Eden
Do you know what life is, my dear Lady?"
"Of course I do, Lord Arbourne. Life is to play one's cards right. To create life is to always have an Ace in one's deck and to think ahead. To be, the whole time, on top of the game."
"Spades are horribly under-esteemed."
"Why, my Dear Charles, I do believe that is the first time I have heard you call a spade a spade," replied Lady Agatha, pulling a cigarette out of a black, lacquer box. She was smartly dressed in a pearl-white summer gown. Her legs were crossed; both feet touching the ground, as civilized women are taught to do.
"Spades are a very practical device," said Lord Arbourne,"they do not deserve to be called anything else."
"You do not like practicality," stated Lady Agatha, exhaling a strand of swirling, white smoke.
"Indeed, I do not," said Lord Arbourne," Practicality is the reaper of difficulty. And what is there to life without difficulty?"
"Ah! Charles, you are so very pessimistic!"
"Pessimism is the new optimism, my Dear Sylvia. Optimism will be fashionable again next year."
Lord Arbourne leaned back in his high-armed chair. He studied the glowing, crimson embers of the cigarette he held between his long, white fingers before taking another drag.
"I prefer originality. I don't always follow the common trends; I create trends that others then follow," said Sylvia. She moved her vacant hand to rest around an elegantly carved crystal tumbler filled, shallow with ice and gin. Her fingers slid over the diametre of the glass as a Garter snake slowly tightens round a basket.
"Well I prefer harmony," stated Charles, looking over the Lady's shoulder.
"There is no harmony if everyone sings the same note," reposted Lady Agatha. "But you have not answered your original question. One always has the answers to their own questions." She took a sip of her drink, followed by the lighting of another cigarette.
"Do you mean to ask what I think Life is?"
"Indeed."
"Life is Life, my dear Lady; as much as a spade is a spade; pure and simple." said Lord Arbourne, glancing at the simple, gold lines, broidered on the olive-green portière which hung in the entrance of the dining hall.
"That is no answer," said Lady Agatha, " I am not satisfied." and she walked across the Persian carpet, to the window and gazed out on the pond, complete with fleurs-de-lys.
"The Genki-Koi swims in the pond and nibbles on the stems of the Lilies; that is Life. A Magnolia tree in the garden blooms in the Summer its ivory blossoms and then turn they sand-coloured and fall to the earth; that is life."
"Life is not poetry, Charles, it is quite serious," scoffed Lady Agatha, rolling her eyes.
"Indeed, my Lady; poetry is poetry. But poetry can be Life. Life is what ever happens at a particular moment, and that is all there is."
"How very ridiculous you are, to-day, Charles!" Cried the Lady, waving her thin arms and curling her lips. "You are dreadfully pessimistic one moment and sickeningly poetic the next! What has gotten into you?" She threw her burnt-out cigarette through the open window, onto the lawn. "I'm not quite sure I'm enjoying myself anymore, Sir," and she swept out of the room.
Lord Arbourne grinned, for he felt that that was Lady Agatha's real answer to his original question, and he poured out a splash of gin.
By Thomas Laurence Bennett-Stroud
"Of course I do, Lord Arbourne. Life is to play one's cards right. To create life is to always have an Ace in one's deck and to think ahead. To be, the whole time, on top of the game."
"Spades are horribly under-esteemed."
"Why, my Dear Charles, I do believe that is the first time I have heard you call a spade a spade," replied Lady Agatha, pulling a cigarette out of a black, lacquer box. She was smartly dressed in a pearl-white summer gown. Her legs were crossed; both feet touching the ground, as civilized women are taught to do.
"Spades are a very practical device," said Lord Arbourne,"they do not deserve to be called anything else."
"You do not like practicality," stated Lady Agatha, exhaling a strand of swirling, white smoke.
"Indeed, I do not," said Lord Arbourne," Practicality is the reaper of difficulty. And what is there to life without difficulty?"
"Ah! Charles, you are so very pessimistic!"
"Pessimism is the new optimism, my Dear Sylvia. Optimism will be fashionable again next year."
Lord Arbourne leaned back in his high-armed chair. He studied the glowing, crimson embers of the cigarette he held between his long, white fingers before taking another drag.
"I prefer originality. I don't always follow the common trends; I create trends that others then follow," said Sylvia. She moved her vacant hand to rest around an elegantly carved crystal tumbler filled, shallow with ice and gin. Her fingers slid over the diametre of the glass as a Garter snake slowly tightens round a basket.
"Well I prefer harmony," stated Charles, looking over the Lady's shoulder.
"There is no harmony if everyone sings the same note," reposted Lady Agatha. "But you have not answered your original question. One always has the answers to their own questions." She took a sip of her drink, followed by the lighting of another cigarette.
"Do you mean to ask what I think Life is?"
"Indeed."
"Life is Life, my dear Lady; as much as a spade is a spade; pure and simple." said Lord Arbourne, glancing at the simple, gold lines, broidered on the olive-green portière which hung in the entrance of the dining hall.
"That is no answer," said Lady Agatha, " I am not satisfied." and she walked across the Persian carpet, to the window and gazed out on the pond, complete with fleurs-de-lys.
"The Genki-Koi swims in the pond and nibbles on the stems of the Lilies; that is Life. A Magnolia tree in the garden blooms in the Summer its ivory blossoms and then turn they sand-coloured and fall to the earth; that is life."
"Life is not poetry, Charles, it is quite serious," scoffed Lady Agatha, rolling her eyes.
"Indeed, my Lady; poetry is poetry. But poetry can be Life. Life is what ever happens at a particular moment, and that is all there is."
"How very ridiculous you are, to-day, Charles!" Cried the Lady, waving her thin arms and curling her lips. "You are dreadfully pessimistic one moment and sickeningly poetic the next! What has gotten into you?" She threw her burnt-out cigarette through the open window, onto the lawn. "I'm not quite sure I'm enjoying myself anymore, Sir," and she swept out of the room.
Lord Arbourne grinned, for he felt that that was Lady Agatha's real answer to his original question, and he poured out a splash of gin.
By Thomas Laurence Bennett-Stroud