The Golden Age [34]
be, and there isn't anybody there whatever! And you go into the shops, and take anything you want--chocolates and magic lanterns and injirubber balls--and there's nothing to pay; and you choose your own house and live there and do just as you like, and never go to bed unless you want to!"
The artist laid down his brush. "That WOULD be a nice city," he said. "Better than Rome. You can't do that sort of thing in Rome,--or in Piccadilly either. But I fear it's one of the places I've never been to."
"And you'd ask your friends," I went on, warming to my subject,-- "only those you really like, of course,--and they'd each have a house to themselves,--there'd be lots of houses,--and no relations at all, unless they promised they'd be pleasant, and if they weren't they'd have to go."
"So you wouldn't have any relations?" said the artist. "Well, perhaps you're right. We have tastes in common, I see."
"I'd have Harold," I said, reflectively, "and Charlotte. They'd like it awfully. The others are getting too old. Oh, and Martha--I'd have Martha, to cook and wash up and do things. You'd like Martha. She's ever so much nicer than Aunt Eliza. She's my idea of a real lady."
"Then I'm sure I should like her," he replied, heartily, "and when I come to--what do you call this city of yours? Nephelo-- something, did you say?"
"I--I don't know," I replied, timidly. "I'm afraid it hasn't got a name--yet."
The artist gazed out over the downs. "`The poet says, dear city of Cecrops;'" he said, softly, to himself, "`and wilt not thou say, dear city of Zeus?' That's from Marcus Aurelius," he went on, turning again to his work. "You don't know him, I suppose; you will some day."
"Who's he?" I inquired.
"Oh, just another fellow who lived in Rome," he replied, dabbing away.
"O dear!" I cried, disconsolately. "What a lot of people seem to live at Rome, and I've never even been there! But I think I'd like MY city best."
"And so would I," he replied with unction. "But Marcus Aurelius wouldn't, you know."
"Then we won't invite him," I said, "will we?"
"_I_ won't if you won't," said he. And that point being settled, we were silent for a while.
"Do you know," he said, presently, "I've met one or two fellows from time to time who have been to a city like yours,--perhaps it was the same one. They won't talk much about it--only broken hints, now and then; but they've been there sure enough. They don't seem to care about anything in particular--and every thing's the same to them, rough or smooth; and sooner or later they slip off and disappear; and you never see them again. Gone back, I suppose."
"Of course," said I. "Don't see what they ever came away for; _I_ wouldn't,--to be told you've broken things when you haven't, and stopped having tea with the servants in the kitchen, and not allowed to have a dog to sleep with you. But _I've_ known people, too, who've gone there."
The artist stared, but without incivility.
"Well, there's Lancelot," I went on. "The book says he died, but it never seemed to read right, somehow. He just went away, like Arthur. And Crusoe, when he got tired of wearing clothes and being respectable. And all the nice men in the stones who don't marry the Princess, 'cos only one man ever gets married in a book, you know. They'll be there!"
"And the men who never come off," he said, "who try like the rest, but get knocked out, or somehow miss,--or break down or get bowled over in the melee,--and get no Princess, nor even a second-class kingdom,--some of them'll be there, I hope?"
"Yes, if you like," I replied, not quite understanding him; "if they're friends of yours, we'll ask 'em, of course."
"What a time we shall have!" said the artist, reflectively; "and how shocked old Marcus Aurelius will be!"
The shadows had lengthened uncannily, a tide of golden haze was flooding the grey-green surface of the downs, and the artist began to put his traps together, preparatory to a move. I felt very low; we would have to part, it seemed, just as we were getting
The artist laid down his brush. "That WOULD be a nice city," he said. "Better than Rome. You can't do that sort of thing in Rome,--or in Piccadilly either. But I fear it's one of the places I've never been to."
"And you'd ask your friends," I went on, warming to my subject,-- "only those you really like, of course,--and they'd each have a house to themselves,--there'd be lots of houses,--and no relations at all, unless they promised they'd be pleasant, and if they weren't they'd have to go."
"So you wouldn't have any relations?" said the artist. "Well, perhaps you're right. We have tastes in common, I see."
"I'd have Harold," I said, reflectively, "and Charlotte. They'd like it awfully. The others are getting too old. Oh, and Martha--I'd have Martha, to cook and wash up and do things. You'd like Martha. She's ever so much nicer than Aunt Eliza. She's my idea of a real lady."
"Then I'm sure I should like her," he replied, heartily, "and when I come to--what do you call this city of yours? Nephelo-- something, did you say?"
"I--I don't know," I replied, timidly. "I'm afraid it hasn't got a name--yet."
The artist gazed out over the downs. "`The poet says, dear city of Cecrops;'" he said, softly, to himself, "`and wilt not thou say, dear city of Zeus?' That's from Marcus Aurelius," he went on, turning again to his work. "You don't know him, I suppose; you will some day."
"Who's he?" I inquired.
"Oh, just another fellow who lived in Rome," he replied, dabbing away.
"O dear!" I cried, disconsolately. "What a lot of people seem to live at Rome, and I've never even been there! But I think I'd like MY city best."
"And so would I," he replied with unction. "But Marcus Aurelius wouldn't, you know."
"Then we won't invite him," I said, "will we?"
"_I_ won't if you won't," said he. And that point being settled, we were silent for a while.
"Do you know," he said, presently, "I've met one or two fellows from time to time who have been to a city like yours,--perhaps it was the same one. They won't talk much about it--only broken hints, now and then; but they've been there sure enough. They don't seem to care about anything in particular--and every thing's the same to them, rough or smooth; and sooner or later they slip off and disappear; and you never see them again. Gone back, I suppose."
"Of course," said I. "Don't see what they ever came away for; _I_ wouldn't,--to be told you've broken things when you haven't, and stopped having tea with the servants in the kitchen, and not allowed to have a dog to sleep with you. But _I've_ known people, too, who've gone there."
The artist stared, but without incivility.
"Well, there's Lancelot," I went on. "The book says he died, but it never seemed to read right, somehow. He just went away, like Arthur. And Crusoe, when he got tired of wearing clothes and being respectable. And all the nice men in the stones who don't marry the Princess, 'cos only one man ever gets married in a book, you know. They'll be there!"
"And the men who never come off," he said, "who try like the rest, but get knocked out, or somehow miss,--or break down or get bowled over in the melee,--and get no Princess, nor even a second-class kingdom,--some of them'll be there, I hope?"
"Yes, if you like," I replied, not quite understanding him; "if they're friends of yours, we'll ask 'em, of course."
"What a time we shall have!" said the artist, reflectively; "and how shocked old Marcus Aurelius will be!"
The shadows had lengthened uncannily, a tide of golden haze was flooding the grey-green surface of the downs, and the artist began to put his traps together, preparatory to a move. I felt very low; we would have to part, it seemed, just as we were getting