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قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, October 22, 1892
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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, October 22, 1892
[After some pleading from MARIA, a desperate struggle takes place—that is, they catch one another's wrists, and walk up and down together. MARIA calls upon her Mother's spirit, whereupon a very youthful Angel is seen floating above the couple.
The Female S. (triumphantly). Theer now—theer ain't bin no murder yet, and theer's th' Gho-ast sure enough!
Swain (who is not going to own that he is mistaken). That ain't naw Gho-ast!
Female S. What is it, then?
Swain. Why, it's the "De-cep-ti-o Vissus," as was wrote up outside.
[The Guardian Angel vanishes; WILLIAM gets a spade, and aims at MARIA, who takes it away, and strikes him; he is then reduced to the pick-axe, but she wrests this from him too, and hits him in the face with it. He pulls her coat off, and her hair down—but she escapes from him a third time—on which he snatches up a pistol, and fires it.
William (with unreasonable surprise). Great Evans! What 'ave I done? I, am become a Murderer! The shot 'as taken effect! See, she staggers this way! (Which MARIA does, to die comfortably in WILLIAM's arms.) I 'ave slain the only woman who ever truly loved me; and I know not whether I loved her most while living, or hate her most now she's dead! (The Curtain falls, leaving WILLIAM with this nice point still unsolved, and the Audience profoundly unmoved by the tragedy, and evidently longing for more of the Comic Countryman.)
ACT III.—Interior of Old MARTIN's Cottage. He attempts to forget his anxiety about his daughter—who he fears, with only too much reason, has come to an untimely end—by going to sleep in a highly uncomfortable position on a kitchen-chair. The Murder is re-enacted in a vision, in dumb-show. The form of MARIA appears in the tweed suit, and urges him to search for her remains in the Red Barn.
Old Martin (awaking). I have 'ad a fearful dream, and I am under the impression that MARIA has been foully murdered in the Red Barn.
[He calls the Comic Countryman to help him "to commence a thorough investigation"—which he does, in a spirit of rollicking fun befitting the occasion, as the Scene changes to the Red Barn.
Old M. (finding the spade). What's this? A spade—and, by its appearance, it 'as recently been used, for there are marks of blood upon it! I now begin to be afraid my dream will come true.
[Roars of laughter when the Comic C. discovers the body, and implores it to "say summat!" Change of Scene. WILLIAM CORDER discovered At Home, in a long perspective of pillars and curtains, ending in a lawn and fountain.
William (moodily). 'Tis now exactly twelve months since MARIA MARTIN was done to death by these 'ands. Since then, I have married a young, rich, and beautiful wife—and yet I am not 'appy.
[Enter Old MARTIN, who, by the simple method of changing his hat and coat, has now become a Bow-street Officer; he puts questions to WILLIAM, who at once betrays himself, and has to be searched. As a pair of pistols exactly resembling one that was left in the Red Barn, are found in his coat-tail pockets; his guilt is conclusively proved, and he is led away. The next Scene shows him in the Condemned Cell, resolving to sleep away his few remaining hours on a kitchen-chair. He has a vision of MARIA in tweeds, who exhorts him to repent. Old MARTIN, who is now either the Governor of the Gaol or the Hangman, enters to conduct him to the scaffold, and on the way he is met—to the joy of the Audience—by the Comic, C., who duns him for the ninepence. WILLIAM shakes his head solemnly, points to the skies, and passes on. The Comic C. then goes to sleep in a chair and has a vision on his own account, in which he beholds the apotheosis of MARIA—still in the suit of dittoes—and piloted by a couple of obviously overweighted Angels; and also the last moments of WILLIAM CORDER, who, as he stands under an enlarged "Punch" gibbet, pronounces the following impressive farewell before disappearing through a trap.
Ye Youth, be warned by my Despair!
Avoid bad women, false as they are fair. (This is just a little hard on poor MARIA by-the-way.)
Be wise in time, if you would shun my fate,
For oh! how wretched is the man who's wise too late!
[And with this the Drama comes to an end, and the Comic Countryman begs the Audience to give the performance a good word to their friends outside.
BETWEEN THE ACTS; OR, THE DRAMA IN LIQUOR.
SCENE—Refreshment Saloon at a London Theatre. A three-play bill forms the evening's entertainment. First Act over. Enter BROWN, JONES, and ROBINSON.
Brown. Well, really a very pleasant little piece. Quite amusing. Yes; I think I will have a cup of coffee or a glass of lemonade. Too soon after dinner for anything stronger.
Jones. Yes, and really, after laughing so much, one gets a thirst for what they call light refreshments. I will have some ginger-beer.
Robinson. Well, I think I will stick to iced-water. You know the Americans are very fond of that. They always take it at meal-times, and really after that capital équivoque one feels quite satisfied. (They are served by the Bar Attendant.) That was really very funny, where he hides behind the door when she is not looking.
[Laughs at the recollection.
Brown. And when the uncle sits down upon the band-box and crushes the canary-cage! [Chuckles.
Jones. Most clever. But there goes the bell, and the Curtain will be up directly. Rather clever, I am told. The Rose of Rouen—it is founded on the life of Joan of Arc. I am rather fond of these historical studies.
Brown. So am I. They are very interesting.
Robinson. Do you think so? Well, so far as I am concerned, I prefer Melodrama. Judging from the title, The Gory Hand should be uncommonly good.
[Exeunt into Theatre. After a pause they return to the Refreshment Room.
Brown. Well, it is very clever; but I confess it beats me. (To Bar Attendant.) We will all take soda-water. No, thanks, quite neat, and for these gentlemen too.
Jones. Well, I call it a most excellent psychological study. However, wants a clear head to understand it. (Sips his soda-water.) I don't see how she can take the flag from the Bishop, and yet want to marry the Englishman.
Robinson. Ah, but that was before the vision. If you think it over carefully, you will see it was natural enough. Of course, you must allow for the spirit of the period, and other surrounding circumstances.
Brown. Are you going to stay for The Gory Hand?
Jones. Not I. I am tired of play-acting, and think we have had enough of it.
Robinson. Well, I think I shall look in. I am rather fond of strong scenes, and it should be good, to judge from the programme.
Jones. Well, we will "sit out." It's rather gruesome. Quite different from the other plays.
Robinson. Well, I