us.
What a magnificent livery he wore!
They say the supper is equally magnificent.
Oh, nothing is ever badly done in the Man's house.
What music! What an honour to be one of the guests at a ball given by the Man!
How persons must envy us who have not been accorded that honour!
How rich it all is!
How sumptuous!
[Repeating these ejaculations over and over again, the Guests begin to depart. Only one couple of dancers continue dancing; the rest follow the Guests in silence. For a little while the last couple continue their diversion; then they hasten to overtake their companions. Nevertheless the musicians play with unabated vigour.
[Presently a footman enters, and extinguishes all the lights save the furthest lustre. For a few moments afterwards the forms of the musicians are still distinguishable through the gloom as they sway themselves and their instruments to the music; but eventually nothing remains visible save the tall figure of the Being in Grey. The flame of the candle in his hand is now flickering heavily, yet its light remains strong and yellow, and throws the strong face and chin of the Being into sharp relief. Presently, without raising his head, he makes a slight turn towards the audience. Then, lit up by the glare of the candle's rays, he crosses the salon with slow and soundless footsteps, and disappears through the doorway by which the Guests and the dancers have made their exit.]