Punch, or the London Charivari
Volume 107, October 13, 1894
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
MAKING THE RUNNING WITH "THE DERBY WINNER."
Druriolanus has scored another success. And why not? Surely he deserves it, for, with the assistance of his two collaborators, Cecil Raleigh and Henry Hamilton, Sir Augustus Harris has trained a Derby winner that will carry all before him over the Drury Lane course until the place is required for the pantomime. And the training has been most judicious. The problem the three stable companions (for the piece is nothing if not horsey) set themselves was to produce a drama that would fill the Grand National Theatre both before and behind the curtain. This problem they have solved to the satisfaction of all parties.
"Three to One on."
The method adopted is simple enough. Take, for instance, the First Act. One of the authors no doubt suggested the interior of a country house. "Quite so," says Druriolanus, "a nobleman's country house. I will show you how to do it." And he does. "O Todgers's can do it when it likes!" Gorgeous hall with a billiard table thrown in at the back to give an idea of the luxury and magnitude. And then the company! Earls and Countesses and Lords and Ladies and a Duchess! Why, even the villain is a major in a crack cavalry regiment, and the low comedian a surgeon who has worn the Queen's uniform. Apparently to give the latter additional aristocratic gloss, the Duchess is made to be in love with him. And the plot? Why, of course. Let Miss Alma Stanley arrive direct from India to sow discord between my Lord the hero and my Lady the heroine. This she does, looking charming in her villainy, and wearing a striking costume. My Lord tells her "to begone" (a most unreasonable request, by the way, as she has arrived at the Hall in the middle of the night, with evidently any number of boxes), but she won't. Miss Alma Stanley prefers to faint in my Lord's arms, to the great indignation of my Lady. Tableau and curtain.
Next, please. The Downs, and a trial of the 'osses. Then we have a meet of horses, saddle and otherwise. The "otherwise" are harnessed to a pony-chaise that looks as if it had come from the Lowther Arcade. Miss Alma Stanley rides in on a steed of her own. My Lord, the hero, objects to the gracious presence of this fair equestrian, and gets a horse-whipping for his trouble. Then the trial comes off. The noble animals canter across the stage. The dramatis personæ describe their progress to one another as they make the running behind the scenes. All first-rate and life-like. Haven't we seen it ourselves in the early morn? Then they reappear (amidst immense enthusiasm) as cardboard profile in the distance, to make a final entry in the horseflesh from the O. P. wings. Capitally done, and a great success. Stalls, Circle, Pit, Boxes, and Gallery, all delighted. So are they with the military ball at York. Nearly everybody in uniform. Hussars, Gunners, Highlanders, Fusileers, and Yeomen. My Lord the hero appears as Colonel of his county Yeomanry. Quite right, he has left the service, and taken to the reserve. Then there is the cotillion, and my Lord finds himself, to his surprise, dancing with Miss Alma Stanley. He is again caught by my Lady, the heroine (the poor chap is always compromising himself at the wrong moment), and there is of course only one solution to this embarrassing situation, and that is,—curtain. No better ball scene been on the stage for years. Druriolanus has all the details at his fingertips, and the ball at his feet. Keep it rolling!
In the next Act we find that the Countess, in full ball costume, has eloped with the Villainous Major to a hotel. My Lady has allowed her companion to describe themselves as Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So in the porter's book. But thus far and no farther. When the Major politely begs the loan of her heart, the Countess bids him go, and treats him really with absolute rudeness. The Major, after a terrible struggle with my Lady, in which he gets the worst of it, is completely crushed, and probably inwardly laments the very considerable expense to which he must have been put by the elopement. At this crisis enter my Lord the hero. Row and tableau. After this, the audience feels that the correct prescription is to cut the dialogue and come to the "'osses." And to a great extent this prescription is adopted. There is a first-class scene of a sale at Tattersall's, and a very realistic view of the finish at the Derby. The throng cheer behind the curtain, and so does the throng in front of it. The task is complete: both sides of the green baize are crowded with excited people.
It is exceptionally good. Scenery, music, general stage management, and incidental music all excellent. Mrs. John Wood first-rate, as good as ever, and Miss Alma Stanley greatly distinguishes herself. So does Mr. Cartwright as the most matter-of-fact villain that "in this distressful country has ever yet been seen." When he murders, or ruins, or seriously inconveniences anyone, he observes sotto voce to himself, in a tone that would be equally appropriate were he thanking an omnibus conductor for giving him change for sixpence, "I thought I should do it." Then Mr. Arthur Bourchier and Miss Beatrice Lamb as My Lord and My Lady could not be better. And Miss Pattie Browne, Miss L. Moodie, and Miss Hettie Dene, all the right people in the right places, as are both Mr. George Giddens and Mr. Lionel Rignold. To sum up, The Derby Winner has won, and Sir Druriolanus has more than satisfied his enthusiastic backers the public, and he and they will have a real good run for their money.
"Sold!"
IF NOT, WHY NOT?
["Sarah Grand has contributed an article on 'Should irascible Old Gentlemen be taught to Knit?' to the forthcoming issue of 'Phil May's Winter Annual.'"—Evening paper, October 2.]
This will shortly be followed by a series of papers on the following subjects:—"Shall hysterical Old Ladies be encouraged to smoke?"
"Should elderly, short-tempered Dowagers be permitted to use bad language?"
"Shall Octogenarian Barmaids be obliged to flirt?"
"May decayed Duchesses play pitch-and-toss?"
"Shall Professional Beauties of a certain age be compulsorily retired?"
"Are Burlesque Actresses of over forty years' standing to attend Sunday-school?"
"May Ballet-girls teach their grand-children to knit?"
"Should cross-eyed Viscountesses catch flies?"
"Ought Old Girls generally to make use of slang?"
"Should Prima donnas in their dotage wear blue pinafores?"
"Can the 'Shirt-front Brigade' be taught 'good form'?"
"May Lady Novelists dispense with the historic present?"
"Should much-married Adventuresses read The Family Herald?
"May timid Gentlewomen join the Pioneer Club?"
And "Is not the New
A BACKWARD CROP.
Young Mr. Green (who wants a Hunter for the coming Season). "Ya—as; but he's got such a Seedy Tail!"
Dealer. "Seedy? Ah, that's it! Just germinatin', it is. Want o' Sunshine, yer see. Lor' bless y', things is mostly bin a bit backard this Season!"
"I'M GETTING A BIG GIRL NOW!"
(Song for Miss Unified London.)
Air—"I'm Getting a Big Girl Now!"
"I'M GETTING A BIG GIRL NOW!"
Miss Unified London putting away all her pretty Toys and Playthings.
MUDDY MILAN.
A Really "Independent of Labour Party."—Mr. Keir Hardie, M.P.
LYRE AND LANCET.
(A Story in Scenes.)
PART XV.—TRAPPED!
Scene XXIV.—A Gallery outside the Verney Chamber.
Time—About 10.15.
Undershell (to himself, as he emerges from a back staircase). I suppose this is the corridor? The Boy said the name of the room was painted up over the door.... Ah, there it is; and, yes, Mr. Spurrell's name on a card.... The door is ajar; he is probably waiting for me inside. I shall meet him quite temperately, treat it simply as a——(He enters; a waste-paper basket, containing an ingenious
Spurrell. Wait till I strike a light. (After lighting a pair of candles.) Well, Sir, if you don't know why you're ramping about like that under a waste-paper basket, I can hardly be expected to——
Und. I was determined not to remove it until somebody came in; it fell on my head the moment I entered; it contained something in a soap-dish, which has wetted my face. You may laugh, Sir, but if this is a sample of your aristocratic——
Spurr. If you could only see yourself! But I'd nothing to do with it, 'pon my word I hadn't; only just this minute got away from the hall.... I know! It's that sulky young beggar, Bearpark. I remember he slipped off on some excuse or other just now. He must have come in here and fixed that affair up for me—confound him!
Und. I think I'm the person most entitled to——But no matter; it is merely one insult more among so many. I came here, Sir, for a purpose, as you are aware.
Spurr. (ruefully). Your dress clothes? All right, you shall have them directly. I wouldn't have put 'em on if I'd known they'd be wanted so soon.
Und. I should have thought your own would have been more comfortable.
Spurr. More comfortable! I believe you. Why, I assure you I feel like a Bath bun in a baby's sock! But how was I to know? You shouldn't leave your things about like that!
Und. It is usual, Sir, for people to come to a place like this provided with evening clothes of their own.
Spurr. I know that as well as you do. Don't you suppose I'm unacquainted with the usages of society! Why, I've stayed in boarding-houses at the seaside many a time where it was de rigger to dress—even for high tea! But coming down, as I did, on business, it never entered my head that I should want my dress suit. So when I found them all as chummy and friendly as possible, and expecting me to dine as a matter of course,—why, I can tell you I was too jolly glad to get hold of anything in the shape of a swallowtail and white choker to be over particular!
Und. You seem to have been more fortunate in your reception than I. But then I had not the advantage of being here in a business capacity.
Spurr. Well, it wasn't that altogether. You see, I'm a kind of a celebrity in my way.
Und. I should hardly have thought that would be a recommendation here.
Spurr. I was surprised myself to find what a lot they thought of it; but, bless you, they're all as civil as shopwalkers; and, as for the ladies, why, the old Countess and Lady Maisie and Lady Rhoda couldn't be more complimentary if I'd won the Victoria Cross, instead of getting a first prize for breeding and exhibiting a bull bitch at Cruft's Dog Show!
Und. (bitterly, to himself). And this is our aristocracy! They make a bosom friend of a breeder of dogs; and find a poet only fit to associate with their servants! What a theme for a satirist! (Aloud.) I see nothing to wonder at. You possess precisely the social qualifications most likely to appeal to the leisured class.
Spurr. Oh, there's a lot of humbug in it, mind you! Most of 'em know about as much of the points of a bull as the points of a compass, only they let on to know a lot because they think it's smart. And some of 'em are after a pup from old Drummy's next litter. I see through all that, you know!
Und. You are a cynic, I observe, Sir. But possibly the nature of the business which brings you here renders them——
Spurr. That's the rummest thing about it. I haven't heard a word about that yet. I'm in the veterinary profession, you know. Well, they sent for me to see some blooming horse, and never even ask me to go near it! Seems odd, don't it?
Und. (to himself). I had to go near the blooming horse! Now I begin to understand; the very servants did not expect to find a professional vet in any company but their own! (Aloud.) I—I trust that the horse will not suffer through any delay.
Spurr. So do I; but how do I know that some ignorant duffer mayn't be treating him for the wrong thing? It may be all up with the animal before I get a chance of seeing what I can do!
Und. (to himself). If he knew how near I went to getting the poor beast shot! But I needn't mention that now.
Spurr. I don't say it isn't gratifying to be treated like a swell, but I've got my professional reputation to consider, you know; and if they're going to take up all my time talking about Andromeda——
Und. (with a start). Andromeda! They have been talking about Andromeda? To you! Then it's you who——
Spurr. Haven't I been telling you? I should just jolly well think they have been talking about her! So you didn't know my bull's name was Andromeda before, eh? But you seem to have heard of her, too!
Und. (slowly). I—I have heard of Andromeda—yes.
[He drops into a chair, dazed.
Spurr. (complacently). It's curious how that bitch's fame seems to have spread. Why, even the old Bishop——But, I say, you're looking rather queer; anything the matter with you, old fellow?
Und. (faintly). Nothing—nothing. I—I feel a little giddy, that's all. I shall be better presently.
[He conceals his face.
Spurr. (in concern). It was having that basket down on your head like that. Too bad! Here, I'll get you some water. (He bustles about.) I don't know if you're aware of it, old chap, but you're in a regular dooce of a mess!
Und. (motioning him away irritably). Do you suppose I don't know that? For heaven's sake, don't speak to me! let me alone!... I want to think—I want to think. (To himself.) I see it all now! I've made a hideous mistake! I thought these Culverins were deliberately——And all the time——Oh, what an unspeakable idiot I've been!... And I can't even explain!... The only thing to do is to escape before this fellow suspects the truth. It's lucky I ordered that carriage! (Aloud, rising.) I'm all right now; and—and I can't stay here any longer. I am leaving directly—directly!
Spurr. You must give me time to get out of this toggery, old chap; you'll have to pick me out of it like a lobster!
Und. (wildly). The clothes? Never mind them now. I can't wait. Keep them!
Spurr. Do you really mean it, old fellow? If you could spare 'em a bit longer, I'd be no end obliged. Because, you see, I promised Lady Rhoda to come and finish a talk we were having, and they've taken away my own things to brush, so I haven't a rag to go down in except these, and they'd all think it so rude if I went to bed now!
Und. (impatiently). I tell you you may keep them, if you'll only go away!
Spurr. But where am I to send the things to when I've done with 'em?
Und. What do I——Stay, here's my card. Send them to that address. Now go and finish your evening!
Spurr. (gratefully). You are a rattling good chap, and no mistake! Though I'm hanged if I can quite make out what you're doing
Und. It's not at all necessary that you should know. I am leaving immediately, and—and I don't wish Sir Rupert or Lady Culverin to hear of this—you understand?
Spurr. Well, it's no business of mine; you've behaved devilish well to me, and I'm not surprised that you'd rather not be seen in the state you're in. I shouldn't like it myself!
Und. State? What state?
Spurr. Ah, I wondered whether you knew. You'll see what I mean when you've had a look at yourself in the glass. I daresay it'll come off right enough. I can't stop. Ta, ta, old fellow, and thanks awfully!
[He goes out.
Und. (alone). What does he mean? But I've no time to waste. Where have they put my portmanteau? I can't give up everything. (He hunts round the room, and eventually discovers a door leading into a small dressing-room.) Ah, it's in there. I'll get it out, and put my things in. (As he rushes back, he suddenly comes face to face with his own reflection in a cheval glass.) Wh—who's that? Can this—this piebald horror possibly be—me? How——? Ah, it was ink in that infernal basket—not water! And my hair's full of flour! I can't go into a hotel like this, they'd think I was an escaped lunatic! (He flies to a wash-hand stand, and scrubs and sluices desperately, after which he inspects the result in the mirror.) It's not nearly off yet! Will anything get rid of this streakiness? (He soaps and scrubs once more.) And the flour's caked in my hair now! I must brush it all out before I am fit to be seen. (He gradually, after infinite toil, succeeds in making himself slightly more presentable.) Is the carriage waiting for me all this time? (He pitches things into his portmanteau in a frantic flurry.) What's that? Some one's coming!
[He listens.
Tredwell (outside). It's my conviction you've been telling me a pack o' lies, you young rascal. For what hearthly business that feller Undershell could 'ave in the Verney—— However, I'll soon see how it is. (He knocks.) Is anyone in 'ere?
Und. (to himself, distractedly). He mustn't find me here! Yet, where—— Ah, it's the only place!
[He blows out the candles, and darts into the dressing-room as Tredwell enters.
Tred. The boy's right. He is in here; them candles is smouldering still. (He relights one, and looks under the bed.) You'd better come out o' that, Undershell, and give an account of yourself—do you 'ear me?... He ain't under there! (He tries the dressing-room door; Undershell holds his breath, and clings desperately to the handle.) Very well, Sir, I know you're there, and I've no time to trouble with you at present, so you may as well stay where you are till you're wanted. I've 'eard o' your goings-on from Mr. Adams, and I shall 'ave to fetch Sir Rupert up to 'ave a talk with you by-and-by.
[He turns the key upon him, and goes.
Und. (to himself, overwhelmed, as the Butler's step is heard retreating). And I came down here to assert the dignity of Literature!
"He suddenly comes face to face with his own reflection."
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Accompanying Trilby.
Our George du Maurier is in analogous case to that of a dramatic character of whom he may possibly have heard. M. Jourdain one day happed upon the discovery that he had been talking prose all his life without knowing it. Mr. du Maurier has lived through half a century master of an exquisite style, and only now makes the discovery known to the world. Plain indications of the fact were given in Peter Ibbetson. But in respect of style and in other matters, Trilby, just published by Osgood, McIlvaine & Co., is a prodigious improvement. That a man who has made his mark in pencil should, on taking up his pen, disclose possession of the rare gift of style, strikes the literary person with more marvel even than is evoked by discovery of a new novelist who can construct a plot and delineate character. Mr. du Maurier has rich endowment of all these gifts, which shine on every page of Trilby. He has, moreover, given us a new thing quite apart from the run of English novels. Henri Murger was before him with a deathless book in which life in the Quartier Latin is powerfully and tenderly portrayed. Mr. du Maurier's chapters on student life in Paris need not fear comparison with La Vie de Bohème, which is praise of the kind Sir Hubert Stanley hoarded. Beyond that, growing out of it, is the boldly conceived, firmly-drawn, and charmingly coloured character of Trilby, with her curious entourage, her varied life, and her tragic end. Little Billee, in whom some will find revived lost memories of a dear friend, is a charming personality, whilst Taffy and the Laird are live men. With such wealth of material and such felicity of touch, Mr. du Maurier might well have foregone the temptation of allowing Little Billee to hold forth on theological subjects to his dog, at a length inevitable in the pulpit, but a little out of place as an interlude in a novel. This passage supplies a jarring note in an otherwise almost perfect symphony.
One turns with eagerness to the Life of Frances Power Cobbe, more especially when it bears the honoured imprimatur of Bentley. Miss Cobbe has lived long, enjoying full opportunity of seeing things and people. She ought to have written a good book. "Instead of which," as the judge once said, she presents a slovenly-written, ill-digested mass of miscellaneous matter, including whole chapters devoted to digests of her published works. Pleased with herself from most aspects, she particularly admires her literary style. There is a passage in the book where she plaintively apprehends that, lost in admiration of her style, readers may miss the true purpose and importance of her writing;—this in volumes that bristle with such monstrosities as "compared to," "disapproved of," and "from thence," the latter a favourite foible of Miss Cobbe's style. In the second volume there are some attempts at what was naturally looked for, to wit, reminiscences of people the present generation would like to meet. But the burly, complacent figure of the diarist intervenes just as they come into view. She tells us what she said to them, not, what we are burning to hear, what they said to her. On the whole, looked at through Miss Cobbe's spectacles, they were a poor lot. Of Renan she writes, "The impression he has left on me is one of disappointment and short-falling." Short-falling is "style" of the athletic order, and, my Baronite vaguely surmises, is the opposite of high jumping. As to poor Carlyle, Miss
Whilst the great heart of the people is considering whether it shall throb against the House of Lords or whether it shall forbear, Mr. Swift MacNeill, Q.C., M.P., has delivered at that ancient institution what the Marchioness was accustomed to describe as "a wonner." Titled Corruption is the alluring style of the neatly-bound volume issued by Fisher Unwin. There is, my Baronite says, a touch of artistic genius in the contrast between the plain, unassuming calico binding of the book and the blood and thunder that rolls through its pages. It is "the sordid origin of some Irish peerages" that Mr. Swift MacNeill undertakes to set forth. Perhaps if he were solely responsible for the work, its startling statements might be dismissed as coloured by fervid fancy. He, however, supports himself with the dictum of Mr. Lecky, "the majority of Irish titles are historically connected with memories not of honour but of shame," and illustrates it by extracts from confidential letters of Lords Lieutenants of Ireland, recommending gentlemen for the peerage. Altogether an interesting withdrawal of the curtain dropped before passages in the history of Ireland on the eve of the Union.
Signed and approved in the Baronite Office by
The Judicious Baron de Book-Worms.
BREAKING THE ICE.
He. "I've got to take you into Dinner, Miss Travers—and I'm rather afraid of you, you know! Mrs. Jolibois tells me you're very Clever!"
She (highly amused). "How absurd! I'm not a bit Clever!"
He (with sigh of relief). "Well, do you know, I thought you weren't!"
UNREST!
UNREST!
SYMPATHY.
Scene—In front of Mrs. R.'s house.
Mrs. R. (paying Cabman). You look all right to-day. Cabman. Ah, mum! my looks don't pity me. I suffer from a tarpaulin liver. Mrs. R. (correcting). A torpedo liver you mean.
[Cabman accepts the correction, and an extra shilling.
LESSONS IN LAUGHTER.
["Instead of the many