The Man of Sentiment

Part One
[A walled garden of York. It is an August Sunday, and the baying of deep church-bells is blown faintly in a warm wind. Laurence Sterne, prebendary, aged forty-six, and Catherine de Fromantel, a girl who sings at Ranelagh, are dawdling through the arbours, and pause at a path which runs between hedges and cypress-trees round a corner some fifty yards away. Catherine has walked down such a path before, it is to be feared, and halts cautiously upon its fringes.]
Laurence:
Nay, 'tis no Devil's walk,
It leads to what? Some leaden Child with lips
Blown open, spouting fountain-dew on birds
That drowsily dive the pool . . . some secret Lawn
Tight locked away in mazes, and trod by none
Save one old crazy Gardener . . . aye, 'tis prick'd
In curious inks on charts of old, I'll vow,
Drown'd in some careless Viscount's library
Five hundred years, and like to rot five more.
Now we, my child, wait idly, toe to brink,
Whilst I must pray thee to walk hand-in-hand
Not fifty steps along a sanded alley. . . .
Catherine:
Such paths have led to dangerous lands before,
And many a maid's marched less than fifty steps
To-day no maiden . . . 'tis a well-known Grove,
Thy maze of lime and bergamot, good priest . . .
Plump Notaries would buzz with ivory tablets,
Plaguing the round-tubb'd orange-trees to blab
Could they but speak. . . . Oh, trust me, sir, I know
Those leafy Rogues too well!
Laurence:
Nay, Kit, these trees
Are stout duennas, this garden a Dutch garden,
And sure the grass would rust to yellow stalks
If lovers betray'd its beaded innocence.
Come . . . seven steps . . . I'll swear to coax no more. . . .
As far as the Cypress . . . not a bee's foot further. . . .
As far as the Cypress. . . .
Catherine:
No, I tell you, no!
(She allows herself to be led a few steps.)
Laurence:
But here the spices of some little trees,
And certain hot, heavy orchard-essences
From fruits that have molten in their leaves, do tell
Stupendous tales of Paddocks round the turn—
Flat, knee-thick fields of laziness, piping all day
With flies and ants, and most bewhisker'd Bees—
Great solemn Bees, too plump to take a flower
Because their weight might shake the petals down—
Catherine:
Lord, where's the maze, and little carven Lad
He—nay, I will not—nay, sir—fie, a priest,
A prebendary wrestling with a wench
Who's like as not to quaver in dark Taverns—
Oh, sir, have done!
Laurence:
Now here's a mystery—
She'll dawdle from St. Michael's with you, walk
With prinking flutters past the choristers,
And take the turnpike, handed by a priest,
But let that saintly gentleman divert
Her footsteps from the vulgar throng, to grant her
Five hundred feet of private ambulation—
Oh, no—those lanes of lime-trees tempt her not—
She'll turn for home!
Catherine:
You know it's not the lanes,
Nor lime-trees either that I like not—priests
Are sable Eunuchs in the public streets,
But passionate rascals in an orangery!
Laurence:
Passion? You tease me, Kit—I keep no passion
In these quiet deeps of Yorkshire—no, and passion
Runs not in veins that time and the church have froze
To pipes of ancient lead—ha, passion, ha, ha!
This torn Divine accus'd of gallantry!
No doubt, a charge of attempted defloration
Of nuns past counting in the convent close
Would next have been preferr'd, if my religion
Had but agreed with that of the old ladies!
"Alas, poor Yorick—here lies a three-nun man,"
I thank you for the compliment, dear Slut,
But Love's a dissipation I'm denied—
My reasons are innumerable, chief amongst them
The fact that it disorders my digestion,
And also—most important—I'm a disciple
Of that delicious old philosophy
Which flings us womankind to prime and dandle
And dog forever in the name of Plato—
Yes, I—I'm a Platonic—and our friendship
Mere rubbing of dim, spiritual flanks
As legally prescribed in the Symposium . . . .
'Tis writ, I warrant you, in authentic Greek,
And must disarm all scruples.
Catherine:
I'm no scholar,
And Greek's but Greek. The body's been my school,
Gilding it, dusting its rounds with Orris-root,
Waxing its lips and silencing its cries—
In Greek I'm lacking, but it seems to me
That when a lad stands tugging a maiden's waist
Near snapping a Lace that oughtn't to be snapp'd—
He may quote Plato, but his bent's the same.
Laurence:
'Tis monstrous wrong! I'll swear no bones of mine
Have taboured it to Love—or if they have
They've groaned like skeletons in Holbein's Dance—
Aye, creaked and jarred with miserable joy
To cheerless ends. I'm no Voluptary
New-greased with Love's pomatum—look at me,
My name's the Reverend Tristram . . . Laurie Sterne . . .
Or Yorick, as you like . . . aged in the suburbs
Of thirty-five or thereabouts . . . gaunt, long-legged,
Peruked grotesquely on the north-west border
With powdered wool, a trifle disarranged.
Poor Tristram . . . all he quests are cast-off things,
A smile tossed like a cherry to the birds,
The casual brush of eyes across a Counter,
Some careless touch of skin like flutter'd silk,
Or sweet munificence of Beauty thrown
Like pennies to the Post-boy . . . secret breasts
Like ivory fruits, unbared a bending-trice
Whilst Janatone leans over apricocks
To bite their stalks off . . . aye, and silken knees
Reveal'd in twinkling foams of Dimity
When Libertine winds run under maidens' Frocks—
And when those Frocks are tugg'd, small naked shoulders
That suddenly rise from ruffs of Mechlin lace,
Veined with sly, riotous roses, then subside
In quicksands of wild Satin and bubbling Silk . . .
Poor Tristam . . . all he seeks are these, but Life
Bequeaths him only Sorrows . . . .
Do you call it weak to have one's eyes brimmed up
With tears of pity . . . an ye do, I'm weak . . . .
Catherine:
Tears, Master Laurence?
Laurence:
I weep internally.
Taunt me not, Kit, my heart is old and broken.
Catherine:
But wherefore tears?
Laurence:
They rise like stones of crystal,
And whence they come, who knows? Perchance my Wife!
Catherine:
Poor man—she's fast in France—
Laurence:
Her deeds remain.
Oh, pity me, sweet child, I need thy tears.
Catherine:
Come, let me take thee to this bench of stone,
I would thy heart were happier—
Laurence:
Nay, not here—
'Tis cold—and there's a mound of twisted flowers
Beyond the turn, five paces past the Fish-pond,
Would net no less than two, no more than one,
In most prodigious comfort—
Catherine:
Poor, poor Yorick,
I'll dab thy tears upon my petticoat . . . .
Laurence:
Delightful Girl!
Catherine:
Nay, wait sir,—wait, sir—O!
(They are heard talking for a while behind the corner hedge.)
The Man of Sentiment
Part Two
[Meard's Court, Soho. An August nightfall, . Catherine is seated at a small pianoforte, Catherine's mother is examining the contents of a chest. "Tristram Shandy" has plunged Sterne into the drawing-rooms of London, and Catherine has followed.]
Mother:
Ten bottles of Calcavillo . . . one pot of Honey . . .
A jar of Comfits—(sniffs)—some Eau de Chypre . . .
The phial's of Crystal—(sniffs)—some few dead Posies . . .
Fourteen Epistles, dabbed with gilded sand
And sealed with crusts of lilac wax beneath . . .
Three sheets of music . . . boughpots filled with flowers . . .
Cards for the Fête Aqueuse . . . . O, monstrous fine!
A mirror of Bronze (I doubt its but some favour
From a Cotillon) . . . . Fans, they're from the Ball . . . .
A print by Mr. Campbell, with Lions' Heads,
And "STERNE" surmounted by a loop of Roses,
Most witching smart . . . a frame of Chinese lacker
To hold th' engraving fast . . . romantic truly!
Your priest's a garter'd nobleman, and leaks
Prodigious generosity . . . in faith,
He's monstrous kind . . . aye, look you, in a fortnight
Full fifty-seven gifts he hath despatch'd
In various paquets . . . aye, and written to boot
One hundred pages Quarto . . . there's a man
I call of true nobility . . . though, in faith,
He's come no closer than scroll'd Signatures
For thirteen weeks . . . no doubt he's held in leash
By Satin thongs to some Duchess . . . 'tis hard,
I do protest, to interrupt a Rout
With kissing girls in Soho . . . .
Catherine:
Light the candles,
And leave me, an you love me.
Mother:
Aye, 'tis true
I love you, Kit. Priests do no more than that,
And Laurie Sterne no—
Catherine:
Peace! Have done. I'm tired.
Mother:
Ah, Catherine, you've played the trick too well
For scolding—see to it, child, I pray
That York's not drown'd in town, nor Yorick either.
Those red-heel'd Ladies cage him in their Hoops
Whilst he indites Epistles to "Dear Kitty"—
He's but a tearful babe, and may be drawn
By aught of the turns you know—a Stocking's top
Rimm'd with quick flesh—some string across the shoulder
Slipp'd from the bodice—aye, or peeps of Lace
Would snare that heart which flaps inconstantly
Like lanthorns in great Winds—
Catherine:
Leave me, I'm tired.
(Exit Mother. Catherine plays slowly, and meanwhile Sterne enters and listens in the darkness of the door).
Laurence:
Oh, Kit!
Catherine:
Who's that?
Laurence:
A wretched Gentleman,
Once known in York, now lost in London's ways.
Catherine:
'Tis—oh, you fright me—
Laurence:
'Tis but wretched Yorick,
Sad Tristram—
Catherine:
Bring you news of that poor Priest?
'Tis many a week since last I heard of him,
And being a trifle concern'd in his success,
Pray speak of him—he's near forgotten here,
And might be dead—
Laurence:
She jests—but Kit, I love you!
Catherine:
"Dear Kit—I love you—Laurence." So 'tis said
In fifty-seven manners, wrote with flourishes
In that poor Priest's extensive correspondence.
Laurence:
Nay, Kit—I love you—not a moment longer
Could aught of Business, Authorship or Rank
Imprison me in cold Pall Mall—I love you!
Catherine:
'Tis a moment then too late. I love not you!
Laurence:
Nay, I protest you tease me. O, Catherine
Have you no heart for pity—
Catherine:
What, more pity?
Yea, miserable wretch, I grieve for you—
By Plato, I commiserate your woes—
Poor Tristram, doom'd to everlasting Routs,
Meshed in Ridottos, pent in Fêtes Champêtres—
O, yes, by heaven, I sympathise indeed!
Laurence:
You mock me. 'Tis unworthy, Kit. I'll vow
No lover has danced in town more wretchedly
Than I at Carlton House—my jaws were wet—
I'll swear were wet with weeping . . . night by night
I'd steal by candlelight from Dukes and Barons,
Climb to my Room, and consecrate sad hours
To dreams of thee . . . .
Catherine:
O, Laurence, come away . . . .
Back, back to Yorkshire. 'Tis a year this morning
Since that hot day in August—do you remember?
Laurence:
Yes, I remember. 'Twas a day like this,
I rowed thee down by Ouse . . . . O, happy Boat!
Catherine:
Nay, 'tis in vain. You know not what I mean.
No lovers pace those hedges now, the Garden
Sleeps once again . . . .
Laurence:
Ah, heavens, the Garden, Kit!
Nay, I protest I do remember . . . .
Catherine:
You!
Nay, you remember Plato and your tears,
Plato and your digestion . . . .
Laurence:
Heavens, yes, Plato,
My sweet Platonic . . . .
Catherine:
Sure the philosophy
Affords more true delight to its professor
Than to the obedient novice. Nay, 'tis vain.
I love you not . . . no, not if you coached home
And fee'd the Gods to pipe in Yorkshire gardens.
Laurence:
Catherine!
Catherine:
Nay
Laurence:
O Catherine, I'll repent—
By heaven, I'll swear to post away instanter.
Run back with me to that one leaden Child
Whose cheeks were blown in smiles above our bed,
Sweet Kit of the Garden—aye, the pool drips now,
The fountain spouts again, the birds dive under,
That August morn returns—return thou with it!
Catherine:
Oh, leave—oh, leave—
Laurence:
Ah, Catherine, I love you.
Doubt me not, sweet, 'tis true. I've proved that vow
Too often since last August—aye and more,
I've naught but misery in London—fame
Hath little delight for lovers—Balls and Routs
Without your voice resolve to mere mechanics.
Believe me, Kit, I stop but long enough
To foster my luck—and with thine aid, sweet Child,
Poor Laurence Sterne, the rustic priest, shall swim,
Thee on his shoulders, down the gutter of Time.
Catherine:
I would your—oh, 'tis vain—leave me, I beg.
Laurence:
No, no. I love you!
Catherine:
Nay, you love me not.
You love your Wife.
Laurence:
That fume of a woman! No!
Catherine:
You love no woman, Tristram—nay, no woman.
You love but Eyes whose lakes of darkness mirror
Poor Laurence Sterne—you love but Ears whose mazes
Resound with Yorick's words, and blow them back
To Yorick himself—you love but Lips that know
Sweet means of kissing Yorick, and since all lips
Accomplish kissing, in faith, you love all lips,
And most your own. Aye, Sir, you're true enough
In your own manner to all you love on earth—
What's that? The oil'd machinery of Love,
The cogs that twist in Venus—and after that,
Yes, after that, you feast on "sentiment"—
'Tis your own word—weep tender nights away
With sad, delicious memories of a kiss
When if you chose you might reap more than kissing—
You love—of course, you love (O sentimental!)
You tickle your heart with sweetmeats of emotion,
Glut on romantic thrills, enjoy rich passions,
Most luscious martyrdoms—plump, tasty sorrows—
By God, I've done with playing that touching role,
"The Girl I Left Behind Me"—here am I,
"The Girl Who Wouldn't be Left Behind", and trust me,
I'll smash those chaste affections of your soul,
You pudding of stale sentiment!
Laurence:
O, Catherine!
Catherine:
No more. I've done. Find other fools to dream of,
And I'll find other lads with lips more hot
Who'll clip me for a Month, perhaps, or less,
And leave me—and forget . . . .
Laurence:
O, Catherine!
Catherine:
Weep, little man!
Laurence:
O Kit of the Garden! Kit . . . .
(Exit Sterne. Catherine remains staring over the keyboard. After a pause, enter her mother.)
Mother:
He's gone—you've vexed him—O, to think he's gone
In tears and temper—you're a fool, you Slut . . . .
You've botched it all . . . you should have heeded me.
Eh, lass, a Bodice carelessly open'd up
Can tempt a backward Gallant . . . what's the use!
He's gone, you fool . . . and here's that handsome Mirror
Fallen and broken . . . .