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Kenneth Slessor - The Man of Sentiment
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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 . . . .
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