THE ORANGE LODGES
(jeering) Get down and push, mister. Last lap! You'll be home the night!
(bolt upright, his nailscraped face plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his blue eyes flashing in the prism of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling gallop) Per vias rectas!" (U15.3980)
THE GREEN LODGES
Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!
(Private Carr, Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey pass beneath the windows, singing in discord.)"
Hark! Our friend noise in the street!
(Holds up her hand.) Stop!
PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY
Yet I've a sort of a
Yorkshire relish for... "
That's me. (She claps her hands.) Dance! Dance! (She runs to the pianola.) Who has twopence?
(Handing her coins.) Here.
(Cracking his fingers impatiently.) Quick! Quick! Where's my augur's rod? (He runs to the piano and takes his ashplant, beating his foot in tripudium.)"
(Turns the drumhandle.) There.
(She drops two pennies in the slot. Gold, pink and violet lights start forth. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz.
Professor Goodwin, in a bowknotted periwig, in court dress, wearing a stained Inverness cape, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the room, his hands fluttering. He sits tinily on the pianostool and lifts and beats handless sticks of arms on the keyboard, nodding with damsel's grace, his bowknot bobbing)" (U15.4014)
(twirls round herself, heeltapping) Dance. Anybody here for there? Who'll dance? Clear the table.
(The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl."
The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics. No connection with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levinstone's. Fancy dress balls arranged. Deportment. The Katty Lanner step. So. Watch me! My terpsichorean abilities. (He minuets forward three paces on tripping bee's feet.) Tout le monde an avant! Reverence! Tout le monde en place!
(The prelude ceases. Professor Goodwin, beating vague arms shrivels, sinks, his live cape filling about the waltz time sounds. Stephen and Zoe circle freely. The lights change, glow, fade gold rosy violet.)
Two young fellows were talking about their girls, girls, girls,
Sweethearts they'd left behind ......"
(clipclaps glovesilent hands) Carré! Avant deux! Breathe evenly! Balancé!"
You may touch my.
May I touch your?
O, but lightly!
O, so lightly!"
My little shy little lass has a waist.
(Zoe and Stephen turn boldly with looser swing. The twilight hours advance from long landshadows, dispersed, lagging, languideyed, their cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. They are in grey gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the landbreeze.)
Avant huit! Traversé! Salut! Cours de mains! Croisé!
(The night hours, one by one, steal to the last place. Morning, noon and twilight hours retreat before them. They are masked, with daggered hair and bracelets of dull bells. Weary they curchycurchy under veils.)"