Soap Info

Next Soap (65) | Previous Soap (63)

Carlotta, vastly entertained, asked innumerable questions. How
could I tell whether a lady was married or unmarried? Did they
all wear stays? Why did every one look so happy? Did I think
that old man was the young girl's husband? What were they all
talking about? Wouldn't I take her for a drive in one of those
beautiful carriages? Why hadn't I a carriage? Then suddenly, as
if inspired, after a few minutes' silent reflection:
Seer Marcous, is this the marriage market?
The what? I gasped.
The marriage market. I read it in a book, yesterday. Miss
Griggs gave it me to read aloudTackThack
Thackeray?
Yees. They come here to sell the young girls to men who want
wives. She edged away from me, with a little movement of alarm.
That is not why you have brought me hereto sell me?
How much do you think you would be worth? I asked,
sarcastically.
She opened out her hands palms upward, throwing down her parasol,
as she did so, upon her neighbour's little Belgian griffon, who
yelped.
Ch, lots, she said in her frank way. I am very beautiful.
I picked up the parasol, bowed apologetically to the owner of the
stricken animal, and addressed Carlotta.
Listen, my good child. You are passably goodlooking, but you
are by no means very beautiful. If I tried to sell you here, you
might possibly fetch half a crown
Two shillings and sixpence? asked the literal Carlotta.
Yes. Just that. But as a matter of fact, no one would buy you.
This is not the marriage market. There is no such thing as a
marriage market. English mothers and fathers do not sell their
daughters for money. Such a thing is monstrous and impossible.
Then it was all lies I read in the book?
All lies, said I.
I hope the genial shade of the great satirist has forgiven me.
Why do they put lies in books?
To accentuate the Truth, so that it shall prevail, I answered.
This was too hard a nut for Carlotta to crack. She was silent
for a moment. She reverted, ruefully, to the intelligible.
I thought I was beautiful, she said.
Who told you so?
Pasquale.
Pasquale has no sense, said I. There are men to whom all
women who are not seventy and toothless and rheumy at the eyes
are beautiful. Pasquale has said the same to every woman he has
met. He is a Lothario and a Don Juan and a Caligula and a
Faublas and a Casanova.
And he tells lies, too?
Millions of them, said I. He contracts with their father
Beelzebub for a hundred gross a day.

Next Soap (65) | Previous Soap (63)

Soap Index