What's O'Clock/Pantomime in One Act
PANTOMIME IN ONE ACT
Certainly the furniture was of satin-wood,
Painted with a lovely design of strawberry flowers and heliotrope,
And the carpet was Aubusson, all pinks and golds.
On it stood frail chairs, their seats covered with green and yellow silk,
A striped pattern, continued and broken in the folds
Of the window-curtains. The clock on the mantelpiece
Was a gay conceit of porcelain flowers springing from fantastic sprigs of ormolu,
And in the book-cases that lined the walls, three bookcases with glass doors and gilded locks, were volumes bound in blue.
The smell of clipped box floated in from the ponte outside, and the sound of a rake
On gravel stirred the silence with an impression of placid order
Peacefully repeated through a season and seasons perhaps, but the odour of the box was an ache
After the same perfection which existed inevitably in every parterre and border.
Mirrors of a yellow-silver shining topped the consoles at either end,
Behind twin alabaster vases, and in tarnished and golden duplicate, a blend
Of fact and potent possibility, the room stretched dreamily through
Walls that were solid or not as one beheld them, depending on the point of view.
Sunlight fell on the satin-wood escritoire between the windows,
And on a single Malmaison rose
And the green Ming vase which held it,
Also on a letter, I suppose.
White paper with ink upon it may be taken for such, I opine.
But the letter, being without superscription, could hardly be considered mine.
On the whole, I preferred to leave it untouched and preserve the nicety of my honour.
(Positively I thought I heard a giggle from the lips of the Botticelli Madonna
On the chimney-breast; but that was solely her affair.)
I was a poltroon maybe, or wise with a wisdom which haunted the air,
Coquettish reserve, that was it, but brazen armour could have stayed me less.
Ah, Madame, did I obey your desire, or possibly disobey it ruthlessly? I confess
I never became aware of your attitude, for I tiptoed to the door,
And left the room which had caught your trick of smiling.
Exactly as it was before: a beautiful entourage, bien entendu.
But to me nothing more.
Painted with a lovely design of strawberry flowers and heliotrope,
And the carpet was Aubusson, all pinks and golds.
On it stood frail chairs, their seats covered with green and yellow silk,
A striped pattern, continued and broken in the folds
Of the window-curtains. The clock on the mantelpiece
Was a gay conceit of porcelain flowers springing from fantastic sprigs of ormolu,
And in the book-cases that lined the walls, three bookcases with glass doors and gilded locks, were volumes bound in blue.
The smell of clipped box floated in from the ponte outside, and the sound of a rake
On gravel stirred the silence with an impression of placid order
Peacefully repeated through a season and seasons perhaps, but the odour of the box was an ache
After the same perfection which existed inevitably in every parterre and border.
Mirrors of a yellow-silver shining topped the consoles at either end,
Behind twin alabaster vases, and in tarnished and golden duplicate, a blend
Of fact and potent possibility, the room stretched dreamily through
Walls that were solid or not as one beheld them, depending on the point of view.
Sunlight fell on the satin-wood escritoire between the windows,
And on a single Malmaison rose
And the green Ming vase which held it,
Also on a letter, I suppose.
White paper with ink upon it may be taken for such, I opine.
But the letter, being without superscription, could hardly be considered mine.
On the whole, I preferred to leave it untouched and preserve the nicety of my honour.
(Positively I thought I heard a giggle from the lips of the Botticelli Madonna
On the chimney-breast; but that was solely her affair.)
I was a poltroon maybe, or wise with a wisdom which haunted the air,
Coquettish reserve, that was it, but brazen armour could have stayed me less.
Ah, Madame, did I obey your desire, or possibly disobey it ruthlessly? I confess
I never became aware of your attitude, for I tiptoed to the door,
And left the room which had caught your trick of smiling.
Exactly as it was before: a beautiful entourage, bien entendu.
But to me nothing more.