Excellent Readings: Sonnet CVI by William Shakespeare (in English)

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
   For we, which now behold these present days,
   Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

Tuesday's Serial: “Lavengro” by George Borrow (in English) - XIX

 

Chapter 37

my brother—fits of crying—mayor-elect—the committee—the norman arch—a word of greek—the church and the state—at my own expense

 

One morning I arose somewhat later than usual, having been occupied during the greater part of the night with my literary toil. On descending from my chamber into the sitting-room I found a person seated by the fire, whose glance was directed sideways to the table, on which were the usual preparations for my morning's meal. Forthwith I gave a cry, and sprang forward to embrace the person; for the person by the fire, whose glance was directed to the table, was no one else than my brother.

'And how are things going on at home?' said I to my brother, after we had kissed and embraced. 'How is my mother, and how is the dog?'

'My mother, thank God, is tolerably well,' said my brother, 'but very much given to fits of crying. As for the dog, he is not so well; but we will talk more of these matters anon,' said my brother, again glancing at the breakfast things: 'I am very hungry, as you may suppose, after having travelled all night.'

Thereupon I exerted myself to the best of my ability to perform the duties of hospitality, and I made my brother welcome—I may say more than welcome; and, when the rage of my brother's hunger was somewhat abated, we recommenced talking about the matters of our little family, and my brother told me much about my mother; he spoke of her fits of crying, but said that of late the said fits of crying had much diminished, and she appeared to be taking comfort; and, if I am not much mistaken, my brother told me that my mother had of late the Prayer-book frequently in her hand, and yet oftener the Bible.

We were silent for a time—at last I opened my mouth and mentioned the dog.

'The dog,' said my brother, 'is, I am afraid, in a very poor way; ever since the death he has done nothing but pine and take on. A few months ago, you remember, he was as plump and fine as any dog in the town; but at present he is little more than skin and bone. Once we lost him for two days, and never expected to see him again, imagining that some mischance had befallen him; at length I found him—where do you think? Chancing to pass by the churchyard, I found him seated on the grave!'

'Very strange,' said I; 'but let us talk of something else. It was very kind of you to come and see me.'

'Oh, as for that matter, I did not come up to see you, though of course I am very glad to see you, having been rather anxious about you, like my mother, who has received only one letter from you since your departure. No, I did not come up on purpose to see you; but on quite a different account. You must know that the corporation of our town have lately elected a new mayor, a person of many qualifications—big and portly, with a voice like Boanerges; a religious man, the possessor of an immense pew; loyal, so much so that I once heard him say that he would at any time go three miles to hear any one sing "God save the King"; moreover, a giver of excellent dinners. Such is our present mayor; who, owing to his loyalty, his religion, and a little, perhaps, to his dinners, is a mighty favourite; so much so that the town is anxious to have his portrait painted in a superior style, so that remote posterity may know what kind of man he was, the colour of his hair, his air and gait. So a committee was formed some time ago, which is still sitting; that is, they dine with the mayor every day to talk over the subject. A few days since, to my great surprise, they made their appearance in my poor studio, and desired to be favoured with a sight of some of my paintings; well, I showed them some, and, after looking at them with great attention, they went aside and whispered. "He'll do," I heard one say; "Yes, he'll do," said another; and then they came to me, and one of them, a little man with a hump on his back, who is a watchmaker, assumed the office of spokesman, and made a long speech—(the old town has been always celebrated for orators)—in which he told me how much they had been pleased with my productions—(the old town has been always celebrated for its artistic taste)—and, what do you think? offered me the painting of the mayor's portrait, and a hundred pounds for my trouble. Well, of course I was much surprised, and for a minute or two could scarcely speak; recovering myself, however, I made a speech, not so eloquent as that of the watchmaker of course, being not so accustomed to speaking; but not so bad either, taking everything into consideration, telling them how flattered I felt by the honour which they had conferred in proposing to me such an undertaking; expressing, however, my fears that I was not competent to the task, and concluding by saying what a pity it was that Crome was dead. "Crome," said the little man, "Crome; yes, he was a clever man, a very clever man in his way; he was good at painting landscapes and farm-houses, but he would not do in the present instance were he alive. He had no conception of the heroic, sir. We want some person capable of representing our mayor striding under the Norman arch out of the cathedral." At the mention of the heroic an idea came at once into my head. "Oh," said I, "if you are in quest of the heroic, I am glad that you came to me; don't mistake me," I continued, "I do not mean to say that I could do justice to your subject, though I am fond of the heroic; but I can introduce you to a great master of the heroic, fully competent to do justice to your mayor. Not to me, therefore, be the painting of the picture given, but to a friend of mine, the great master of the heroic, to the best, the strongest, τω κρατίστῳ," I added, for, being amongst orators, I thought a word of Greek would tell.'

'Well,' said I, 'and what did the orators say?'

'They gazed dubiously at me and at one another,' said my brother; 'at last the watchmaker asked me who this Mr. Christo was; adding, that he had never heard of such a person; that, from my recommendation of him, he had no doubt that he was a very clever man; but that they should like to know something more about him before giving the commission to him. That he had heard of Christie the great auctioneer, who was considered to be an excellent judge of pictures; but he supposed that I scarcely—Whereupon, interrupting the watchmaker, I told him that I alluded neither to Christo nor to Christie; but to the painter of Lazarus rising from the grave, a painter under whom I had myself studied during some months that I had spent in London, and to whom I was indebted for much connected with the heroic.

'"I have heard of him," said the watchmaker, "and his paintings too; but I am afraid that he is not exactly the gentleman by whom our mayor would wish to be painted. I have heard say that he is not a very good friend to Church and State. Come, young man," he added, "it appears to me that you are too modest; I like your style of painting, so do we all, and—why should I mince the matter?—the money is to be collected in the town, why should it go into a stranger's pocket, and be spent in London?"

'Thereupon I made them a speech, in which I said that art had nothing to do with Church and State, at least with English Church and State, which had never encouraged it; and that, though Church and State were doubtless very fine things, a man might be a very good artist who cared not a straw for either. I then made use of some more Greek words, and told them how painting was one of the Nine Muses, and one of the most independent creatures alive, inspiring whom she pleased, and asking leave of nobody; that I should be quite unworthy of the favours of the Muse, if, on the present occasion, I did not recommend them a man whom I considered to be a much greater master of the heroic than myself; and that, with regard to the money being spent in the city, I had no doubt that they would not weigh for a moment such a consideration against the chance of getting a true heroic picture for the city. I never talked so well in my life, and said so many flattering things to the hunchback and his friends, that at last they said that I should have my own way; and that if I pleased to go up to London, and bring down the painter of Lazarus to paint the mayor, I might; so they then bade me farewell, and I have come up to London.'

'To put a hundred pounds into the hands of—'

'A better man than myself,' said my brother, 'of course.'

'And have you come up at your own expense?'

'Yes,' said my brother, 'I have come up at my own expense.'

I made no answer, but looked in my brother's face. We then returned to the former subjects of conversation, talking of the dead, my mother, and the dog.

After some time my brother said, 'I will now go to the painter, and communicate to him the business which has brought me to town; and, if you please, I will take you with me and introduce you to him.' Having expressed my willingness, we descended into the street.

 

 

Chapter 38

painter of the heroic—i'll go!—a modest peep—who is this?—a capital pharaoh—disproportionably short—imaginary picture—about english figures

 

The painter of the heroic resided a great way off, at the western end of the town. We had some difficulty in obtaining admission to him; a maid-servant, who opened the door, eyeing us somewhat suspiciously: it was not until my brother had said that he was a friend of the painter that we were permitted to pass the threshold. At length we were shown into the studio, where we found the painter, with an easel and brush, standing before a huge piece of canvas, on which he had lately commenced painting a heroic picture. The painter might be about thirty-five years old; he had a clever, intelligent countenance, with a sharp grey eye—his hair was dark brown, and cut à-la-Rafael, as I was subsequently told, that is, there was little before and much behind—he did not wear a neckcloth; but, in its stead, a black riband, so that his neck, which was rather fine, was somewhat exposed—he had a broad, muscular breast, and I make no doubt that he would have been a very fine figure, but unfortunately his legs and thighs were somewhat short. He recognised my brother, and appeared glad to see him.

'What brings you to London?' said he.

Whereupon my brother gave him a brief account of his commission. At the mention of the hundred pounds, I observed the eyes of the painter glisten. 'Really,' said he, when my brother had concluded, 'it was very kind to think of me. I am not very fond of painting portraits; but a mayor is a mayor, and there is something grand in that idea of the Norman arch. I'll go; moreover, I am just at this moment confoundedly in need of money, and when you knocked at the door, I don't mind telling you, I thought it was some dun. I don't know how it is, but in the capital they have no taste for the heroic, they will scarce look at a heroic picture; I am glad to hear that they have better taste in the provinces. I'll go; when shall we set off?'

Thereupon it was arranged between the painter and my brother that they should depart the next day but one; they then began to talk of art. 'I'll stick to the heroic,' said the painter; 'I now and then dabble in the comic, but what I do gives me no pleasure, the comic is so low; there is nothing like the heroic. I am engaged here on a heroic picture,' said he, pointing to the canvas; 'the subject is “Pharaoh dismissing Moses from Egypt," after the last plague—the death of the first-born; it is not far advanced—that finished figure is Moses': they both looked at the canvas, and I, standing behind, took a modest peep. The picture, as the painter said, was not far advanced, the Pharaoh was merely in outline; my eye was, of course, attracted by the finished figure, or rather what the painter had called the finished figure; but, as I gazed upon it, it appeared to me that there was something defective—something unsatisfactory in the figure. I concluded, however, that the painter, notwithstanding what he had said, had omitted to give it the finishing touch. 'I intend this to be my best picture,' said the painter; 'what I want now is a face for Pharaoh; I have long been meditating on a face for Pharaoh.' Here, chancing to cast his eye upon my countenance, of whom he had scarcely taken any manner of notice, he remained with his mouth open for some time. 'Who is this?' said he at last. 'Oh, this is my brother, I forgot to introduce him. . . . '

We presently afterwards departed; my brother talked much about the painter. 'He is a noble fellow,' said my brother; 'but, like many other noble fellows, has a great many enemies; he is hated by his brethren of the brush—all the land and water scape painters hate him—but, above all, the race of portrait-painters, who are ten times more numerous than the other two sorts, detest him for his heroic tendencies. It will be a kind of triumph to the last, I fear, when they hear he has condescended to paint a portrait; however, that Norman arch will enable him to escape from their malice—that is a capital idea of the watchmaker, that Norman arch.'

I spent a happy day with my brother. On the morrow he went again to the painter, with whom he dined; I did not go with him. On his return he said, 'The painter has been asking a great many questions about you, and expressed a wish that you would sit to him as Pharaoh; he thinks you would make a capital Pharaoh.' 'I have no wish to appear on canvas,' said I; 'moreover he can find much better Pharaohs than myself; and, if he wants a real Pharaoh, there is a certain Mr. Petulengro.' 'Petulengro?' said my brother; 'a strange kind of fellow came up to me some time ago in our town, and asked me about you; when I inquired his name, he told me Petulengro. No, he will not do, he is too short; by the by, do you not think that figure of Moses is somewhat short?' And then it appeared to me that I had thought the figure of Moses somewhat short, and I told my brother so. 'Ah!' said my brother.

On the morrow my brother departed with the painter for the old town, and there the painter painted the mayor. I did not see the picture for a great many years, when, chancing to be at the old town, I beheld it.

The original mayor was a mighty, portly man, with a bull's head, black hair, body like that of a dray horse, and legs and thighs corresponding; a man six foot high at the least. To his bull's head, black hair, and body the painter had done justice; there was one point, however, in which the portrait did not correspond with the original—the legs were disproportionably short, the painter having substituted his own legs for those of the mayor, which when I perceived I rejoiced that I had not consented to be painted as Pharaoh, for, if I had, the chances are that he would have served me in exactly a similar way as he had served Moses and the mayor.

Short legs in a heroic picture will never do; and, upon the whole, I think the painter's attempt at the heroic in painting the mayor of the old town a decided failure. If I am now asked whether the picture would have been a heroic one provided the painter had not substituted his own legs for those of the mayor—I must say, I am afraid not. I have no idea of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, even with the assistance of Norman arches; yet I am sure that capital pictures might be made out of English mayors, not issuing from Norman arches, but rather from the door of the 'Checquers' or the 'Brewers Three.' The painter in question had great comic power, which he scarcely ever cultivated; he would fain be a Rafael, which he never could be, when he might have been something quite as good—another Hogarth; the only comic piece which he ever presented to the world being something little inferior to the best of that illustrious master. I have often thought what a capital picture might have been made by my brother's friend, if, instead of making the mayor issue out of the Norman arch, he had painted him moving under the sign of the 'Checquers,' or the 'Three Brewers,' with mace—yes, with mace,—the mace appears in the picture issuing out of the Norman arch behind the mayor,—but likewise with Snap, and with whiffler, quart pot, and frying-pan, Billy Blind and Owlenglass, Mr. Petulengro and Pakomovna;—then, had he clapped his own legs upon the mayor, or any one else in the concourse, what matter? But I repeat that I have no hope of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, or indeed, out of English figures in general. England may be a land of heroic hearts, but it is not, properly, a land of heroic figures, or heroic posture-making. Italy . . . what was I going to say about Italy?

Monday's Illustrated Word: "The Valkyrie!" by unknown writer (in English)

 art by unknown artist - Tailspin Comics - Spotlight, November 1944.

 

 

Saturday's Good Reading: “Comandantes de Burros” by Graciliano Ramos (in Portuguese)

 

Quando Lampião esteve no município de Palmeira dos Índios, onde se demorou alguns dias mandando bilhetes para a cidade e sem poder entrar nela, trazia mais de cem homens que não se escondiam na capoeira nem transitavam em veredas. Corriam pela estrada real, bem-montados, espalhafatosos, pimpões, chapéus de couro enfeitados de argolas e moedas, cartucheiras enormes, alpercatas que eram uma complicação de correias, ilhós e fivelas, rifles em bandoleira, lixados, azeitados, alumiando.

O major José Lucena, chefe do destacamento que perseguia bandidos, notando a pequena eficiência da sua tropa de peões, entendeu-se com os proprietários sertanejos, que lhe ofereceram cavalos e burros para o restabelecimento da ordem. Houve algumas escaramuças e Lampião deixou Alagoas, tomou rumo para o Rio Grande do Norte, entrou em Mossoró, onde Jararaca morreu e a cabroeira se espalhou.

Os burros se tornaram inúteis.

O major Lucena separou-os em dois lotes, mandou um deles para um engenho de Viçosa, e o outro para uma povoação de Palmeira dos Índios.

Neste tempo o sr. Álvaro Paes, que projetou e iniciou trabalhos excelentes de organização municipal, viajava todas as semanas pelo interior do estado. Foi um viajante incansável e chegou a conhecer perfeitamente as árvores e os homens do sertão.

Um dia parou num povoado, com o intuito de ensinar aos matutos a cultura da pinha, da mamona e de outros vegetais que se desenvolviam bastante na imprensa da época. Estava tratando de convencer o maioral da localidade quando se aproximou dele um soldado com duas fitas, um botão fora da casa, chapéu embicado, faca de ponta à cinta. Continência e apresentação:

— Pronto, seu governador, cabo fulano, comandante dos burros do major Lucena.

Era o encarregado de tomar conta dos animais que tinham servido para afugentar Lampião.

Esta história podia findar aqui, mas não serão talvez excessivas algumas palavras sobre a classe a que pertencia esse extraordinário comandante. Horrível. Sujeitos insolentes, provocadores, preguiçosos.

A parte mais forte da nossa população rural está com Lampião — os indivíduos que dormem montados a cavalo, os que suportam as secas alimentados com raiz de imbu e caroços de mucunã, os que não trabalham porque não têm onde trabalhar, vivem nas brenhas, como bichos, ignorados pela gente do litoral.

Os que não têm coração mole encontram-se, quando o verão queima a catinga, numa situação medonha. Três saídas: morrer de fome, assentar praça na polícia, emigrar para o Sul. Antes da morte, da emigração ou da farda, essas criaturas são maltratadas pelas diligências, que não querem saber quem é bom nem quem é ruim: espancam tudo.

O caboclo apanha bordoada sempre: apanha do pai, da mãe, dos tios, dos irmãos mais velhos, apanha do proprietário que lhe toma a casa e abre a cerca da roça para o gado estragar as plantações, apanha do cangaceiro que lhe raspa o osso da canela a punhal e lhe deita espeques nas pálpebras, para ver a mulher, a filha, a irmã serem possuídas. E se um inimigo vai à rua e o acusa, o delegado manda prendê-lo e ele aguenta uma surra de facão no corpo da guarda, outra de cipó de boi no xadrez, aplicada pelo preso mais antigo, que recebe quinhentos-réis do torno e é o juiz da cadeia.

Suporta esses últimos tormentos resignado, quase com indiferença, porque enfim prisão se fez para homem e apanhar do governo não é desfeita. Às vezes morre das sovas. Outras vezes atira-se para São Paulo, para o Espírito Santo, para algum lugar onde haja café. Ou espera que a lagarta coma o algodão e as cacimbas se esgotem.

Nesse ponto tendo ódio a Deus e aos homens que o tratam mal, tem vontade de vingar-se. Pede um cartão ao doutor juiz de direito, vende o cavalo, arranja o malote e marcha para a capital, donde volta alguns meses depois, transformado, calçando perneiras, vestindo uniforme cáqui, falando difícil, terrivelmente besta, desconhecendo os amigos e perguntando o nome das coisas mais vulgares.

Abre as vogais escandalosamente, diz: Éxercito, sérviço.

Anda a peneirar-se, todo pachola, com o quepe à banda, a grenha parecendo por baixo da pala.

Bebe, não trabalha, dorme demais!

À noite mete-se nos botequins dos bairros safados ou derruba as portas das meretrizes. É mais ou menos casado com uma sujeita que lhe prepara a comida, lava a roupa e possui um baú de folha, um sagui e um papagaio.

Vai aos batuques de ponta de rua, sem ser convidado, e é bem recebido. Muita consideração. Mas quer dançar com todas as damas, e se alguma lhe mostrar má cara, faz um barulho feio: apaga-se a luz e a festa acaba em pancadaria.

 

É vaidoso, cheio de suscetibilidades. Importância imensa. Em horas de aborrecimentos sai à calçada do quartel, nu da cintura pra cima, e grita:

 

— Esta terra não tem homem:

Como nenhum homem responde, torna a gritar:

— Apareça um. Ninguém aparece.

Vai para as encruzilhadas tomar as facas dos matutos. Os matutos que têm facas levam murros porque são desordeiros, os que não têm facas levam murros porque são mofinos.

Levam murros e sentem, como é natural, o desejo de ser soldados, o desejo de cochilar horas e horas, de papo pra cima, sem obrigações, sem exercícios, sem a botina quarenta e quatro a apertar-lhes os calos, o desejo de beber vinho branco na feira e pisar os pés dos pobrezinhos que só têm armas fracas: o buranhém e a quicé de picar fumo, o desejo de comer massa, o desejo de tomar as mulheres dos outros, o desejo de comprar fiado nas bodegas sem intenção de pagar.

Um cartão do doutor juiz de direito, do promotor público, do coronel chefe político tem muito valor!

Entrouxam a roupa e embarcam.

Quando voltarem dormirão tranquilos, baterão nas prostitutas, beberão cachaça nas toldas, em companhias do inspetor e do subdelegado.

E serão, com a ajuda de Deus, alguma coisa grande.

Comandante de burros por exemplo.

 

Maceió, 27 de maio de 1933.

Friday's Sung Word: "Sim, Mas Desencosta" by Cândido das Neves (in Portuguese)

Meu bem, o que é você tem?
Com olhos de risada morta me olhando assim
Quem foi que lhe botou feitiço?
Que isso?
Não se encoste, não se encoste em mim!

Repare que sou vinho de outra marca
Meu bem, é preciso mais cuidado
Quem entra sempre na fuzarca
Pode tomar o bonde errado!

Amor desencosta, faz favor!
Meu nego carinho agora não faz
Neném, já estás daquele jeito
Bem feito!
Eu acabo dizendo o que você faz.

 

You can listen  "Sim,  Mas Desencosta" sung by Aracy Cortes here.

Thursday's Serial: "Babes in Toyland" by Glen MacDonough (in English) - II

 

SCENE II: Garden well

(Gonzorgo and Roderigo enter right.)

Roderigo - Was that the widow Piper who slammed the door in our faces?

Gonzorgo - Yes, it was. Thanks to that gypsy, what was her name gypsy --?

Roderigo - Gypsy Rose Lee.

Gonzorgo - No, no, she was a gypsy Fawn. Not a gypsy Bear (bare)

(enter Barnaby L)

Roderigo - Have you brought our pay?

Barnaby - Pay? You haven't earned it yet. Jane and Alan have returned.

Gonzorgo - Alive?

Barnaby - Painfully so!

Gonzorgo - They suspect...

Barnaby - Nothing. They think it was all an accident. While they still trust us we must try again to -to remove them.

Roderigo - How?

Barnaby - I've told them I bought a new country house while they were away, and you two must take them there tonight, but the road to it leads thru the Spider's Forest. (they exchange knowing glance) Business detains me in the village. In the depth of the forest you will accidentally lose the children.

Roderigo - It's a deadly place. I've heard of it.

Barnaby - Alive with dangers--small chance the children will ever come out of it.

Gonzorgo - But will we?

Barnaby - I don't think so. (Gonzorgo and Roderigo, together)

Gonzorgo & Roderigo - What!

Barnaby - (correcting self) I don't think so many dangers are there....that is, for you.

Gonzorgo - But when we have carried out the designs, we expect to be paid in cash.

Roderigo - Yes, it's strictly a cash and carry proposition.

Barnaby - Don't worry about the money, I'll fetch the children here, and remember everything is on the q.t. (exits)

Gonzorgo & Roderigo - (tog. in rhythm) On the Q.T. On the Q.T.

If we get our dough- re- mi--

Only so fa -for the dough

Ray me fa so la si do!

(they do dance off or specialty dance)

(Boy Blue looks cautiously over the garden well.)

Boy Blue - Come on, the lawn is empty. (Bo Peep looks over the wall)

Bo Peep - Hurry up Mary, now's your chance!!

(Mary looks over wall)

Boy Blue - Do you know where you're going?

Mary - As far from old Barnaby as I can get. And if I never come back, you can have my Shirley Temple doll.

Bo Peep - Oh, don't talk that way!

(Mary climbs down the wall assisted by the vine and Boy Blue and Bo Peep)

Boy Blue - Careful -slowly--there you are!

Mary - Hand down my baggage, please. (they hand her a canary bird cage with bird in it; a shopping bag, a big music roll; a camera, and a little pink parasol) Goodbye! Goodbye!

Boy Blue & Bo Peep - Goodbye!

Mary - Boy Blue, you won't forget to feed the guinea pigs?

Boy Blue - I promise!

Mary - Goodbye! And don't forget to give some little pieces of cheese to my little mice, Mickey and Minnie. And take care of my Donald Duck. (starts to go. Rushes back again) Oh...oh...I forgot!

All - What?

Mary - My overshoes! (they hand the overshoes to her. Mary exits L. to general chorus of goodbyes)

Bo Peep - Tom Tom and Mary gone in one day! Mother will be pleased!

Simon - There she is, coming in the front way with the children.

Bo Peep - Not a word! (after "not a word")

Simon - Here comes somebody! (all start to dodge down. Bo Peep stays)

(Jane enters R)

Bo Peep - Oh, it's only Jane!

Jane - Only me. Where are the rest of the children?

Boy Blue - Getting ready for school.

Bo Peep - I just despise it. Why, I'd rather get married than to go to school. (leaves wall)

Jane - Where are you all now?

Simon - Still in the primary. It's the nasty arithmetic that's keeping us back. Look at those sums we've got for today. (drops book to Jane) Where the leaf is turned down.

Jane - Oh, these are easy.

Red Riding Hood - Come on boys and girls, Jane is going to do our sums for us! (sits on wall other Piper children do the same) I can't do that sum!

SONG NO. 7. or 7-a. "I CAN'T DO THAT SUM". Jane and Ensemble. Children. (Jane exits and after all exit on number)

Barnaby - Now, Alan, my boy, you're going to my new home with Jane-- (enter Gonzorgo and Roderigo L) --and these friends of mine.

Alan - Here's Jane, I'll tell her. (Jane re-enters R) Jane, we're going to Uncle Barnaby's new home!

Jane - Where is it?

Alan - A little journey, and these fellows are to take us. (indicates Gonzorgo and Roderigo.)

Barnaby - They'll see you safely there, and I'll follow.

Alan - We're ready. And tomorrow I want my share of my fortune!

Jane - Me, too!

Barnaby - We'll tend to that when you see me in the morning.

Jane - (looking at Gonzorgo and Roderigo) If those men had long beards--

Alan - I know. You'd think they were the villains who lured us on the boat.

Gonzorgo - It wasn't us. I wouldn't harm a hair in anyone's head -- not even Joe Louis'.

Roderigo - And I have an alibi. See my laywers, O'Brien, O'Rafferty, O'Reilly, and O'Cohen. (they take Jane and alan's arms)

Jane & Alan . Good-bye! Goodbye!

(Jane, Alan, Gonzorgo & Roderigo exeunt L)

Barnaby - And you will never see me again. Goodbye. Goodbye. Forever!

Dark Change:

 

SCENE III Spider's Forest. Specialty with Animal number. To open scene, possibly the kitchen pirates) Enter Jane & Alan.

Alan - Rest here. This is a good place. (leading her to mouth of Bear's den)

Jane - There's a spider's web.

Alan - With a white moth in it.

Jane - Poor thing! -as badly tangled up in that web as we are in these woods! Do set it free. (Alan releases the moth)

Alan - There it goes, flying for dear life. (looking about) I wish we could fly too!

Jane - I wish we could, for I can't walk!

Alan - Then we'll rest a while. (sits beside Jane) Try to sleep a bit.

Jane - I'm too frightened.

Alan - (badly scared) Frightened! Ha, ha! What's that?

Jane - I don't know. (pointing off) What's that?

Alan - Nothing at all. Don't worry I'm here to protect you! Come, let's go over here and take a little nap.

Jane - Yes, I'm so, so tired!

Alan - (leading her off to one side) Yes, yes, we'll take a little sleep. (they lie down) Sleep, sleep...a little peaceful sleep.

Jane - Goodnight!

Alan - Goodnight! (they doze off.)

Butterfly Ballet: End Of Act I.