Voces Populi — The Impromptu Charade Party
The Impromptu Charade-Party.
SCENE--_The Library of a Country-House; the tables and chairs are heaped with brocades, draperies, and properties of all kinds, which the Ladies of the company are trying on, while the men rack their brains for a suitable Word.
_ _In a secluded corner_, MR. NIGHTINGALE _and_ MISS ROSE _are conversing in whispers_.
MR.
WHIPSTER (_Stage-Manager and Organizer--self-appointed_).
No--but I say, _really_, you know, we _must_ try and decide on something--we've been out half-an-hour, and the people will be getting impatient!
(_To the Ladies.
_) Do come and help; it's really no use dressing up till we've settled what we're going _to do_.
Can't _anybody_ think of a good Word?
MISS LARKSPUR.
We ought to make a continuous story of it, with the same plot and characters all through.
We did that once at the Grange, and it was awfully good--just like a regular Comedy!
MR.
WHIPSTER.
Ah, but we've got to hit on _a Word_ first.
Come--nobody got an idea?
Nightingale, you're not much use over _there_, you know.
I
hope you and Miss Rose have been putting your heads together?
MR.
NIGHTINGALE (_confused_).
Eh?
No, nothing of the sort!
Oh, ah--yes, we've thought of a _lot_ of Words.
MISS ROSE.
Only you've driven them all out of our heads again!
[_They resume their conversation.
_ MR.
WH.
Well, do make a suggestion, somebody!
Professor, won't _you_ give us a Word?
CHORUS OF LADIES.
Oh, _do_, Professor--you're sure to think of something clever!
PROFESSOR POLLEN (_modestly_).
Well, really, I've so little experience in these matters that--A Word _has_ just occurred to me, however; I don't know, of course, whether it will meet with approval--(_he beams at them with modest pride through his spectacles_)--it's "Monocotyledonous."
CHORUS OF LADIES.
Charming!
Monocottle--Oh, can't we _do_ that?
MR.
WH.
(_dubiously_).
We might--but--er--what's it _mean_?
PROF.
POLLEN.
It's a simple botanical term, signifying a plant which has only one cup-shaped leaf, or seed-lobe.
Plants with _two_ are termed-- MR.
WH.
I don't see how we're going to act a plant with only one seed-lobe myself--and then the syllables--"mon"--"oh"--"cot"--"till"--we shouldn't get done before _midnight_, you know!
PROF.
POLLEN (_with mild pique_).
Well, I merely threw it out as a suggestion.
I thought it could have been made amusing.
No doubt I was wrong; no doubt.
MR.
SETTEE (_nervously_).
I've thought of a word.
How would--er--"_Familiar_" do?
MR.
WH.
(_severely_).
Now, _really_, Settee, _do_ try not to footle like this!
[MR.
SETTEE _subsides amidst general disapproval_.
MR.
FLINDERS (_with a flash of genius_).
I've got it--_Gamboge_!
MR.
WH.
Gamboge, eh?
Let's see how that would work:--"Gam"-"booge."
How do you see it yourself?
[MR.
FLINDERS _discovers on reflection, that he doesn't see it, and the suggestion is allowed to drop_.
MISS PELAGIA RHYS.
_I've_ an idea.
_Familiar!
_ "Fame"-"ill"-"liar," you know.
[_Chorus of applause.
_ MR.
WH.
Capital!
The very thing--congratulate you, Miss Rhys!
MR.
SETTEE (_sotto voce_).
But I say, look here, _I_ suggested that, you know, and you said--!
MR.
WH.
(_ditto_).
What on earth _does_ it matter who suggests it, so long as it's right?
Don't be an ass, Settee!
(_Aloud.
_) How are we going to do the first syllable "Fame," eh?
[MR.
SETTEE _sulks_.
MR.
PUSHINGTON.
Oh, that's easy.
One of us must come on as a Poet, and all the ladies must crowd round flattering him, and making a lot of him, asking him for his autograph, and so on.
I don't mind doing the Poet myself, if nobody else feels up to it.
[_He begins to dress for the part by turning his dress-coat inside out, and putting on a turban and a Liberty sash, by way of indicating the eccentricity of genius; the Ladies adorn themselves with a similar regard to realism, and even more care for appearances.
_ AFTER THE FIRST SYLLABLE.
_The Performers return from the drawing-room, followed by faint applause.
_ MR.
PUSHINGTON.
Went capitally, that syllable, eh?
(_No response.
_) You might have played up to me a little more than you did--you others.
You let me do everything!
MISS LARKSPUR.
You never let any of us get a word in!
MR.
PUSHINGTON.
Because you all talked at once, that was all.
Now then--"ill."
I'll be a celebrated Doctor, and you all come to me one by one, and say you're _ill_--see?
[_Attires himself for the role of a Physician in a dressing-gown and an old yeomanry helmet.
_ MR.
WHIPSTER (_huffily_).
Seems to me I may as well go and sit with the audience--I'm no use _here_!
MR.
PUSHINGTON.
Oh, yes, Whipster, I want you to be my confidential butler, and show the patients in.
[MR.
W.
_accepts--with a view to showing_ PUSHINGTON _that other people can act as well as he_.
AFTER THE SECOND SYLLABLE.
MR.
PUSHINGTON.
Seemed to _drag_ a little, somehow!
There was no necessity for you to make all those long soliloquies, Whipster.
A
Doctor's confidential servant wouldn't chatter so much!
MR.
WHIPSTER.
You were so confoundedly solemn over it, I had to put some fun in _somewhere_!
MR.
P.
Well, you might have put it where some one could see it.
Nobody laughed.
PROFESSOR POLLEN.
I don't know, Mr. Pushington, why, when I was describing my symptoms--which I can vouch for as scientifically correct--you persisted in kicking my legs under the table--it was unprofessional, Sir, and extremely painful!
MR.
PUSHINGTON.
I was only trying to hint to you that as there were a dozen other people to follow, it was time you cut the interview short, Professor--that one syllable alone has taken nearly an hour.
MISS BUCKRAM.
If I had known the kind of questions you were going to ask me, Mr. Pushington, I should certainly not have exposed myself to them.
I say no more, but I must positively decline to appear with you again.
MR.
PUSHINGTON.
Oh, but really, you know, in Charades one gets carried away at times.
I assure you, I hadn't the remotest (_&c, &c. _--_until_ Miss Buckram _is partly mollified_.
) Now then--last syllable.
Look here, I'll be a regular impostor, don't you know, and all of you come on and say what a _liar_ I am.
We ought to make that screamingly funny!
AFTER THE THIRD SYLLABLE.
MR.
PUSHINGTON.
Muddled?
Of _course_ it was muddled--you all called me a liar before I opened my mouth!
THE REST.
But you didn't seem to know how to begin, and we _had_ to bring the Word in somehow.
PUSHINGTON.
Bring it in?
--but you needn't have let it _out_.
There was Settee there, shouting "liar" till he was black in the face.
We must have looked a set of idiots from the front.
I sha'n't go in again (_muttering_).
It's no use acting Charades with people who don't understand it.
There; settle the Word yourselves!
AFTER THE WORD.
AMONG THE AUDIENCE.
GENERAL MURMUR.
What _can_ it be?
Not _Turk_, I suppose, or Magician?
--Quarrelling?
--Parnellite--Impertinence?
Shall we give it up?
No, they like us to guess, poor things; and besides, if we don't they'll do another; and it is getting _so_ late, and such a _long_ drive home.
Oh, they're all coming back; then it _is_ over.
No, indeed, we can't _imagine_.
"_Familiar!
_" To be sure--_how_ clever, and _how_ well you all acted it, to be sure--you must be quite tired after it all.
I am sure _we_--hem--are deeply indebted to you....
My dear Miss Rose, how wonderfully you disguised yourself, I never recognized you a bit, nor _you_, Mr. Nightingale.
What part did _you_ take?
MR.
NIGHTINGALE.
I--er--didn't take any particular part--wasn't wanted, you know.
MISS ROSE.
Not to _act_,--so we stayed outside and--and--arranged things.
AN OLD LADY.
Indeed?
Then you had all the hard work, and none of the pleasure, my dear, I'm afraid.
MISS ROSE (_sweetly_).
Oh no. I mean yes!
--but we didn't _mind_ it much.
THE O.
L.
And which of you settled what the Word was to be?
MR.
N.
Well, I believe we settled that together.
[_Carriages are announced; departure of guests who are not of the house-party.
In the Smoking-room_, MR. PUSHINGTON _discovers that he does not seem exactly popular with the other men, and puts it down to jealousy_.
