Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 102, April 16, 1892 by Various
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 102
APRIL 16, 1892
WRESTLING WITH WHISTLERS.
(A REMINISCENCE OF A RECENT EXHIBITION.)
SCENE--_The Goupil Gallery. Groups of more or less puzzled
Britons discovered, conscientiously endeavouring to do justice
to the Collection, having realised that Mr. WHISTLER's work
is now considered entitled to serious consideration, but
feeling themselves unable to get beyond a timid tolerance.
In addition to these, there are Frank Philistines who are
here with a fixed intention of being funny, Matrons with a
strongly domesticated taste in Art, Serious Elderly Ladies,
Literal Persons, &c., &c._
_A Lady_ (_after looking at a representation of Old Battersea
Bridge--in the tone of a person who feels she is making a liberal
concession_). Well, do you know, I must say that _isn't_ so bad. I
shouldn't so much mind having _that_ in the room, should you?
[Illustration: A Brother Brush.]
_Her Companion_ (_dubiously_). Well, I don't know. He's put a steamer
in. Should you think there _were_ steamers in--a--(_vaguely_)--those
days?
_First Lady_ (_evidently considering Mr. WHISTLER capable of any
eccentricity_). Oh, I don't suppose he would mind _that_ much.
_First Literal Person_ (_coming to the portrait of Miss ALEXANDER_).
Well--(_plaintively_)--he _might_ have put a nicer expression on the
child!
_Second Do. Do._ Yes--very unpleasing. (_Refers to Catalogue._) Oh,
I see it says--"It is simply a disagreeable presentment of a
disagreeable young lady."
_First Do. Do._ (_rejoicing that the painter has vindicated himself
this time_). Ah--that _explains_ it, then. Of course if he _meant_
it--!
_A Serious Elderly Lady._ There's one thing I must say I _do_ like, my
dear, and that's the way he puts down all the unfavourable criticisms
on his pictures. So straightforward and honest of him, _I_ call it.
_Her Companion._ Yes, but I expect he can't help seeing how right and
sensible the critics are, you know. Still--(_charitably_)--it shows he
would do better if he _could_!
_An Advanced Nephew_ (_who is endeavouring to convert a Philistine
Uncle to the superiority of the Modern School_). Now here, Uncle,
look at this. Look at the way the figure looms out of the canvas, look
at the learning in the simple sweep of the drapery, the _drawing_ of
it, and the masterly grace of the pose--you don't mean to tell me you
don't call _that_ a magnificent portrait?
_His Uncle._ Who's it of? That's what _I_ want to know first.
_Nephew_ (_coldly_). You will find it in the Catalogue, no doubt--No.
41.
_Uncle_ (_looking it up_). "_Arrangement in Black. La Dame au
Brodequin Jaune._"--the lady in a yellow something or other. Tchah!
And not a word to tell you who she's supposed to _be_? If I pay a
shilling for a Catalogue, I expect to find information in it. And let
me ask you--where's the interest in looking at a portrait when you're
not told who it's intended for?
[_The Nephew, not being prepared to answer this difficult
query, leads his relative gently up to a "Nocturne in Opal and
Silver." The Uncle conveys his opinion of it by a loud and
expressive snort._
_First Prosaic Person_ (_before No. 28_). Valparaiso, is it?
(_Hopefully._) Well, come, I _ought_ to recognise this--I've _been_
there often enough. (_Inspecting it closely._) Ha--um!
_Second P.P._ (_with languid interest_). Is it _like_?
_First P.P._ I could tell you better if he'd done it by daylight.
I can't make out this in the front--looks to me like the top of a
_house_, or something. Don't remember _that_.
_Second P.P._ I think it's meant for a jetty, landing-stage, or that
sort of thing, and, when you look _into_ it, there's something that
seems intended for people--_most_ extraordinary, isn't it?
_The Domesticated Matron_ (_who is searching for a picture with a
subject to it_). There, CAROLINE, it's evidently a _harbour_, you see,
and ships, and they're letting off fireworks--probably for a regatta,
Does it tell you what it is in the Catalogue?
_Caroline_ (_after consulting it_). It only says, "_A Nocturne in Blue
and Gold_"--oh yes--(_reading_)--"a splash and splutter of brightness,
on a black ground, to depict a display of fireworks."
_Her Mother_ (_gratified at her own intelligence_). I thought it
_must_ be fireworks. He seems quite _fond_ of fireworks, doesn't he?
_First Facetious Philistine._ Hullo, what have we got here?
"_Crepuscule, in Flesh-colour and Green._" Very _like_ one, too,
daresay--when you know what it is.
_Second F.P._ As far as I can make it out, a Crepuscule's either a
Harmony inside out, or a Symphony upside down--it don't much matter.
_A Lady_ (_who is laboriously trying to catch the right spirit_).
"_The Blue Wave at Biarritz_." Now I _do_ admire that. And what I like
even better than the Blue wave is this great Brown one breaking in the
foreground--so exactly _like_ water, isn't it, DICK?
_Dick_ (_not a Whistlerite_). Y--yes--just. Only it's a rock, you
know.
_The Lady._ But if that's the way he _saw_ it, DICK!
_Dick._ Here's a thing! "_St. Mark's, Venice_." I'll _trouble_ you!
What's he done with the flagstaffs and the bronze horses and the
pigeons? _I_ never saw the place look like that.
_The Lady._ Because it didn't happen to be _foggy_ while we were
there, that's all.
_First Pros. Person._ Ah, there's old CARLYLE, you see! Dear me, what
a very badly fitting coat--see how it bulges over his chest!
_Second P.P._ Yes. I daresay he buttoned the wrong button--philosopher
and all that sort o' thing, y'know.
_First P.P._ (_sympathetically_). Well, I _do_ think WHISTLER might
have _told_ him of it!
IN THE SECOND ROOM.
_The Matron in Search of a Subject._ Ah, now, this really is more
_my_ idea of a picture. Quite a pretty _cretonne_ those curtains,
and there's a little girl reading a book, and a looking-glass with
reflections and all, and a young lady in a riding-habit--just going
out for a ride.
_Caroline._ Yes. Mother. Or just come in from one.
_Her Mother._ Do see what it's called. "_The Morning Canter_" or
"_Back from the Row_"--something of that kind, I _expect_ it would be.
_Caroline._ All it says is, "_A Harmony in Green and Rose_."
_The Mother_ (_disappointed_). Now, why can't he give it some
_sensible_ name, instead of taking away all one's interest!
_The Phil. Uncle_ (_whom a succession of Symphonies and Harmonies has
irritated to the verge of fury_). Don't talk to me, Sir! Don't tell me
any of these things are pictures. Look at _this_--a young woman in an
outlandish dress sitting on the floor--on the bare floor!--in a litter
of Japanese sketches! And he has the confounded impertinence to call
it a "_Caprice_"--a "_Caprice in Purple and Gold_." _I_'d purple and
gold him, Sir, if I had _my_ way! Where's the _sense_ in such things?
What do they _teach_ you? What _story_ do they tell? Where's the
_human interest_ in them? Depend upon it, Sir, these things are
rubbish--sheer rubbish, according to all _my_ notions of Art, and I
think you'll allow I _ought_ to know something about it?
_His Nephew_ (_provoked beyond prudence_). You certainly ought to know
more than _that_, my dear Unc--Are you going?
_The Uncle_ (_grimly_). Yes--to see my Solicitor, Sir. (_To himself,
savagely._) That confounded young prig will find he's paid dear enough
for his precious Whistlers--if I don't have a fit in the cab!
[_He goes; the Nephew wonders whether his attempt at
proselytising was quite worth while._
_A Seriously Elderly Lady._ I've no _patience_ with the man. Look
at GUTSTAVE DORE, now. I'm sure _he_ was a beautiful artist, if
you _like_. Did _he_ go and call his "_Leaving the Praetorium_" a
"Symphony" or a "Harmony," or any nonsense of that kind? Of course
not--and yet look at the _difference_!
_An Impressionable Person_ (_carried away by the local influence--to
the Man at the wicket, blandly_). Could you kindly oblige me by
exchanging this "Note in Black and White" for an "Arrangement in
Silver and Gold"?
[_Finds himself cruelly misunderstood, and suspected of
frivolity._
* * * * *
PERSONAL PARAGRAPHS.
The Rev. No. 354, writing from Dartmoor, requests us to inform
his numerous friends in Bath and elsewhere that his health is much
improved by the bracing air, and that he is occupied in revising for
the press his course of Sermons to the Young on the Moral Virtues.
He is also anxious to inform his creditors that his accounts are now
completely in order. It is a source of great comfort to him to reflect
that he was able to obtain considerable sums of money from his friends
in Bath, before he was obliged to leave that city, and that, with the
residue of this money, obtained so to speak from PETER, he will now
have the satisfaction of paying a farthing in the pound to PAUL, in
other words, to his creditors.
Mrs. BRINVILLIERS was yesterday visited by her friends. Our readers
will be glad to know that she is quite well and has escaped the
influenza epidemic.
Mr. ST. LEONARDS, with the consent of the Governor, takes this
opportunity of thanking the friends who have so kindly condoled with
him on the unavoidable interruption to his long and arduous work in
the service of his country. He hopes that nothing will prevent him
from displaying equal zeal in the still more arduous labour, which,
also for the benefit of his country, he is now compelled to undertake
for a certain period.
Miss DODGER is still unwell. The HOME SECRETARY has not yet sent
instructions for a special drawing-room to be fitted up in the prison,
nor has he, up till now, given any permission for Miss DODGER's
afternoon receptions, and five o'clock teas. It is generally
considered that the probability of his doing so, without a Special Act
of Parliament, is still very remote.
* * * * *
BROKEN BONDS.
["I learn from St. Petersburg, that, last Saturday,
conferences were begun between Russia and Germany on the
admission of the former to the new commercial treaties."--_The
Times Paris Correspondent on "Russia and the Central
Commercial League."_]
_La Belle France, the Forsaken One, loquitur_:--
What do I hear? Oh, do I hear aright,
Over the garden wall?
My latest love, my gallant Muscovite,
Is this the end, this all?
My heartbeats fast, a mist obscures my sight.
Support me, or I fall!
What can he mean? Whatever is she at?--
Ah! well I know _her_ game!
GERMANIA is a vile coquette, a cat.
Seducing my new flame
With mercenary lures, and low at that!
It is a cruel shame!
But six short months ago and I to him
Indeed seemed all in all.
A stalwart lover, though _tant soit peu_ grim,
I fancied him my thrall.
And was it after all pretence, or whim?
Oh, prospect, to appal!
I know my envious rivals said as much,[1]
But that I deemed their spite,
Was't but my money he desired to clutch?
I lent it--with delight!
Were his mere venal vows? His bonds but such
As SAMSON snapped at sight?
See how she purrs, false puss! She deems her _dot_
May well out-glitter mine.
And he! That slow seductive smile I know.
At Cronstadt by the brine,
To that dear dulcet voice, not long ago,
My ears did I incline.
Ah! and those fine moustachios' conquering curl
Subdued my maiden heart.
For me those tendril-tips he'd twist and twirl,
Looking so gay, so smart;
And now he does it for another girl,
And I--I stand apart.
Did I not give my heart to him--false one!--
And also--well, my "stocking"?
Nor after her "commercial" charms he'll run,
My modest beauties mocking.
Hist! I believe of me they're making fun!
_O Ciel_! 'tis simply shocking!
Hist! I can hear her, the sly cat. How fond
Her glances bold and bright!
Her bag is brimming, mine's a broken bond.
I dreamed not me he'd slight
For such mere bagman beauty, tamely blonde,
But--ah! _was_ BLOWITZ right?
[_Left doubting._
[Footnote 1: "The success of a Russian Loan is not dearly purchased by
a little effusion, which, after all, commits Russia to nothing." (See
Cartoon "Turning the Tables," Sept. 26, 1891.)]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A TERRIBLE THREAT.
Impatient Old Gentleman (to Female Post-Office Assistant, who is
chatting pleasantly with an agreeable acquaintance). "LOOK HERE,
YOUNG WOMAN, IF YOU DON'T GIVE ME MY CHANGE, CONFOUND IT, I'M HANGED
IF I DON'T GO AWAY _WITHOUT IT_!"]
* * * * *
DR. VAUGHAN, of Salford, is to be the New Roman Catholic Archbishop of
Westminster. He is a bright cheerful-looking man now, but it is to
be feared that the extra toil and trouble of London may soon give his
features a Care-Vaughan expression.
* * * * *
THE BOUNDS OF SCIENCE.
(FRAGMENT FROM A FIN DE MONDE ROMANCE.)
The Student had read many things, but he had not yet considered
the subject of Coal. He knew that it was expensive, but he had not
imagined that there was so little in the world. But he at length
obtained the requisite knowledge, and set to work to put things
to-rights. He called upon the Secretary of a Transatlantic Ocean
Steamer Company, and remonstrated with him upon the waste with which
the transactions of his institution were conducted.
"You carry your passengers too rapidly," he observed.
"As how?" asked the Secretary.
"Why I am given to understand that the power generated by the coal
gives each person on board your ships a rate of progression night and
day of twenty-four horses."
"And, if it does--what then?"
"Why, it is too much," returned the Student. "All the coal in the
world will be exhausted in something like four or five hundred years;
and so, while there is yet time, I had better go somewhere where coal
is a secondary consideration. What shall I do?"
And then the Secretary advised the Student to take a ticket to the
Centre of Africa--and the Student followed his advice. But the day
before the boat started, the Student once more appeared.
"I am afraid," said he, "I must ask you for the return of my money. I
find that it will be useless for me to go to the Centre of Africa, as
the Sun is about to cease giving warmth."
"Dear me!" cried the Secretary, "I was under the impression that the
Sun was timed to last about one hundred millions of years?"
"It may have been in the far distant past," returned the Student,
sadly, "but recent statistics fix the termination of the Sun's
existence at a much nearer date. There is no doubt that the Sun
will not last more than four millions of years, or five millions at
longest. Now give me my money!"
And (of course) the bullion was promptly returned.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BROKEN BONDS.
_La France_. "IS IT POSSIBLE!--BUT SIX MONTHS AGO!--AND NOW--"]
* * * * *
LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.
NO. XII.--TO PLAUSIBILITY.
DEAR OLD PLAU,
Hear you have been seen about again with GENIALITY. Poor GENIALITY, it
may be admitted, is often something of a fool when he is by himself,
but when you and he begin to hunt in couples, you are a deadly
pair. I once knew a St. Bernard dog--you will perceive the analogy
by-and-by--who lived on terms of friendship with a Skye terrier.
By himself _Rufus_ was a mild and inoffensive giant. He adored the
house-cat, and used to help her, in a ponderous way, with the care
of her numerous family. Many a time have I seen him placidly extended
before a fire, while puss used his shaggy body as a sleeping box, and
once he was observed to help that anxious tabby-mother with the toilet
of her kittens by licking them carefully all over. At every lick of
_Rufus's_ huge prehensile tongue a kitten was lifted bodily into the
air, only, however, to descend washed and unharmed to the ground. But
out of doors, in the society of _Flick, Rufus's_ whole nature seemed
to change. He became a demon-exterminator of cats. Led on by his
yelping little friend, he chased them fiercely to their last retreats,
and, if he caught them, masticated them without mercy. Once too, on
a morning that had been appointed for a big covert-shoot, I noticed
this strangely assorted pair come into the breakfast-room panting and
dirty. They were not usually afoot before breakfast. What could their
condition mean? A flustered keeper arrived shortly afterwards and
explained everything. "Them two dogs o' yourn, Sir," he said, "the big
'un and the little 'un, 'ave run all the coverts through. There's not
a pheasant left in 'em. They're sailin' all over the country."
[Illustration]
The truth was that _Flick_ had organised the expedition with
extraordinary secrecy and cunning. He had persuaded _Rufus_ to join
him, and the result was that we shot forty pheasants instead of the
three hundred on which we had counted.
Now, my dear PLAU, I merely record this little story, and leave you
to apply it. But I may remind you of incidents that touch you more
nearly. Do you remember GORTON? Many years ago GORTON went to Oxford
with a brilliant reputation. Every triumph that the University could
confer was held to be within his grasp. His contemporaries looked
upon him as a marvellous being, who was destined to rise to the top
of whatever tree he felt disposed to climb. He was really a delightful
fellow, fresh, smiling, expansive, amusing, and his friends all
worshipped him. Of course he went in for the Hertford. His success was
certain; it was merely a question as to who should be second. On the
evening before the examination began, there was a strange commotion in
GORTON's College. GORTON, who was supposed to have been reading hard,
was found at about twelve o'clock in the quad in his nightgown. He was
on all fours, and was engaged in eating grass and roaring out ribald
snatches of Latin songs in a shrill voice. When the porter approached
him he said he was a hippogriff, and that in another ten minutes he
intended to fly to Iffley and back in half a second. He was carried
up to bed raving horribly. On the following day he grew calmer, and
in a week he was himself again. But by that time, of course, the
examination was over, and DUBBIN was soon afterwards announced as the
successful competitor.
Judging the past by what I know now, I cannot doubt that the madness
of GORTON was what patrons of the prize-ring call a put-up job, for
he never afterwards showed the smallest symptom of lunacy. He had not
worked sufficiently, and knew he must fail. So he became temporarily
insane, to avoid defeat and maintain his reputation for scholarship.
He left Oxford without taking a degree, and owing money right and
left--to tradesmen, to his friends, to his tutor. Then he disappeared
for some years.
Next he suddenly cropped up again in Ireland. A small borough
constituency had been suddenly declared vacant. GORTON happened to be
staying in the hotel. He promptly offered himself as a candidate, and
plunged with extraordinary vigour into the contest. The way that man
fooled a simple-hearted Irish electorate was marvellous. They came to
believe him to be a millionnaire, a king of finance, a personage at
whose nod Statesmen trembled, a being who mingled with all that was
highest and best in the land. He cajoled them, he flattered them, he
talked them round his little finger, he rollicked with them, opened
golden vistas of promise to everyone of them, smiled at their wives,
defied the Lord Lieutenant, and was elected by a crushing majority
over a native pork-merchant who had nothing but his straightforward
honesty to commend him. Of course there was a petition, and equally
of course GORTON was unseated. Then came the reckoning. GORTON had
apparently intimated that two of the great London political Clubs were
so warmly interested in his candidature as to have undertaken to pay
all his expenses. But when application was made to these institutions,
their secretaries professed a complete and chilling ignorance of
GORTON, and the deputation from Ballywhacket, which had gone to London
in search of gold, had to return empty-handed to their native place,
after wasting a varied stock of full-flavoured Irish denunciation on
the London pavements. But GORTON was undaunted. He actually published
an address in which he lashed the hateful ingratitude of men
who betrayed their friends with golden words, and abandoned them
shamefully in the hour of defeat. But never, so he said, would he
abandon the betrayed electors of Ballywhacket. Others might shuffle,
and cheat and cozen, but he might be counted upon to remain firm,
faithful, and incorruptible amidst the seething waves of political
turpitude.
Having issued this, he vanished again, and was heard of no more for
six or seven years. Then he gradually began to emerge again. He was
engaged in the completion of an immense work of genealogical research,
which was intended to cast an entirely new light on many obscure
incidents of English history. For this he solicited encouragement--and
subscriptions. He enclosed with his appeals some specimen pages, which
appeared to promise marvels of industry and research. His preface
was a wonderful essay, of which a HAYWARD would scarcely have
been ashamed. In this way he gathered a large amount of money from
historical enthusiasts with more ardour than knowledge, and from old
friends who, knowing his real ability, believed that he had at last
determined to justify the opinions of him which they had always held
and expressed. It is unnecessary to add that not another line was
written. For several years ill health was supposed to hinder him. We
read piteous stories of his struggles against the agonies of neuralgia
and rheumatics, some of us threw good money after bad in the effort to
relieve the imaginary sufferer; but to this day the proofs of PERKIN
WARBECK's absolute claim to the throne, and of JACK CADE's indubitable
royal descent remain in the scheming brain of GORTON. Eventually the
poor wretch did die in penury, but over that part of his story I need
not linger. The irony of fate ordained that when he was actually in
want he should wish to be thought in possession of a large income.
I knew a Clergyman once--at least I had every reason to believe him
to be a lawfully ordained Minister of the Church of England. He was
taken on as temporary Curate in a remote district. His life, while he
remained there, was exemplary. He was untiring in good works; the poor
adored him, the well-to-do honoured him. We all thought him a pattern
of unselfish and almost primitive saintliness, and when he departed
from us he went with a silver inkstand, a dining-room clock and a
purse of sovereigns, subscribed for by the parish. The odour of his
sanctity had scarcely evaporated before we discovered, with horror,
that the man had never been ordained at all! He was an impostor,
masquerading under an assumed name, but while he was with us he did
good and lived a flawless life. These matters puzzle me. Perhaps you,
my dear PLAU, can explain.
Yours, DIOGENES ROBINSON.
* * * * *
A RATHER LARGE ORDER.--Amongst the many suggested plans for housing
the collection of pictures once offered by Mr. TATE to the Nation, is
a scheme for turning the Banqueting-hall at Whitehall to a useful and
good account. As a thoughtful Artist has observed in this connection,
"At this moment the spacious building is tied round the necks of the
Members of the United Service Institution like a white elephant."
* * * * *
A MONEY-LENDER said he had never been inside a Church since the day
he looked in at hymn-time, and heard them singing, "With one per cent.
let all the earth," and he didn't want to hear anymore.
* * * * *
TRYING TO THE TEMPER.--Mrs. R. says nothing can induce her to eat
cross buns, as they are sure to disagree with her.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRIALS AT THE LAW COURTS.
A TIMID BUT ERUDITE "LEADER" IS URGED TO TAKE A "BAD OBJECTION."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
All who are interested in the theatrical celebrities of past times
will do well to read a brief, indeed, a too brief paper, about DOROTHY
JORDAN, written by FITZGERALD MOLLOY, for _The English Illustrated
Magazine_ of this month. The Baron does not remember if THACKERAY
touched on the story of this talented Actress in his Lectures on "_The
Four Georges_;" but the sad finish to the brilliant career of Mrs.
JORDAN could hardly have escaped the great Satirist as being one
instance, among many, illustrating the wise King's advice as to "not
putting your trust in Princes;" "or," for the matter of that, and in
fairness, it must be added, "in any child of man." Poor DOROTHY, or
DOLLY JORDAN! but now a Queen of "Puppets," and now--thus, a mere
rag-dolly. Ah, CLARENCE!--"False, fleeting, perjured CLARENCE!" as
SHAKSPEARE wrote of that other Duke in Crookback'd RICHARD's time, for
whom the "ifs" and "ands" of life were resolved for ever in a final
"butt."