-
Notifications
You must be signed in to change notification settings - Fork 0
/
the-admirable-bashville.xhtml
4800 lines (4800 loc) · 187 KB
/
the-admirable-bashville.xhtml
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xmlns:epub="http://www.idpf.org/2007/ops" epub:prefix="z3998: http://www.daisy.org/z3998/2012/vocab/structure/, se: https://standardebooks.org/vocab/1.0" xml:lang="en-GB">
<head>
<title>The Admirable Bashville</title>
<link href="../css/core.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
<link href="../css/local.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"/>
</head>
<body epub:type="z3998:fiction">
<article id="the-admirable-bashville" epub:type="z3998:drama">
<header>
<hgroup epub:type="fulltitle">
<h2 epub:type="title">The Admirable Bashville</h2>
<p epub:type="subtitle">Or, Constancy Unrewarded</p>
</hgroup>
<p epub:type="bridgehead">Being the Novel of Cashel Byron’s Profession Done Into a Stage Play in Three Acts, and in Blank Verse, with a Note on Modern Prizefighting</p>
</header>
<section id="the-admirable-bashville-preface" epub:type="preface">
<h3 epub:type="title">Preface</h3>
<p>“The Admirable Bashville” is a product of the British law of copyright. As that law stands at present, the first person who patches up a stage version of a novel, however worthless and absurd that version may be, and has it read by himself and a few confederates to another confederate who has paid for admission in a hall licensed for theatrical performances, secures the stage rights of that novel, even as against the author himself; and the author must buy him out before he can touch his own work for the purposes of the stage.</p>
<p>A famous case in point is the drama of <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">East Lynne</i>, adapted from the late <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Henry Wood’s novel of that name. It was enormously popular, and is still the surest refuge of touring companies in distress. Many authors feel that <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mrs.</abbr> Henry Wood was hardly used in not getting any of the money which was plentifully made in this way through her story. To my mind, since her literary copyright probably brought her a fair wage for the work of writing the book, her real grievance was, first, that her name and credit were attached to a play with which she had nothing to do, and which may quite possibly have been to her a detestable travesty and profanation of her story; and second, that the authors of that play had the legal power to prevent her from having any version of her own performed, if she had wished to make one.</p>
<p>There is only one way in which the author can protect himself; and that is by making a version of his own and going through the same legal farce with it. But the legal farce involves the hire of a hall and the payment of a fee of two guineas to the King’s Reader of Plays. When I wrote <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Cashel Byron’s Profession</i> I had no guineas to spare, a common disability of young authors. What is equally common, I did not know the law. A reasonable man may guess a reasonable law, but no man can guess a foolish anomaly. Fortunately, by the time my book so suddenly revived in America I was aware of the danger, and in a position to protect myself by writing and performing “The Admirable Bashville.” The prudence of doing so was soon demonstrated; for rumors soon reached me of several American stage versions; and one of these has actually been played in New York, with the boxing scenes under the management (so it is stated) of the eminent pugilist <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mr.</abbr> James <abbr epub:type="z3998:personal-name">J.</abbr> Corbett. The New York press, in a somewhat derisive vein, conveyed the impression that in this version Cashel Byron sought to interest the public rather as the last of the noble race of the Byrons of Dorsetshire than as his unromantic self; but in justice to a play which I never read, and an actor whom I never saw, and who honorably offered to treat me as if I had legal rights in the matter, I must not accept the newspaper evidence as conclusive.</p>
<p>As I write these words, I am promised by the King in his speech to Parliament a new Copyright Bill. I believe it embodies, in our British fashion, the recommendations of the book publishers as to the concerns of the authors, and the notions of the musical publishers as to the concerns of the playwrights. As author and playwright I am duly obliged to the Commission for saving me the trouble of speaking for myself, and to the witnesses for speaking for me. But unless Parliament takes the opportunity of giving the authors of all printed works of fiction, whether dramatic or narrative, both playright and copyright (as in America), such to be independent of any insertions or omissions of formulas about “all rights reserved” or the like, I am afraid the new Copyright Bill will leave me with exactly the opinion both of the copyright law and the wisdom of Parliament I at present entertain. As a good Socialist I do not at all object to the limitation of my right of property in my own works to a comparatively brief period, followed by complete Communism: in fact, I cannot see why the same salutary limitation should not be applied to all property rights whatsoever; but a system which enables any alert sharper to acquire property rights in my stories as against myself and the rest of the community would, it seems to me, justify a rebellion if authors were numerous and warlike enough to make one.</p>
<p>It may be asked why I have written “The Admirable Bashville” in blank verse. My answer is that I had but a week to write it in. Blank verse is so childishly easy and expeditious (hence, by the way, Shakespeare’s copious output), that by adopting it I was enabled to do within the week what would have cost me a month in prose.</p>
<p>Besides, I am fond of blank verse. Not nineteenth century blank verse, of course, nor indeed, with a very few exceptions, any post-Shakespearean blank verse. Nay, not Shakespearean blank verse itself later than the histories. When an author can write the prose dialogue of the first scene in <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">As You Like It</i>, or Hamlet’s colloquies with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, there is really no excuse for The Seven Ages and “To be or not to be,” except the excuse of a haste that made great facility indispensable. I am quite sure that anyone who is to recover the charm of blank verse must frankly go back to its beginnings and start a literary pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. I like the melodious singsong, the clear simple one-line and two-line sayings, and the occasional rhymed tags, like the half closes in an eighteenth century symphony, in Peele, Kyd, Greene, and the histories of Shakespeare. How anyone with music in him can turn from Henry <span epub:type="z3998:roman">VI</span>, John, and the two Richards to such a mess of verse half developed into rhetorical prose as <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Cymbeline</i>, is to me explicable only by the uncivil hypothesis that the artistic qualities in the Elizabethan drama do not exist for most of its critics; so that they hang on to its purely prosaic content, and hypnotize themselves into absurd exaggerations of the value of that content. Even poets fall under the spell. Ben Jonson described Marlowe’s line as “mighty”! As well put Michelangelo’s epitaph on the tombstone of Paolo Uccello. No wonder Jonson’s blank verse is the most horribly disagreeable product in literature, and indicates his most prosaic mood as surely as his shorter rhymed measures indicate his poetic mood. Marlowe never wrote a mighty line in his life: Cowper’s single phrase “Toll for the brave” drowns all his mightinesses as Great Tom drowns a military band. But Marlowe took that very pleasant-sounding rigmarole of Peele and Greene, and added to its sunny daylight the insane splendors of night, and the cheap tragedy of crime. Because he had only a common sort of brain, he was hopelessly beaten by Shakespeare; but he had a fine ear and a soaring spirit: in short, one does not forget “wanton Arethusa’s azure arms” and the like. But the pleasant-sounding rigmarole was the basis of the whole thing; and as long as that rigmarole was practised frankly for the sake of its pleasantness, it was readable and speakable. It lasted until Shakespeare did to it what Raphael did to Italian painting; that is, overcharged and burst it by making it the vehicle of a new order of thought, involving a mass of intellectual ferment and psychological research. The rigmarole could not stand the strain; and Shakespeare’s style ended in a chaos of half-shattered old forms, half-emancipated new ones, with occasional bursts of prose eloquence on the one hand, occasional delicious echoes of the rigmarole, mostly from Calibans and masque personages, on the other, with, alas! a great deal of filling up with formulary blank verse which had no purpose except to save the author’s time and thought.</p>
<p>When a great man destroys an art form in this way, its ruins make palaces for the clever would-be great. After Michelangelo and Raphael, Giulio Romano and the Carracci. After Marlowe and Shakespeare, Chapman and the Police News poet Webster. Webster’s specialty was blood: Chapman’s, balderdash. Many of us by this time find it difficult to believe that pre-Ruskinite art criticism used to prostrate itself before the works of Domenichino and Guido, and to patronize the modest little beginnings of those who came between Cimabue and Masaccio. But we have only to look at our own current criticism of Elizabethan drama to satisfy ourselves that in an art which has not yet found its Ruskin or its pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, the same folly is still academically propagated. It is possible, and even usual, for men professing to have ears and a sense of poetry to snub Peele and Greene and grovel before Fletcher and Webster—Fletcher! a facile blank verse penny-a-liner: Webster! a turgid paper cutthroat. The subject is one which I really cannot pursue without intemperance of language. The man who thinks <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">The Duchess of Malfi</i> better than <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">David and Bethsabe</i> is outside the pale, not merely of literature, but almost of humanity.</p>
<p>Yet some of the worst of these post-Shakespearean duffers, from Jonson to Heywood, suddenly became poets when they turned from the big drum of pseudo-Shakespearean drama to the pipe and tabor of the masque, exactly as Shakespeare himself recovered the old charm of the rigmarole when he turned from Prospero to Ariel and Caliban. Cyril Tourneur and Heywood could certainly have produced very pretty rigmarole plays if they had begun where Shakespeare began, instead of trying to begin where he left off. Jonson and Beaumont would very likely have done themselves credit on the same terms: Marston would have had at least a chance. Massinger was in his right place, such as it was; and one would not disturb the gentle Ford, who was never born to storm the footlights. Webster could have done no good anyhow or anywhere: the man was a fool. And Chapman would always have been a blathering unreadable pedant, like Landor, in spite of his classical amateurship and respectable strenuosity of character. But with these exceptions it may plausibly be held that if Marlowe and Shakespeare could have been kept out of their way, the rest would have done well enough on the lines of Peele and Greene. However, they thought otherwise; and now that their freethinking paganism, so dazzling to the pupils of Paley and the converts of Wesley, offers itself in vain to the disciples of Darwin and Nietzsche, there is an end of them. And a good riddance, too.</p>
<p>Accordingly, I have poetasted “The Admirable Bashville” in the rigmarole style. And lest the Webster worshippers should declare that there is not a single correct line in all my three acts, I have stolen or paraphrased a few from Marlowe and Shakespeare (not to mention Henry Carey); so that if any man dares quote me derisively, he shall do so in peril of inadvertently lighting on a purple patch from <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Hamlet</i> or <i epub:type="se:name.publication.play">Faustus</i>.</p>
<p>I have also endeavored in this little play to prove that I am not the heartless creature some of my critics take me for. I have strictly observed the established laws of stage popularity and probability. I have simplified the character of the heroine, and summed up her sweetness in the one sacred word: Love. I have given consistency to the heroism of Cashel. I have paid to Morality, in the final scene, the tribute of poetic justice. I have restored to Patriotism its usual place on the stage, and gracefully acknowledged The Throne as the fountain of social honor. I have paid particular attention to the construction of the play, which will be found equal in this respect to the best contemporary models.</p>
<p>And I trust the result will be found satisfactory.</p>
</section>
<section id="the-admirable-bashville-dramatis-personae" epub:type="z3998:dramatis-personae">
<h3 epub:type="title">Dramatis Personae</h3>
<ul>
<li>
<p>Lydia Carew</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Cashel Byron</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Bob Mellish</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Lucian Webber</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Bashville</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Lord Worthington</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Cetewayo</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Paradise</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>The Master of the Revels</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>A Policeman</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Adelaide Gisborne</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Voice of a Newsboy</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Spectators; Persions of Fashion; Zulu Chiefs; Constables; and Others</p>
</li>
</ul>
</section>
<section id="the-admirable-bashville-act-1" epub:type="bodymatter z3998:scene">
<h3>
<span epub:type="label">Act</span>
<span epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</span>
</h3>
<p>A glade in Wiltstoken Park.</p>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Enter <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</b>.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Ye leafy breasts and warm protecting wings</span>
<br/>
<span>Of mother trees that hatch our tender souls,</span>
<br/>
<span>And from the well of Nature in our hearts</span>
<br/>
<span>Thaw the intolerable inch of ice</span>
<br/>
<span>That bears the weight of all the stamping world.</span>
<br/>
<span>Hear ye me sing to solitude that I,</span>
<br/>
<span>Lydia Carew, the owner of these lands,</span>
<br/>
<span>Albeit most rich, most learned, and most wise,</span>
<br/>
<span>Am yet most lonely. What are riches worth</span>
<br/>
<span>When wisdom with them comes to show the purse bearer</span>
<br/>
<span>That life remains unpurchasable? Learning</span>
<br/>
<span>Learns but one lesson: doubt! To excel all</span>
<br/>
<span>Is, to be lonely. Oh, ye busy birds,</span>
<br/>
<span>Engrossed with real needs, ye shameless trees</span>
<br/>
<span>With arms outspread in welcome of the sun,</span>
<br/>
<span>Your minds, bent singly to enlarge your lives,</span>
<br/>
<span>Have given you wings and raised your delicate heads</span>
<br/>
<span>High heavens above us crawlers.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">A rook sets up a great cawing; and the other birds chatter loudly as a gust of wind sets the branches swaying. She makes as though she would show them her sleeves.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Lo, the leaves</span>
<br/>
<span>That hide my drooping boughs! Mock me—poor maid!—</span>
<br/>
<span>Deride with joyous comfortable chatter</span>
<br/>
<span>These stolen feathers. Laugh at me, the clothed one.</span>
<br/>
<span>Laugh at the mind fed on foul air and books.</span>
<br/>
<span>Books! Art! And Culture! Oh, I shall go mad.</span>
<br/>
<span>Give me a mate that never heard of these,</span>
<br/>
<span>A sylvan god, tree born in heart and sap;</span>
<br/>
<span>Or else, eternal maidhood be my hap.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Another gust of wind and bird-chatter. She sits on the mossy root of an oak and buries her face in her hands. <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel Byron</b>, in a white singlet and breeches, comes through the trees.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>What’s this? Whom have we here? A woman!</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Looking up.</i>
</p>
<div epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Yes.</span>
</p>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>You have no business here. I have. Away!</span>
<br/>
<span>Women distract me. Hence!</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Bid you me hence?</span>
<br/>
<span>I am upon mine own ground. Who are you?</span>
<br/>
<span>I take you for a god, a sylvan god.</span>
<br/>
<span>This place is mine: I share it with the birds,</span>
<br/>
<span>The trees, the sylvan gods, the lovely company</span>
<br/>
<span>Of haunted solitudes.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>A sylvan god!</span>
<br/>
<span>A goat-eared image! Do your statues speak?</span>
<br/>
<span>Walk? heave the chest with breath? or like a feather</span>
<br/>
<span>Lift you—like this?</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He sets her on her feet.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Panting.</i>
</p>
<div epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>You take away my breath!</span>
<br/>
<span>You’re strong. Your hands off, please. Thank you. Farewell.</span>
</p>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Before you go: when shall we meet again?</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Why should we meet again?</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Who knows? We <em>shall</em>.</span>
<br/>
<span>That much I know by instinct. What’s your name?</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Lydia Carew.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Lydia’s a pretty name.</span>
<br/>
<span>Where do you live?</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>I’ the castle.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Thunderstruck.</i>
</p>
<div epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Do not say</span>
<br/>
<span>You are the lady of this great domain.</span>
</p>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>I am.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Accursed luck! I took you for</span>
<br/>
<span>The daughter of some farmer. Well, your pardon.</span>
<br/>
<span>I came too close: I looked too deep. Farewell.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>I pardon that. Now tell me who you are.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Ask me not whence I come, nor what I am.</span>
<br/>
<span>You are the lady of the castle. I</span>
<br/>
<span>Have but this hard and blackened hand to live by.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>I have felt its strength and envied you. Your name?</span>
<br/>
<span>I have told you mine.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>My name is Cashel Byron.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>I never heard the name; and yet you utter it</span>
<br/>
<span>As men announce a celebrated name.</span>
<br/>
<span>Forgive my ignorance.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>I bless it, Lydia.</span>
<br/>
<span>I have forgot your other name.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Carew.</span>
<br/>
<span>Cashel’s a pretty name, too.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Calling through the wood.</i>
</p>
<div epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Coo-ee! Byron!</span>
</p>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>A thousand curses! Oh, I beg you, go.</span>
<br/>
<span>This is a man you must not meet.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Further off.</i>
</p>
<div epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Coo-ee!</span>
</p>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>He’s losing us. What does he in my woods?</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>He is a part of what I am. What that is</span>
<br/>
<span>You must not know. It would end all between us.</span>
<br/>
<span>And yet there’s no dishonor in’t: your lawyer,</span>
<br/>
<span>Who let your lodge to me, will vouch me honest.</span>
<br/>
<span>I am ashamed to tell you what I am—</span>
<br/>
<span>At least, as yet. Some day, perhaps.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Nearer.</i>
</p>
<div epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Coo-ee!</span>
</p>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>His voice is nearer. Fare you well, my tenant.</span>
<br/>
<span>When next your rent falls due, come to the castle.</span>
<br/>
<span>Pay me in person. Sir: your most obedient. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">She curtsies and goes.</i></span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Lives in this castle! Owns this park! A lady</span>
<br/>
<span>Marry a prizefighter! Impossible.</span>
<br/>
<span>And yet the prizefighter must marry her.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Enter <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</b>.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Ensanguined swine, whelped by a doggish dam,</span>
<br/>
<span>Is this thy park, that thou, with voice obscene,</span>
<br/>
<span>Fillst it with yodeled yells, and screamst my name</span>
<br/>
<span>For all the world to know that Cashel Byron</span>
<br/>
<span>Is training here for combat.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Swine you me?</span>
<br/>
<span>I’ve caught you, have I? You have found a woman.</span>
<br/>
<span>Let her show here again, I’ll set the dog on her.</span>
<br/>
<span>I will. I say it. And my name’s Bob Mellish.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Change thy initial and be truly hight</span>
<br/>
<span>Hellish. As for thy dog, why dost thou keep one</span>
<br/>
<span>And bark thyself? Begone.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>I’ll not begone.</span>
<br/>
<span>You shall come back with me and do your duty—</span>
<br/>
<span>Your duty to your backers, do you hear?</span>
<br/>
<span>You have not punched the bag this blessed day.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>The putrid bag engirdled by thy belt</span>
<br/>
<span>Invites my fist.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td>
<p>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Weeping.</i>
</p>
<div epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Ingrate! O wretched lot!</span>
<br/>
<span>Who would a trainer be? O Mellish, Mellish,</span>
<br/>
<span>Trainer of heroes, builder-up of brawn,</span>
<br/>
<span>Vicarious victor, thou createst champions</span>
<br/>
<span>That quickly turn thy tyrants. But beware:</span>
<br/>
<span>Without me thou art nothing. Disobey me,</span>
<br/>
<span>And all thy boasted strength shall fall from thee.</span>
<br/>
<span>With flaccid muscles and with failing breath</span>
<br/>
<span>Facing the fist of thy more faithful foe,</span>
<br/>
<span>I’ll see thee on the grass cursing the day</span>
<br/>
<span>Thou didst forswear thy training.</span>
</p>
</div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Noisome quack</span>
<br/>
<span>That canst not from thine own abhorrent visage</span>
<br/>
<span>Take one carbuncle, thou contaminat’st</span>
<br/>
<span>Even with thy presence my untainted blood.</span>
<br/>
<span>Preach abstinence to rascals like thyself</span>
<br/>
<span>Rotten with surfeiting. Leave me in peace.</span>
<br/>
<span>This grove is sacred: thou profanest it.</span>
<br/>
<span>Hence! I have business that concerns thee not.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Ay, with your woman. You will lose your fight.</span>
<br/>
<span>Have you forgot your duty to your backers?</span>
<br/>
<span>Oh, what a sacred thing your duty is!</span>
<br/>
<span>What makes a man but duty? Where were we</span>
<br/>
<span>Without our duty? Think of Nelson’s words:</span>
<br/>
<span>England expects that every man—</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Shall twaddle</span>
<br/>
<span>About his duty. Mellish: at no hour</span>
<br/>
<span>Can I regard thee wholly without loathing;</span>
<br/>
<span>But when thou play’st the moralist, by Heaven,</span>
<br/>
<span>My soul flies to my fist, my fist to thee;</span>
<br/>
<span>And never did the Cyclops’ hammer fall</span>
<br/>
<span>On Mars’s armor—but enough of that.</span>
<br/>
<span>It does remind me of my mother.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Ah,</span>
<br/>
<span>Byron, let it remind thee. Once I heard</span>
<br/>
<span>An old song: it ran thus. <i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He clears his throat.</i> Ahem, Ahem!</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Sings.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td class="continued" epub:type="z3998:verse">
<blockquote>
<p>
<span>—They say there is no other</span>
<br/>
<span>Can take the place of mother—</span>
</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="continued">
<span>I am out o’ voice: forgive me; but remember:</span>
<br/>
<span>Thy mother—were that sainted woman here—</span>
<br/>
<span>Would say, Obey thy trainer.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Now, by Heaven,</span>
<br/>
<span>Some fate is pushing thee upon thy doom.</span>
<br/>
<span>Canst thou not hear thy sands as they run out?</span>
<br/>
<span>They thunder like an avalanche. Old man:</span>
<br/>
<span>Two things I hate, my duty and my mother.</span>
<br/>
<span>Why dost thou urge them both upon me now?</span>
<br/>
<span>Presume not on thine age and on thy nastiness.</span>
<br/>
<span>Vanish, and promptly.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Can I leave thee here</span>
<br/>
<span>Thus thinly clad, exposed to vernal dews?</span>
<br/>
<span>Come back with me, my son, unto our lodge.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Within this breast a fire is newly lit</span>
<br/>
<span>Whose glow shall sun the dew away, whose radiance</span>
<br/>
<span>Shall make the orb of night hang in the heavens</span>
<br/>
<span>Unnoticed, like a glowworm at high noon.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Ah me, ah me, where wilt thou spend the night?</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Wiltstoken’s windows wandering beneath,</span>
<br/>
<span>Wiltstoken’s holy bell hearkening,</span>
<br/>
<span>Wiltstoken’s lady loving breathlessly.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>The lady of the castle! Thou art mad.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>’Tis thou art mad to trifle in my path.</span>
<br/>
<span>Thwart me no more. Begone.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>My boy, my son,</span>
<br/>
<span>I’d give my heart’s blood for thy happiness.</span>
<br/>
<span>Thwart thee, my son! Ah, no. I’ll go with thee.</span>
<br/>
<span>I’ll brave the dews. I’ll sacrifice my sleep.</span>
<br/>
<span>I am old—no matter: ne’er shall it be said</span>
<br/>
<span>Mellish deserted thee.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Cashel</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>You resolute gods</span>
<br/>
<span>That will not spare this man, upon your knees</span>
<br/>
<span>Take the disparity twixt his age and mine.</span>
<br/>
<span>Now from the ring to the high judgment seat</span>
<br/>
<span>I step at your behest. Bear you me witness</span>
<br/>
<span>This is not Victory, but Execution.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He solemnly projects his fist with colossal force against the waistcoat of <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</b>, who doubles up like a folded towel, and lies without sense or motion.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>And now the night is beautiful again.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">The castle clock strikes the hour in the distance.</i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark!</span>
<br/>
<span>It strikes in poetry. ’Tis ten o’clock.</span>
<br/>
<span>Lydia: to thee!</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">He steals off towards the castle. <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Mellish</b> stirs and groans.</i>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</section>
<section id="the-admirable-bashville-act-2" epub:type="bodymatter z3998:scene">
<h3>
<span epub:type="label">Act</span>
<span epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">II</span>
</h3>
<section id="the-admirable-bashville-scene-2-1" epub:type="bodymatter z3998:scene">
<h4>
<span epub:type="label">Scene</span>
<span epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">I</span>
</h4>
<p>London. A room in <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia’s</b> house.</p>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td/>
<td>
<i epub:type="z3998:stage-direction">Enter <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</b> and <b epub:type="z3998:persona">Lucian.</b></i>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Welcome, dear cousin, to my London house.</span>
<br/>
<span>Of late you have been chary of your visits.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lucian</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>I have been greatly occupied of late.</span>
<br/>
<span>The minister to whom I act as scribe</span>
<br/>
<span>In Downing Street was born in Birmingham,</span>
<br/>
<span>And, like a thoroughbred commercial statesman,</span>
<br/>
<span>Splits his infinitives, which I, poor slave,</span>
<br/>
<span>Must reunite, though all the time my heart</span>
<br/>
<span>Yearns for my gentle coz’s company.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Lucian: there is some other reason. Think!</span>
<br/>
<span>Since England was a nation every mood</span>
<br/>
<span>Her scribes have prepositionally split;</span>
<br/>
<span>But thine avoidance dates from yestermonth.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lucian</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>There is a man I like not haunts this house.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Thou speak’st of Cashel Byron?</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lucian</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Aye, of him.</span>
<br/>
<span>Hast thou forgotten that eventful night</span>
<br/>
<span>When as we gathered were at Hoskyn House</span>
<br/>
<span>To hear a lecture by Herr Abendgasse,</span>
<br/>
<span>He placed a single finger on my chest,</span>
<br/>
<span>And I, ensorceled, would have sunk supine</span>
<br/>
<span>Had not a chair received my falling form.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lydia</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>Pooh! That was but by way of illustration.</span>
</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td epub:type="z3998:persona">Lucian</td>
<td epub:type="z3998:verse">
<p>
<span>What right had he to illustrate his point</span>
<br/>
<span>Upon my person? Was I his assistant</span>
<br/>
<span>That he should try experiments on me</span>
<br/>
<span>As Simpson did on his with chloroform?</span>
<br/>
<span>Now, by the cannon balls of Galileo</span>
<br/>
<span>He hath unmanned me: all my nerve is gone.</span>
<br/>
<span>This very morning my official chief,</span>
<br/>
<span>Tapping with friendly forefinger this button,</span>
<br/>