Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 152, April 18, 1917 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 152, April 18, 1917
Well, I think darkly, they will be sorry presently. I have no intention or
expectation of getting better, and when they see me a fair young corpse
then they'll know.
Already I loathe the Two Hundred. Not that I believe for a minute the story
of my own disease being the same as their miserable little complaints. In
recurring periods of conscious thought I go through the list of things I
know for a fact I have got--rheumatic fever, sciatica, lumbago, toothache,
neuritis, bronchitis, laryngitis, tonsilitis, neuralgia, gastritis, catarrh
of several kinds, heart disease and inflammation (or possibly congestion)
of the lungs. I shall think of some more presently, if my nurse will let me
alone and not keep on worrying me with her "Just drink this." Bother the
woman! Why doesn't she get off the earth? What's the use of my swallowing
that man's filthy medicine when he doesn't know what's the matter with me?
I hate everybody and everything, especially the eider-down quilt, which
rises in slow billows in front of my eyes and threatens to engulf me. When
in a paroxysm of fury I suddenly cast it on the floor, it lies there still
billowing, and seems to leer at me. There is something fat and sinister and
German about that eiderdown. I never noticed it before. _Two Hundred German
eider-downs!_
The firelight flickers weirdly about the room and I try to count the
shadows. But before I begin I know the answer--TWO HUNDRED.
I drift into a nightmare of Two Hundred elusive cabbages which I am
endeavouring to plant in my new allotment, where a harsh fate forces me to
dig and _dig_ and DIG, and, as a natural consequence, also to ache and
_ache_ and ACHE.
PHASE II.
I can stand up with assistance from the bed-post and totter feebly to an
arm-chair by the fire, where I sit in a dressing-gown and weep. What for? I
couldn't say, except that it seems a fit and proper thing to do.
I am still of opinion that I am not long for this world, and my favourite
occupation at present is counting up the number of wreaths that I might
justifiably expect to have sent to my funeral. I don't tell my nurse, who
would immediately try to "cheer me up" by talking to me or giving me a
magazine to look at. And I would _much_ rather count wreaths. The Smiths
probably would not be able to afford one....
My thoughts are distracted by the sudden apparition of a little meal. I
begin to take an interest in these little meals, which are of such frequent
occurrence that I am reduced to tears again, this time at the thought of
the extra expense I am causing. And all for nothing. Why don't they save
the money for wreaths?
The doctor comes while I am swallowing my egg, miserably yet with a certain
gusto, and I dry my eyes hastily as I hear him bounding up the stairs.
"Hullo," he calls out before he is well through the door, "how are we
to-day, eh? Beginning to sit up and take notice? I think we'll change your
medicine."
"_I_ think," I remark resignedly, "that it will be best for someone to dig
a hole and bury me."
"Jolly good idea," he agrees heartily. "In fact why not do it to all of us?
Please the Germans so too. But it can't be done, you know--there's a
shortage of grave-diggers."
Heartless brute!
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Regimental Sergeant-Major_ (_to lady driver of motor
ambulance_). "I SEE YOU'VE GOT STRIPES. HAVE YOU GOT A SERGEANT-MAJOR?"
_Corporal Maud Evans._ "HAVE WE GOT A SERGEANT-MAJOR? I SHOULD THINK WE
HAVE--THE CAT!"]
* * * * *
"By fixing five potatoless days hope is entertained that supplies,
which are scent, will be left to poor people who most require them."--
_Daily Chronicle._
This explains the remark of the Irishman who protested that it was weeks
since he had tasted even "the smell of a potato."
* * * * *
"It will take years to cleanse the AEgean stables."--_Civil and Military
Gazette._
Still, M. VENEZELOS has made a good beginning with Samos, Lemnos and
several other 'osses.
* * * * *
From the report of a prohibition meeting at Peebles:--
"A pleasant and most enjoyable addendum was a series of lantern slides
depicting the havoc wrought by the Huns in Belgium."--_Peebleshire
Advertiser._
It is still "Peebles for pleasure" at any cost.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRIALS OF A HEAVYWEIGHT.
"I HOPE YOU WON'T MIND, UNCLE, BUT I'VE LENT YOU TO MRS. ROBINSON FOR
HALF-AN-HOUR AFTER LUNCH. SHE'S GOT AN AWFULLY STIFF BIT OF GROUND TO GET
THROUGH."]
* * * * *
THE HINDENBURG LINE.
In our earnest endeavour to discover exactly where this impregnable barrier
is likely to be encountered we have collected the following references to
it in the German Press of the next few months:--
... Our troops, according to plan, are now operating to the east of the
Vimy Ridge where the fighting is taking the direction intended by us. We
have succeeded in restoring a condition of voluntary elasticity,
preparatory to the occupation of the famous Hindenburg Line, which covers
Douai, St. Quentin and La Fere.
... Our rearguard actions to the east of St. Quentin are developing in
accordance with our wildest dreams, our troops, after their brief respite
in the so-called Wotan Line, displaying their ability in a war of rapid
movement. The hesitating British are disconcerted by the recrudescence of
fluidity on the front. We learn with satisfaction that our Northern
divisions are now safely established in the Hindenburg Line--to the east of
Douai.
... We learn to-day with the very keenest emotion of the complete and
brilliant evacuation of the Siegfried Line, to the east of Douai, and the
re-establishment of a new measure of liquidity. British aeroplanes (of
which 133 have been brought down according to plan) have been making long
flights over our territory with a view to observation of the Hindenburg
Line--on the left bank of the Meuse. It is said that two of our machines
are missing, but a recount has been ordered. There must be some mistake.
... A shrewd blow has been dealt to the British by our abandonment, in
agreement with the prospectus, of the Beckmesser Line. All has gone
according to our hopes, our longings and our prayers. We have crossed the
Meuse.
... The secret is out at last. The Hindenburg Line, about which there has
been so much speculation, is now known to run through Liege, Luxemburg and
Metz. According to schedule we are now approaching this position, which has
only been attained by an amazing display of spontaneous volatility on our
part. The fighting of the last few weeks, in the neighbourhood of the
Pogner, Sieglinda, Kurvenal and Lohengrin Lines, fell out as had been
prognosticated by us.
... The importance of Cologne, as the main bastion of the impregnable
Hindenburg Line, cannot be over-rated. Our strategical, voluntary and
gratuitous crossing of the Rhine was carried out according to _agenda_....
* * * * *
THE IMPERFECT ECONOMIST.
"I wear my very oldest suits,
I go about in shocking boots,
And (bar potatoes) feed on roots
And various cereal substitutes
For wheat, and non-imported fruits.
No meat my table now pollutes,
But, though I spare warm-blooded brutes,
I sometimes sup on frogs and newts.
I often spend laborious days
Supported by a little maize;
And rice prepared in divers ways
My appetite at luncheon stays.
From sugar I avert my gaze;
Unsweetened tea my thirst allays;
I never go to any plays
Or smoke expensive Henry Clays."
_Our excellent Economist_
_His pet extravagance forgets,_
_Which rather spoils his little list--_
_His fifty daily cigarettes._
* * * * *
[Illustration: "SWOOPING FROM THE WEST."
[It is the intention of our new Ally to assist us in the patrolling of the
Atlantic.]]
* * * * *
[Illustration: ON AN OUTLYING FORT.
_Orderly Officer._ "ANYTHING SERIOUS TO REPORT, SERGEANT?"
_Sergeant._ "GUNNER JONES FEELS 'OMESICK, SIR, AND MAY HE SEND FOR 'IS
PARROT?"]
* * * * *
THE GENERAL.
Last night, as I was washing up,
And just had rinsed the final cup,
All of a sudden, 'midst the steam,
I fell asleep and dreamt a dream.
I saw myself an old, old man,
Nearing the end of mortal span,
Bent, bald and toothless, lean and spare,
Hunched in an ancient beehive chair.
Before me stood a little lad
Alive with questions. "Please, Granddad,
Did Daddy fight, and Uncle Joe,
In the Great War of long ago?"
I nodded as I made reply:
"Your Dad was in the H.L.I.,
And Uncle Joseph sailed the sea,
Commander of a T.B.D.,
And Uncle Jack was Major too----"
"And what," he asked me, "what were you?"
I stroked the little golden head;
"I was a General," I said.
"Come, and I'll tell you something more
Of what I did in the Great War."
At once the wonder-waiting eyes
Were opened in a mild surmise;
Smiling, I helped the little man
To mount my knee, and so began:
"When first the War broke out, you see,
Grandma became a V.A.D.;
Your Aunties spent laborious days
In working at Y.M.C.A.'s;
The servants vanished. Cook was found
Doing the conscript baker's round;
The housemaid, Jane, in shortened skirt
(She always was a brazen flirt),
Forsook her dusters, brooms and pails
To carry on with endless mails.
The parlourmaid became a vet.,
The tweeny a conductorette,
And both the others found their missions
In manufacturing munitions.
I was a City man. I knew
No useful trade. What could I do?
Your Granddad, boy, was not the sort
To yield to fate; he was a sport.
I set to work; I rose at six,
Summer and winter; chopped the sticks,
Kindled the fire, made early tea
For Aunties and the V.A.D.
I cooked the porridge, eggs and ham,
Set out the marmalade and jam,
And packed the workers off, well fed,
Well warmed, well brushed, well valeted.
I spent the morning in a rush
With dustpan, pail and scrubbing-brush;
Then with a string-bag sallied out
To net the cabbage or the sprout,
Or in the neighbouring butcher's shop
Select the juiciest steak or chop.
So when the sun had sought the West,
And brought my toilers home to rest,
Savours more sweet than scent of roses
Greeted their eager-sniffing noses--
Savours of dishes most divine
Prepared and cooked by skill of mine.
I was a General. Now you know
How Generals helped to down the foe."
The little chap slipped off my knee
And gazed in solemn awe at me,
Stood at attention, stiff and mute,
And gave his very best salute.
* * * * *
"Prescriptions (C.P.--197/30).--The replies to your queries are as
follows:--(a) Refuse; (b) refuse; (c) refuse; (d) refuse; (e) No."--
_Pharmaceutical Journal._
We have often felt like that about prescriptions ourselves, but have never
ventured to say so.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE RECRUIT'S FAREWELL TO HIS BOWLER.]
* * * * *
JOLLYMOUSE.
In what I will particularise as the ---- area of the War zone, there is a
small village-by-a-stream where Generals stride about the narrow streets or
whirl through them in gigantic cars, and guards at every corner clank and
turn out umpty times a day. Down in the hollow the stream by the village
laughs placidly along, mocking at the Great War, but I doubt if the
Generals have much time to listen to it, for the village-by-the-stream is a
Corps Headquarters.
However the Doctor led us (which includes the War Babe and James the Acting
Adjutant) to the village-by-the-stream, where, just across the stone
bridge, he indicated on the wall of a house the legend:
RESTAURANT FOR OFFICERS.
TEA, COFFEE, CHAMPAGNE AND ALL SUCH ARTICLE IS SELL HERE.
"Tea," he said feelingly, "and there will be china cups and thin bread-and-
butter, and real milk and come along in."
It was rather a composite restaurant. There was a glassed-in balcony with
tables and chairs; and all around there were puttees, handkerchiefs,
paper-weights, inkstands, wrist-watches and electric torches. There were
loose-leaved pocket diaries of abominable ingenuity (irresistible to
Adjutants); collars and ties to clothe the neck of man, and soap to wash it
withal. Hair lotions, safety-razors, _pate de foie gras_, sponges and
writing-pads jostled each other on the shelves. Walking-sticks and bottles
of champagne lay in profusion on the floor. It was less of a restaurant
than an emporium, but the Doctor sat down contentedly and rang the bell;
and the War Babe threw out battle patrols to reconnoitre the position.
He passed unscathed through the barrage of sticks and diaries; evaded
skilfully the indirect fire of electric torches; reached his first
objective among the soap-boxes, and there met his fate.
"Doctor," he demanded suddenly, "what's 'savon jollymouse'?"
"Savon," the doctor began didactically, "is a preparation of fatty acids
saponified with alkali. It is principally manufactured from coker-nut oil,
although other similar, if less offensive, substances are sometimes
employed. In the English tongue it is known as 'soap,' and----"
"You idiot," said the War Babe amiably, "I know what 'savon' is. But what's
a 'jollymouse'?"
"A rodent," replied the Doctor--"a small rodent in a state of mental
exhilaration or merriment."
"Rats."
"Yes, the same definition would also apply to rats. _Jolly_ rats, that is
to say."
"You're very bright to-day, Doctor," said the War Babe, "but it doesn't
happen to be that kind of mouse at all. It's j-o-l-i, jolly; m-o-u-s-s-e
----"
"Why didn't you say that before? That's quite different. It's pronounced
moose--zholimoose."
The War Babe sniffed.
"I don't believe you know what it means any more than I do."
"Son of Mars," the Doctor answered gravely, "you are measuring my ignorance
by your own--a great mistake. As a matter of fact that word is put on the
packet simply to deceive unwary Babes. It has nothing whatever to do with
soap."
"Well, since you know so much," said the War Babe, closing with his
opponent, "what _is_ a jollymouse or whatever you call it?"
"A zholimoose, my dear," the Doctor began, "is very hard to describe and
has to be seen to be believed. A War Babe would probably not recognise one
if he saw it. To give you a rough idea, however, it is an airy Will-o'-the-
wispish----"
The bell had done its work at last, and there suddenly entered by an inner
door a fair-haired, fair-skinned French girl almost too pretty to be real.
The Doctor paused with his eyes on her and then his face lit up with
triumph.
"Gentlemen," he said, in a low vibrating tone, "behold the zholimoose.
Hush. It will probably come closer if you don't frighten it."
"Have you got the landing-net?" whispered James hoarsely.
"Yes. And the killing bottle. It's this War Babe I'm afraid of. He's sure
to scare it. Don't glare at her like that, War Babe. Pretend you're a
soap-box."
She hovered on the threshold. It seemed touch and go... and then the War
Babe broke the ice in his choicest French.
"Mademoiselle!"
"Messieurs!" She came daintily forward and looked inquiries at us all.
"Tay avec--er bread-and-butter, si-vooplay," the Doctor ground out in his
execrable lingo. "And--er--I never can remember the French for milk."
"Lait?" I suggested.
"That's it. Now, Mademoiselle-lay. But not canned stuff. Vray lay."
Her eyes grew wider and wider at this strange jargon.
"Comment, M'sieur?"
"Vray lay."
"I suppose you mean lait an naturel," growled James.
"Du lait frais," I hazarded.
"Ah. Comprends. C'est triste. Pas de lait frais. Les hopitaux prennent
tout."
"No milk?" wailed the Doctor. He looked fixedly at the table and one saw
from the movement of his lips that he was mustering his forces for another
plunge into the language. Meanwhile the War Babe, whose eyes had not left
the girl's face, ventured again on the thin ice of speech.
"Mademoiselle," he began hesitatingly.
"Oui, M'sieur." She turned to him, the picture of rapt attention.
"Ou est la jollymouse--moose, I mean?"
She looked from one to another of us in perplexity.
"Qu'est ce qu'il veut dire?" she asked.
"Il veut voir la jolimousse," we explained, and the War Babe held out the
soap-box, pointing with expressive pantomime to the words on it. Her eyes
twinkled appreciatively.
"Nous--nous supposerons que--vous etes--la jolimouse," said the War Babe
slowly, choosing his words with care.
"Bien sur," James added affirmatively.
"Moi?" She rippled with laughter. "Oh non. Attendez, Messieurs. Ouait one
mineet." She flitted through the door like some beautiful butterfly, and in
a moment returned with the smallest, softest, warmest lump of blue-grey fur
nestling against her. It was a tiny blue Persian kitten.
"Voila!" she said, caressing it tenderly, "la jolimousse." She handed it
gravely to the War Babe, who received it with almost reverend care.
It seems perhaps a little worldly to return to the subject of tea, but
doctors are worldly creatures. However, at this point the doom of the gods
descended, for there was no tea to be obtained, only coffee; no bread-and-
butter, only little hard biscuits; and the cups, though certainly china,
were but little larger than liqueur-glasses. But one of us at least was
impervious to disappointments. The War Babe sat silently, with the kitten
in his lap, like a seer of visions, until, just as we were about to leave,
an impulse suddenly galvanized him. "I'll pay," he said, and marched into
the inner room....
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Victim._ "CONFOUND YOUR DOG, MADAM! IT'S NEARLY BITTEN A
PIECE OUT OF MY LEG."
_Owner_ (_distressed_). "I AM TRULY SORRY, SIR. NAUGHTY LITTLE DAPHNE!
AFTER ALL MY EFFORTS TO MAKE WEDNESDAY YOUR MEATLESS DAY."]
* * * * *
DOMESTIC STRATEGY.
_Mr. Meanly._ My dear, I see that _The People's Adviser_ is inviting its
readers to send details of their individual food reforms for publication.
_Pour encourager les autres._ Just tell me what our rules are.
_Mrs. Meanly._ Certainly, dear. We have meat only on two days a week;
potatoes only on two days a week (_and so on_).
_Mr. Meanly._ Good. I will write a letter. And then the day after it
appears in print you might send out invitations to dinner. There are a lot
of arrears to make up and we'll clear them off now. Say a series of three
parties.
_Mrs. Meanly._ But, dear, ought we to do it in war-time?
_Mr. Meanly._ After the publication of our system of meals, it will be
quite safe to send the invitations, my love.
* * * * *
A CURRENT EVENT.
Years ago Mr. Punch, in a moment of inspiration (I wrote the article
myself), suggested that some benevolent American millionaire might alter
the course of the Gulf Stream so that it flowed right round these islands.
In the eye of imagination he saw date palms bordering the Strand, costers
sitting under their own banana trees, and stately cavalcades of camels
bearing wearied City men to Balham or Putney. (Unhappily he could not look
so far into the future as to forecast the allotment holders returning home
laden with sugar-canes).
Now a writer in _The Times_ suggests that the chill of the present season
is due to the effect of the Panama Canal on the Gulf Stream. This is an
insidious attempt to make bad blood between ourselves and our new allies.
We could only feel the bitterest hostility towards anyone in any way
responsible for the present season. Why, this spring has spread such
devastation through the land that writers of nature notes have been unable
to pay their plumbers' bills.
But while we repudiate the implication of American responsibility we think
it well to be absolutely on the safe side; so we suggest that it would be a
friendly act, and consonant with the new spirit of alliance, if she would
kindly keep the Panama Canal plugged for the next few weeks. One would like
to make sure of hearing the cuckoo in Victory Year.
* * * * *
"Only ninety-two pigs came to Vienna's Easter market, of which ninety-
four were allotted to hospitals."--_Daily Mail._
The two extra ones, it is understood, came from HINDENBURG'S "strategic
reserve."
* * * * *
"It is expected that an official announcement will shortly be made of a
scheme which will put practically the whole of the topmaking industry
of Bradford at the disposal of the Government."--_Daily Telegraph._
That ought to make things hum.
* * * * *
"Napoleon was desolated were he left in the same room with a cat ...
but he was not in the least afraid of being alone in the same room with
Anne of Austria, whose claws were of a far more formidable capacity."--
_West Australian._
NAPOLEON'S intrepidity may have been due to his knowledge that ANNE of
Austria died about a century before he was born.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "MY POOR REGINALD IS IN 'ORSPITAL WITH RHEUMATICS IN HIS
LEGS. THE SCOTCH COSTUME, YOU KNOW."]
* * * * *
AT THE PLAY.
"THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS."
_Mrs. Dowey_ (actually a virgin spinster), felt herself out of it because
she had no son at the Front to talk about. I gathered that it was not so
much a case of unsatisfied yearning for motherhood, as that she wanted to
hold her own with the other charwomen who were represented in the trenches.
So she assumed the relationship of an anonymous _marraine_ towards a
certain unknown namesake in the Black Watch, and made boastful pretence of
having received letters from her son.
Suddenly she is confronted with this _Private Dowey_, home on leave--a
lonely soldier with no family ties. The joy that she had taken in her
imagined sense of proprietorship is dashed by fear of exposure and of
possible resentment on his part. At first he treats her intrusion almost
brutally, but is soon mollified by the offer of food and other hospitality;
and by the time his leave is up he has developed an almost filial regard
for her. Their parting is as the parting of a tender-hearted mother and a
rather unemotional son. The pathos of this scene, though designed and
interpreted with a very sensitive restraint, was comparatively obvious--a
commonplace, indeed, of these heart-rending days. There was a far more
subtle and original note of pathos in the contrast between the brusque
humour of the man's casual acceptance of the situation and the timorous,
adoring, dog-like devotion of the woman. Here tears and laughter were never
far apart.
I could wish that the impression left by this picture had not been a little
spoiled by the final scene, in which she lingers lovingly over the medals
and uniform of the dead soldier. No good purpose, dramatic or other, was
served by this gratuitous appendage to a finished work of art.
Miss JEAN CADELL was simply wonderful; and Mr. MULCASTER, as _Private
Dowey_, typically Scottish in his cautious reservations, was admirable. Mr.
EDGAR WOOD played capably as one of our many eligible but non-combatant
clergymen; and the chorus of aggressively humorous charwomen, though
perhaps they had rather too much to say, said it very well.
[Illustration: "SEVEN WOMEN" AND ONE SAILOR.
_Leonora_ ... Miss IRENE VANBRUGH.
_Captain Rattray, R.N_ ... MR. GORDON ASH.]
Sir JAMES BARRIE'S other one-Act play, _Seven Women_ (all rolled into one),
suffered, as might be expected, from compression. _Leonora_ had to be a
clinging motherly creature, a desperate flirt, a gifted humourist, a woman
without humour, a murderess (out of an old play by the same author), and
two other types which escape me. In the course of about a quarter of an
hour she had to give a succinct _precis_ of the different moods which her
versatile personality might in actual life conceivably have assumed if she
had had a month to do it in. Miss IRENE VANBRUGH, with her swift humour and
her skill as a quick-change artist, naturally revelled in this _tour de
force_, and, thanks to her, the author came very near to being justified of
his caprice.
Between these two plays was sandwiched Mr. A.A. MILNE'S
"WURZEL-FLUMMERY."
There was never any doubt about the freshness and spontaneity of Mr.
MILNE'S humour. The only question was whether an author so fastidiously
unstagey, who never underlines his intentions, would be able to accommodate
himself to the conditions of a medium that discourages the elliptical
method. Well, he did it, and very artfully. He began by making concessions
to the habits of his new audience. He wouldn't try them too high at first.
In the person of _Robert Crawshaw, M.P._ (Mr. NIGEL PLAYFAIR), he
introduced them to a more or less conventional type--exposed, it is true,
to a very unusual test of character but dealing with it as such a type was
bound to deal. Then, having inspired confidence, he created a rarer
atmosphere, and in _Denis Clifton_, a blend of solicitor and play-wright,
he produced a figure of fantasy whose delightfully irresponsible humour
might have found his audience a little shy at an earlier stage. There was a
real note of distinction, extraordinarily well maintained, in _Clifton's_
dialogue with _Crawshaw_ and the boy-clerk, and Mr. MILNE was particularly
fortunate to have the part interpreted by Mr. DION BOUCICAULT, who
developed qualities undreamed of in my previous estimation of his gifts.