Punch Volume 102, May 28, 1892 by Various
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Various >> Punch Volume 102, May 28, 1892
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 102.
May 28, 1892.
VENICE RESERVED.
(_A SKETCH FROM A NUMBERED STALL AT OLYMPIA._)
On the Stage, the Scene represents "A Public Place before the
Arsenal," where a number of artisans are apparently busily engaged
in making horse-shoes on cold anvils in preparation for the launch
of "_The Adriatica_." On extreme R. enter _Antonio_, who expresses
commercial embarrassment by going through a sort of dumb-bell exercise
on a bridge. On extreme L. enter _Bassanio_, _Lorenzo_, and _Antonio_,
who observe, with mild surprise, that there are several other persons
present, and proceed to point out objects of local interest to one
another with the officious amiability of persons in the foreground
of hotel advertisements. (_Here a Small Boy in a box, who has an
impression he is going to see a Pantomime, inquires audibly "when
the Clown Part will begin?" and has to be answered and consoled._)
_Bassanio_ perceives _Antonio_ afar off, and advances towards him with
stately deliberation, throwing out signals with one arm at intervals;
_Antonio_ goes to meet him; they shake each other by both hands with
affectionate cordiality, and then turn their backs on one another,
as though, on reflection, they found they had less to say than they
had imagined. Presently _Bassanio_ recollects why he wanted to see
_Antonio_ so particularly, and, by describing a circle in the air,
and pointing from the electric lights above to the balcony stalls in
front, and tapping his belt, puts _Antonio_ at once in possession of
his chronic impecuniosity, his passion for _Portia_, and his need for
a small temporary loan. _Antonio_ curls up his fists, raises them to
the level of his ears, and then pretends to take his heart out of
his doublet and throw it at _Bassanio_, who fields it with graceful
dexterity, instantly comprehending with Italian intuition that his
friend is, like himself, rather pressed for ready money, but is
prepared to back a bill for any amount. _Shylock_ passes that way,
and is introduced by _Antonio_ as a gentleman in the city who is in
the habit of making advances on personal security without inquiry.
_Shylock_ extracts imaginary ink from his chest, and writes with
one hand on the palm of the other, and cringingly produces a
paper-knife--whereupon the transaction is complete, and the parties,
becoming aware that a Grand Triumphal Procession is waiting to come
in, and that they are likely to be in the way, tactfully suggest
to one another the propriety of retiring. After the Procession,
_Valentina_, "the lovely daughter of the proud _Visconti_" embarks
on a barge with her maidens to meet her betrothed.
(_In the Stalls, a Lady with a Catalogue, who hasn't been here before,
mistakes this proceeding for "The Launch of the Adriatica," but is
set right by a friend who has, and is consequently able to inform her
that_ Valentina _is_ Portia _on her way to plead against_ Shylock.)
[Illustration: "Signals to Portia that it is not such an amusing game
as he thought."]
A mimic battle takes place on a bridge--i.e., rival factions shake
their fists with prudent defiance over one another's shoulders.
(_An Old Lady in the Balcony, who has been watching this desperate
encounter, finds that she has missed a very important Scene between_
Shylock _and_ Jessica _at the other end of the stage, and remorsefully
resolves to be more observant in future, as the Scene changes to
"Portia's Palatial Home."_) _Portia_ enters (_the Lady in the Stalls,
who has been here before, tells her companion that_ Portia's _dress
was "lovely when it was clean_"), and greets her guests by extending
both arms and inviting them to inspect the palms of her hands, thereby
intimating that the abundance of canopied recesses, and the absence of
any furniture to sit down upon, is due to the fact that the apartment
has been recently cleared for a parlour game. The company express a
well-bred gratification by bowing. Enter the _Prince of Morocco (who
is of course identified by various Spectators in the Stalls without
Catalogues as_ "Othello," _or "the Duke of Thingumbob_--you _know the
chap I mean_"), followed by his retinue; he kisses _Portia's_ hand,
as she explains to him, the _Prince of Arragon_, and _Bassanio_, the
rules of the game in three simple gestures. They reply, by flourishes,
that they have frequently played it at home, and promise faithfully
not to cheat. The three caskets are brought in and placed on a table;
the _Prince of Morocco_ is the first player, and walks towards them
very slowly, stopping at every ten paces and signalling to _Portia_
that he is all right so far, and that she is not to be at all uneasy
on his account. On coming in sight of the caskets, he pauses and turns
to the audience, as if it had only just occurred to him that the
odds were two to one against him, and he must be careful. Presently
he jerks his right arm above his head and strikes his forehead, to
indicate a happy thought, rushes at the golden casket, opens it, and
slams the lid disgustedly. After which he signals to _Portia_ that
it is not such an amusing game as he thought, and he doesn't mean
to play any more, beckons to his retinue and goes off, throwing his
cloak over his shoulder with a gesture of manly and not unnatural
annoyance. The _Prince of Arragon_ tries the silver casket next, with
similar unsuccess. Then _Bassanio_--with an elaborate pretence of
uncertainty, considering he can hardly have helped witnessing the
proceedings--advances to the caskets, in front of which he performs
a little mental calculation, finally arriving at the conclusion that,
as the portrait is not in the gold and silver boxes, it may not
improbably be in the leaden one. He actually _does_ find it there, and
exhibits it to _Portia_ with extreme astonishment, as if it was quite
the _last_ thing he expected. Then he advances to meet her, comparing
her frequently with the picture, and expressing his approval of it
as a likeness, and his determination to be taken by the same artist.
Mutual satisfaction, interrupted by the arrival of a gondola with
a letter from _Antonio_. To read it and impart its contents and the
entire history of the bond to _Portia_, by a semicircular sweep of the
arm and sounding his chest, takes _Bassanio_ exactly two seconds and
a half, after which he departs in the gondola, and the scene changes
to the Piazzetta, where a variety of exciting events--including the
Trial, a Musical Ballet, and a Call to Arms--take place, culminating
in the embarkation of Venetian soldiers to recapture Chioggia, in
three highly ornamental but slightly unseaworthy barges, as the
Curtain falls on Act I.
Interval of Fifteen Minutes, spent by some of the lady spectators in
speculation whether the dark and light patches on the blue curtains
are due to design or the action of damp. After which the Fortress
of Chioggia is disclosed, with a bivouac of the Genoese garrison.
A bevy of well-meaning maidens enter with fruit and vegetables for
the military, but, on the discovery that their wares are properties,
and too firmly glued to the baskets to be detached, they retire in
confusion. A small sail is seen behind the battlements; the soldiers
poke at it with halberds until it retreats, whereupon, soldier-like,
they dance. The sail returns with a still smaller one; red fire is
burnt under the walls, which so demoralises the Genoese soldiery that
they all tumble down with precaution, and the Venetians burst in and
stand over them in attitudes as the scene changes to an Island near
Venice and a Grand Aquatic Procession. (_Here intelligent Spectators
in the Stalls identify the first four pairs of gondolas,--which
are draped respectively in icicles, pale green, rose-colour, and
saffron,--as typifying the Seasons; another pair come in draped in
violet, which they find some difficulty in satisfactorily accounting
for. When two more appear hung with white and gold with a harp and
palette at the prows, they grow doubtful, and the entrance of the two
last couples, which carry shrines and images, reduces them to hopeless
mystification. The Small Boy wishes to know whether anybody will be
upset in the water, and being told that this is not a fixture in the
entertainment, conceives a poor opinion of the capacity of Mediaeval
Venice for lighthearted revelry._)
Terrace near Portia's Palace, _Portia_, _Bassanio_ and the _Doge_
discovered enjoying a pasteboard banquet.
(_A Lady in the Stalls "wonders whether it is correct to represent_
Portia _as knowing a Doge so intimately as all that," and doubts
whether it is in Shakspeare._)
The supper-table is removed, and the proceedings terminate by a Grand
Al Fresco Carnival. Ladies of the ballet dance bewitchingly, while
soldiers play at Bo-Peep behind enormous red hoops. Finally the
entire strength of the ballet link arms in one immense line, and
simultaneously execute a wonderful chromatic kick, upon which the
blue draperies descend amidst prolonged and thoroughly well-deserved
applause from a delighted audience.
* * * * *
[Illustration: GRACE-LESS!
_Nursery Governess._ "NOW, ETHEL, SAY YOUR GRACE, LIKE A GOOD LITTLE
GIRL!"
_Ethel._ "SHAN'T!"
_Nursery Governess._ "OH, ETHEL! DON'T YOU KNOW IT'S VERY NAUGHTY NOT
TO BE THANKFUL, AND FOR SUCH A NICE PUDDING TOO?"
_Ethel._ "I WOULD BE THANKFUL, BUT"--(_much distressed_)--"I CAN'T
FINISH IT!"]
* * * * *
THE (POLITICAL) LADY-CRICKETERS.
(_A COLLOQUY NEAR THE NETS._)
[At the meeting of the Women's Liberal Federation the
following "operative mandatory resolution" was carried:--"That
in pursuance of the resolution passed in May 1890, the
Council now instructs the Executive Committee that they shall
promote the enfranchisement of women, including the local
and parliamentary votes for all women, who possess any of the
legal qualifications enabling them to vote, among the other
Liberal reforms now before the Country, whilst not making it
a test question at the approaching Election."]
SCENE--_"At the Nets" on the St. Stephen's Cricket Ground.
"The Champion" has been practising in the interval, prior
to playing in the Great Match of the Season, "Unionists v.
Home-Rulers." Various admiring Volunteers of both sexes have
been "scouting" for him._
_First Admiring Bystander._ By Jove, that was a slashing hit! What
powder he puts into it, eh? At _his_ age too!
_Second A.B._ Oh, the Grand Old 'Un's in great form this season. Like
'tother W.G., who's just back from the Antipodes and, at forty-four,
can knock up his sixty-three in sixty-five minutes. There he goes
again, clean over all the "scouts"!
_First A.B._ Oh! he gives 'em plenty to do, "in the country." Keeps
'em on the shift, eh?
_Second A.B._ Bless you, yes. Why a hit like that, _run out_, would be
worth seven to his side-_in_ a match!
_First A.B._ (_knowingly_). Ah, but I notice that _in a match_ these
tremendous swipes don't always come off, don'tcher-know. I've seen
some tremendous sloggers at the nets make a wonderful poor show when
between wickets with a watchful "field" round 'em.
_Second A.B._ (_with candour_). Ah, quite so, of course. Everyone must
have noticed that. With a demon bowler in front of yer sending 'em
down like hundred-tonners, and a blarmed cat of a wicket-keeper on the
grab just at your back, not to mention a pouncer at point, it puzzles
the best of them to get 'em away, though "in a position of greater
freedom and less responsibility," practising at the nets, to wit, with
only the ground-bowler and a few scouts fielding, they may punish 'em
properly.
_First A.B._ Ah, well, one must allow that the Champion plays the game
right away all the time.
_Second A B._ Yea. Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale his
infinite variety. Wonderful, all the same, what perversely bad hits
he will persist in making, at times. Does things now and again you'd
think a school-girl with a bat would be ashamed of.
_First A.B._ Ah, by the way, what do you think of these here
new-fangled Lady-Cricketers?
_Second A.B._ (_significantly_). Ask the Old 'Un what _he_ thinks of
'em.
_First A.B._ Ah! can't abide 'em, can he? And yet he likes the Ladies
to look on and applaud, and even to field for him at times.
_Second A.B._ Yes; the Ladies have been good friends of his, and now
he'd bar them from the legitimate game. I fancy it's put their backs
up a bit, eh?
_First A.B._ You bet! And it _do_ seem ray-ther ongrateful like, don't
it now? Though as fur as that goes _I_ don't believe Cricket's a game
for the petticoats.
_Second A.B._ Nor me neither. But bless yer they gets their foot in
in everything now; tennis, and golf, and rowing and cetrer. And if you
let 'em in at all, for your own pleasure, I don't quite see how you're
going to draw the line arbitrary like just where it suits _you_, as
the Grand Old Slogger seems to fancy.
_First A.B._ No; and, if you ask me, I say they won't stand it, even
from _him._ "No," says they, "fair's fair," they says. "All very well
to treat us like volunteer scouts at a country game, or at the nets,
returning the balls whilst you slog and show off. But when we want
to put on the gloves and pads, and take a hand at the bat in a
businesslike way, you boggle, and hint that it's degrading, unsexing,
and all that stuff."
_Second A.B._ Ah, _that_ won't wash. If it unsexes 'em to bat, it
unsexes 'em to scout. And if the old cricketing gang didn't want
the Ladies between wickets, why, they shouldn't have let em into the
field, _I_ say. Strikes me Lady CARLISLE'll show 'em a thing or two.
That "operative mandatory resolution" of hers means mischief--_after_
the next big match anyhow. "Ladies wait, and wait a bit more, wait
in truth till the day after to-morrow." Yes; but they won't wait for
ever.
_First A.B._ Not they. Why, look yonder! There's one of 'em in full
fig. Lady-Cricketer from cap to shoes--short skirt, knickers, belt,
blouse, gloves, and all the rest of it. D'ye think that sort means
volunteer scouting only? Not a bit of it. Mean playing the game, Sir,
and having regular teams of their own.
_Second A.B._ Look at her! She's a speaking to the Grand Old Champion
himself!
_First A.B._ Giving him a bit of her mind, you bet. What's that she's
saying?
_Second A.B._ Why, that she admires his style immensely, and doesn't
want to spoil his game; but that, _after_ the next great All England
Match, if not sooner, they mean to have a team of their own and go in
for the game all round!
_First A.B._ Ah, what did I say?
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE POLITICAL LADY-CRICKETERS.
_Lady Cricketer._ "A TEAM OF OUR OWN? I SHOULD THINK SO! IF WE'RE GOOD
ENOUGH TO SCOUT FOR YOU, WHY SHOULDN'T WE TAKE A TURN AT THE BAT?"]
* * * * *
CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.
NO. X.--THE DUFFER ON THE TURF.
"A horse for a protection is a deceitful thing," as the Scotch
translator of KING DAVID has it, and I entirely agree with him. I
rather wish to be protected from a horse, than expect any succour
from a creature so large, muscular and irrational. Far from being
"courageous," as his friends say, the horse (I am not speaking of the
war-horse) is afraid of almost everything, that is why I am afraid
of him. He is a most nervous animal, and I am a nervous rider. He is
afraid of a bicycle or a wheel-barrow, which do not alarm the most
timid bipeds, and when he is afraid he shies, and when he shies I no
longer remain. Irrational he is, or he would not let people ride him,
however, I never met a horse that would let _me_ do so. It is with the
horse as an instrument of gambling that I am concerned. In that sense
I have "backed" him, in no other sense to any satisfactory result.
With all his four legs he stumbles more than one does with only
a pair, an extraordinary proof of his want of harmony with his
environment.
I was beguiled on to the Turf by winning a small family
sweepstakes--L3 in fact. A sporting cousin told me that I had better
"put it on _Cauliflower_," who was the favourite for The City and
Suburban. He put it on _Cauliflower_ for me, and we won, so that a
career of easy opulence seemed open. Then I took to backing horses,
a brief madness. I read all the sporting papers, and came to the
conclusion that the prophets are naught. If you look at their
vaticinations, you will find that they all select their winners out
of the first four favourites. Anybody could do that. Now the first
four favourites do not by any means always win, and, when they do,
how short are the odds you get--hardly worth mentioning! Horses
occasionally win with odds of forty to one against them, _these_ are
the animals of which I was in search, not the hackneyed favourites
of the Press and the Public. This, I think you will find, is usually
the attitude of the Duffer, who, in my time, was known, I cannot say
why, as the "Juggins." I liked to bring a little romance into my
speculations. Often I have backed a horse for his name, for something
curious, or literary, or classical about his name. _Xanthus_, or
_Podargus_, or _Phaeeton_, or _Lampusa_ has often carried my investment
to an inconspicuous position in the ruck. Another plan of mine, which
I believe every Duffer adopts, was backing my dreams--those horses of
air. About the time of the Derby one always reads about lucky persons
who backed a dream. But one does not read about the unlucky persons
who take the same precaution. Several millions of people in this
country read, talk, and think about nothing but racehorses. When the
Socialists have their way, may I advise them to keep up Government or
communal racing studs and stables? What the betting is to be done in,
if there is no money (which is contemplated as I understand), is not
obvious. But the people will insist on having races, and what is a
race without a bet? However, these considerations wander from the
subject in hand. With a fourth of the population thinking about
horses, a large proportion must dream about horses. Out of these
dreams, perhaps one in one hundred and fifty thousand comes true, and
about that dream we read in the papers. We don't read about the other
dreams, such as mine were, for I have dreamed of winning numbers,
winning colours, winning horses, but my dreams came all through the
Ivory Gate, and my money followed them.
[Illustration: "Yet here I was finally unsuccessful."]
I don't pretend to be a judge of a horse; except for their colour they
all seem pretty much alike to me. Nor did I haunt race-courses much,
people there are often very unrefined, and the Ring is extremely
noisy and confusing. Once I heard a man offering to lay considerable
odds against the Field, and I offered in a shy and hesitating manner,
to accept them. He asked me what horse I backed? I said none in
particular, the Field at large, all of them, for really the odds
seemed very remarkable. But he did not accede to my wishes, and
continued to shout in rather a discourteous manner. Once, too, when I
had won some money, I lost it all on the way back, at a simple sort of
game of cards, not nearly so complex and difficult as whist. One need
only to say which of three cards, in the dealer's hand, was the card
one had chosen. Yet here I was finally unsuccessful, though fortunate
at first, and I am led to suppose that some kind of sleight of hand
had been employed; or, perhaps, that the card of my choice had in some
manner been smuggled away. However, once on a racecourse I saw a horse
which I fancied on his merits. He looked very tall and strong, and was
of a pretty colour, also he had a nice tail. He was hardly mentioned
in the betting, and I got "on" at seventy to one, very reasonable
odds. I backed him then, and he won, with great apparent ease, for his
jockey actually seemed to be holding him in, rather than spurring him
in the regrettable way which you sometimes see. But when I went to
look for the person with whom I had made my bet, I was unable to find
him anywhere, and I have never met him since. He had about him ten
pounds, the amount of my bet, which he had insisted on receiving as
a deposit, "not necessarily for publication," he said, "but as a
guarantee of good faith." Race-courses are crowded, confusing places,
and I doubt not, that so scrupulous a man was also looking for me.
But we have never met. If this meets his eye, probably he will send a
cheque for L700 to the office of _Mr. Punch_. I have often regretted
the circumstance, as it was my most fortunate _coup_ on the Turf, and
above all, reflected credit on my judgment of a horse.
Conversing afterwards with a friend on this event, I expressed
surprise that _my_ horse had not been a favourite, considering his
agreeable exterior.
"Why, you Juggins," he answered, "_Rumtifoo_ was a moral--everybody
knew _that_; but everybody knew he wasn't meant; he was being kept
for the Polehampton Stakes. He only won because he got the better of
little BOTHERBY, his jockey, who couldn't hold him. Why, the crowd
nearly murdered him, and his master sacked him on the spot--the little
idiot!"
I do not quite understand this explanation. Poor _Rumtifoo was_
"moral," like the "moral mare" mentioned by ARISTOTLE in the _Ethics_.
He did his best to win, and he did win; what else can you ask for in a
horse?
There is, apparently, more in horse-racing than meets the eye. I am
not addicted to remembering much about the "previous performances" of
horses, as some men are, who will tell you that _Cynic_ was third in
the Kelso Hunt Cup for last year, and that you ought to keep an eye
on him for the Ayrshire Handicap. But I have remarked that horses are
not like men; they do not always run almost equally well, though the
conditions of the race seem similar. No doubt this is owing to the
nervousness of the animal, who may be discouraged by the noise, the
smell of bad tobacco, and so forth.
I have given up Racing. That was after last year's Ascot meeting. I
was staying at a country house, some days before, and somehow I lost
my betting-book. It is really extraordinary how things do get lost.
Perhaps I left it in a railway carriage. Afterwards I tried to put
my bets, as far as I could remember them, down on a large sheet of
paper, and I think I got it very nearly right. But I left the paper
lying about in the library in a very interesting first edition of
_Plotinus_, I believe, and either the housemaid burned it, or my host
threw it into the waste-paper basket. At all events, it was lost,
and I have no head for figures, and things got mixed somehow. The
book-maker's recollection of the circumstances was not the same as
mine. But I began quite a fresh book, on imaginative principles, on
the course. I had not a good Ascot. And as Racing gives me a headache,
and I seldom meet any people on the Turf who are at all interested in
the same things as myself, I have given it up for good. They say I am
a good deal regretted by the Ring. It is always pleasant to remember
having made a favourable impression.
* * * * *
THE OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.
_Monday, May 16._--Sound the trumpets, Beat the drums! All Hail to
Sir DRURIOLANUS OPERATICUS, the most successful Knight of the Season!
A brilliant audience in a brilliant house lighted by thousands of
additional electric lights, acclaimed with rapture the awakening
of Opera. _Philemon et Baucis_ began it, a work by GOUNOD (which
is not intended for swearing) of great sweetness and light; and
this was followed by PIETRO MASCAGNI's _Cavalleria Rusticana_,
"Rustic Chivalry," which might be epigrammatically described as a
"Clod-hoppera." _Philemon et Baucis_ is charming. M. MONTARIOL was a
capital _Philemon_, and Mlle. SIGRID ARNOLDSEN as _Baucis_, a sort of
classical Little Bo-peep, received a hearty welcome on her return to
the Covent Garden House and Home. M. PLANCON was the thoroughly French
_Jupin_, and M. CASTELMARY an amiable _Vulcan_; both most accomplished
Divines. Altogether, a perfect quartette. The graceful _intermezzo_
only escaped an _encore_ because the knowing ones among the gods and
groundlings felt that too much enthusiasm at first might do serious
damage to the subsequent reception of the great _intermezzo_ of the
evening. All on _qui vive_ for great _intermezzo_. Anticipations of
event heard in the lobbies. Anxiety depicted on some countenances, but
most features looking happy and hopeful. The members of what was once
known as "the Organising Committee" nod encouragingly to one another
as they pass to and fro; the officials and _habitues_ exchange
greetings without any expression of opinion. Sir DRURIOLANUS
does not issue forth until the right moment, when he can shut up
his opera-glass with a click, and give the word to Field-Marshal
MANCINELLI to lead his men to the attack. For the present, "Wait" is
the _mot d'ordre_, "and this," quoth a jig-maker, "is the only weight
in the entire entertainment."