University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
THE NIGHT PRECEDING THURSDAY MORNING: THREE
SCENES OF THE COMEDY.

In Mr. Fantish's elegant domicil and in that portion
of it which has the honor of frequently beholding Mr. Fantish
in a state of repose, or in his dressing gown, or
shaving—namely in that gentleman's bed-chamber, preparations
seem to be going on for something like a journey.

Two gilt gas burners fixed to the wall on each side of
the Psyche-mirror in whose polished surface Mr. Fantish
is accustomed to survey his manifold graces and elegances,
cast their steady glare on the rich chamber, with its
luminous appointments—on the closed shutters through
which shines the white light of the cold snow—and on the
owner of the mansion, clad in his gorgeous dressing gown,
and busy stuffing clothes into a portmanteau.

On the table lies an open volume of the French school
of literature—by it flutters an open note of satin paper
elegantly written in a woman's hand—and on the hearth a
refractory cigar, which Mr. Fantish has abandoned in disgust,
sends up its faint blue acrid smoke.

Mr. Fantish has nearly filled his portmanteau with all
the conveniences of a traveller, when a knock is heard at
the street door, the always wakeful servant gently opens
it; and soon a step is heard upon the stairs, and the door
of the chamber opens, giving entrance to the valiant
Captain Tarnish.

Captain Tarnish is not as elegantly made up for public

inspection, as he usually is. His neckcloth is awry—his
waistcoat gapes and shows his linen somewhat soiled—his
hair is all disordered, as if angry fingers have been plunged
into it. One thing about the captain is unchanged, however,
and is more conspicuous than ever—his boastful
swagger and supercilious look. As he enters with his
half-smoked cigar between his lips, with his red cheeks
which indicate recent and deep potations, and his eyes
surrounded with dull circles, and quite bloodshot, he is
the same swaggering, disagreeable bully, as when standing
finely dressed and `set up' with his morning draught of
brandy, at the shooting gallery.

The worthies salute each other with that nod which
passes between men who understand each other.

Then the following observations are exchanged.

Fantish, stuffing a pair of velvet slippers into a remaining
crevice of his portmanteau. Well, Tarnish, what's
stirring besides your great carcass?

Captain Tarnish. Nothing but the cards.

Fantish. The cards?

Captain Tarnish. Yes, sir, the deuced cards—they're
stirring.

Fantish, lighting a fresh cigar. Bad luck?

Captain Tarnish. Ruinous!

Fantish, with a sneering laugh. You won't listen to
me, and give them up. I tell you, cards will ruin you—
you haven't got the nerve—you drink too freely also Mon
Capitaine. You cannot resist the brandy bottle, and I
tell you again, what I have told you a thousand times

before, that brandy ruins a man who makes cards his
profession.

Captain Tarnish, sullenly. Well, that is true: but
how the devil can a man resist a glass of brandy, when he's
going his whole pile upon a card?

Fantish, lounging in a rocking chair and wrapping
his silk gown about him. Well, it is hard. But take my
advice, captain, and abandon one or the other. Playing
faro any to-night?

Captain Tarnish, with an imprecation. Yes! all the
evening.

Fantish, indifferently. Did they clean you out?

Captain Tarnish. Exactly.

Mr. Fantish burst into a fit of laughter, and leans back
in his chair to reap the full benefits of his entertainment.
Meanwhile Captain Tarnish, with a very bad grace,
mutters that it is nothing, and helps himself to another
cigar from the mantel-piece. His eye then wanders to a
side table, where a bottle stands, and going to it, he pours
out nearly a tumbler full of brandy and empties it, without
water, at a single draught.

Fantish. How is that? Good, captain? I ask you,
because you're a connoisseur in drinks. You know you
have tried the liquors of all nations—like the hero of Bon
Gaultier. Stay, here is the volume—listen. Fantish
opens the book and reads.

“A clever fellow, Bon Gaultier—is he not?”

Captain Tarnish. Yes, I knew him in London—
lived in Grub street, and gets a penny a line.

Fantish. Really?

Captain Tarnish. Yes, sir: and has often drank
with me.

Fantish. You ought to have told him to put in the
Italian and Louisianian wines.

Captain Tarnish. What sort?

Fantish, with a sneer. Those which you drank with
your friends Labordère and Señor Bocca.

Captain Tarnish, sullenly. Well, I suppose you
don't deny that they are real people.

Fantish. Not in the least—nor your indomitable
bravery, Captain. You are a Cæsar, an Antony, a Hercules;
you have seen the whole world, and that accounts
for the perfection in drinking, which is, after all, the finest
trait in your character.

Captain Tarnish doubts whether this remark should be
received with dignity, hauteur, or anger. In consideration,
however, of the fact, that neither of these attitudes
are likely to have any effect upon one so well acquainted

with himself as Mr. Fantish, he decides upon indifference,
and says, smoking through his nose:

“Well, let us get away from drinking and books. I
hate books—”

Fantish, entertained by the oaths expressed by the above
lines and sneering. I suppose you do. Well, talk of
what pleases you.

Captain Tarnish, looking at the portmanteau. You
are going on a journey?

Fantish. Precisely, Captain.

Captain Tarnish. Where?

Fantish. Parts unknown. I am taking a leap in the
dark. There is only one objection to the move—I am
encumbered with too much baggage.

Captain Tarnish, glancing at the portmanteau again.
Too much! It's little enough.

Fantish, sneering. That is the way you take everything,
Captain—literally. You are not a logician, or you
would be acquainted with the use made of figures. By
too much baggage, I mean a woman. I am encumbered
with a woman.

Captain Tarnish. Running away with you.

Fantish. Eloping—exactly. These little affairs generally
cost the gentleman a good deal of trouble, but in
the present instance all worry and annoyance is taken off
my hands. That letter there would prove this—but
honor bright, you know, Captain—I am a man of honor!

Captain Tarnish, indifferently. Of course. And so
you go in the morning.

Fantish. In the morning early, as the ballad says.

Captain Tarnish. When do you return?

Fantish. Really can't say.

Captain Tarnish. You take things coolly. How will
you leave everything? There seems to me to be a number
of valuable articles in this room. The frame of that
picture there, over which a curtain is drawn, is itself
worth a cool hundred or two.

Fantish, with a sudden flush. No matter; I will
arrange it.

Captain Tarnish, rising, and going toward the picture.
Strange, that as many times as I have been in this room,
I never laid my eyes upon that picture, or drew back the
curtain. Is it a French affair? Let's see it.

Fantish, rising quickly, and seizing the arm stretched
out to raise the curtain. You shall not, sir!—you touch
it at your peril!

Captain Tarnish, stupefied with astonishment. What
the devil! Are you going to eat a man because he
wants to see your pictures!

Fantish, pale, and speaking in a tone scarcely audible.
I repeat, sir, that you do not raise the curtain of that picture—that
is enough, sir!

Captain Tarnish, sitting down, and smoking indifferently.
Well, that's all correct. If you won't have it
seen, you won't, I suppose—though, curse me, if I know
what it can mean.

Fantish, pale, but growing calm, and returning slowly
to his seat. It is a portrait of my mother; no one ever

touches even that curtain; and when I go, no one will
enter this room.

Captain Tarnish. You're a devil of a fellow, Fantish.
I know there's something bold about this journey—that
suits me. Come, let me into your confidence, and I may
assist you.

Fantish, regaining his sneering manner. I don't want
assistance; but if you choose, you may come to-morrow
morning to—but stay, here is a copy of my note: I
spoiled it, and wrote another. Wait! why shouldn't you
read this, first, in which the damsel asks me to “take
possession of her fate,” and disappoint a noble and
chivalric guardian who told her she was naughty for preferring
me to him. There is the letter, my dear fellow,
and you may read it, and mine, too, and come to-morrow
morning, and see how it goes.

Servant, entering silently. The driver's come, sir, to
get orders.

Fantish. Tell him to come in: and lock up everywhere.

The servant goes out; Captain Tarnish reads the note;
and Mr. Fantish, unconscious of his having carried human
baseness to the last perfection, smokes, and sneers in
silence.

So the scene ends