Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100, April 11, 1891 written by Various
V >>
Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100, April 11, 1891
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 100.
April 11, 1891.
MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.
NO. XVI.--GERMFOOD.
(_BY_ MARY MORALLY, _AUTHOR OF "GINBITTERS!" "ARDART," &C., &C._)
[The MS. of this remarkable novel was tied round with scarlet
ribbons, and arrived in a case which had been once used for
the packing of bottles of rum, or some other potent spirit.
It is dedicated in highly uncomplimentary terms to "_Messieurs
les Marronneurs glaces de Paris_." With it came a most
extraordinary letter, from which we make, without permission,
the following startling extracts. "Ha! Ha! likewise Fe Fo
Fum. I smell blood, galloping, panting, whirling, hurling,
throbbing, maddened blood. My brain is on fire, my pen is a
flash of lightning. I see stars, three stars, that is to say,
one of the best brands plucked from the burning. I'm going
to make your flesh creep. I'll give you fits, paralytic fits,
epileptic fits, and fits of hysteria, all at the same time.
Have I ever been in Paris? Never. Do I know the taste of
absinthe? How dare you ask me such a question? Am I a woman?
Ask me another. Ugh! it's coming, the demon is upon me. I must
write three murderous volumes. I must, I must! What was that
shriek? and that? and that? Unhand me, snakes! Oh!!!!--M.M."]
CHAPTER I.
[Illustration]
I was asleep and dreaming--dreaming dreadful, horrible,
soul-shattering dreams--dreams that flung me head-first out of
bed, and then flung me back into bed off the uncarpeted floor of my
chamber. But I did not wake--why should I?--it was unnecessary--I
wanted to dream--I had to dream and therefore I dreamt. I was walking
home from a cheap restaurant in one of the poorer quarters of Paris.
"Poorer quarters" is a nice vague term. There are many poorer quarters
in a large city. This was one of them. Let that suffice to the
critical pedants who clamour for accuracy and local colour. Accuracy!
pah! Shall the soaring soul of a three-volumer be restrained by the
debasing fetters of a grovelling exactitude? Never! I will tell you
what. If I choose, I who speak to you, _moi qui vous parle_, the Seine
shall run red with the blood of murdered priests, and there shall be
a tide in it where no tide ever was before, close to Paris itself,
the home of the _Marrons Glaces_, and into the river I shall plunge
a corpse with upturned face and glassy, staring, haunting, dreadful
eyes, and the tide shall turn, the tide that never was on earth, or
sky, or sea, it shall turn in my second volume for one night only,
and carry the corpse of my victim back, back, back under bridges
innumerable, back into the heart of Paris. Dreadful, isn't it?
_Allons, mon ami. Qu'est-ce-qu'il-y-a. Je ne sais quoi. Mon Dieu!_
There's idiomatic French for you, all sprinkled out of a cayenne
pepper-pot to make the local colour hot and strong. Bah! let us return
to our muttons!
CHAPTER II.
What was that? Something yellow, and spotted--something sinuous and
lithe, with crawling, catlike motion. No, no! Yes, yes!! A leopard
of the forest had issued from a side-street, a _cul de sac_, as the
frivolous sons of Paris, the Queen of Vice, call it. It was moving
with me, stopping when I stopped, galloping when I galloped, turning
somersaults when I turned them. And then it spoke to me--spoke,
yes, spoke, this thing of the desert--this wild phantasm of a brain
distraught by over-indulgence in _marrons glaces_, the curse of _ma
patrie_, and its speech was as the scent of scarlet poppies, plucked
from the grave of a discarded mistress.
"Thou shalt write," it said, "for it is thine to reform the world." I
shuddered. The conversational "thou" is fearful at all times; but, ah,
how true to nature, even the nature of a leopard of the forest. The
beast continued--"But thou shalt write in English."
"Spare me!" I ventured to interpose.
"In English," it went on, inexorably--"in hysterical, sad, mad, bad
English. And the tale shall be of France--France, where the ladies
always leave the dinner-table before the men. Note this, and use it
at page ninety of thy first volume. And thy French shall be worse than
thy English, for thou shalt speak of a _frissonement_, and thy friends
shall say, "_Nous blaguons le chose._"
"Stop!" I cried, in despair, "stop, fiend!--this is too much!" I
sprang at the monster, and seized it by the throat. Our eyes, peering
into each other's, seemed to ravage out, as by fire, the secrets
hidden in our hearts. My blood hurled itself through my veins. There
was something clamorous and wild in it. Then I fell prone on the
ground, and remembered that I had eaten one _marron_ for dinner. This
explained everything, and I remembered no more till I came to myself,
and found the divisional surgeon busily engaged upon me with a _pompe
d'estomac_.
CHAPTER III.
My father, M. le Duc DI SPEPSION, belonged to one of the oldest French
families. He had many old French customs, amongst others that of
brushing his bearded lips against my cheek. He was a stern man, with
a severe habit of addressing me as "_Mon fils_." Generally he
disapproved of my proceedings, which was, perhaps, not unnatural,
taking all the circumstances of the case into consideration. Why have
I mentioned him? I know not, save that even now, degraded as I am,
memories of better things sometimes steal over me like the solemn
sound of church-bells pealing in a cathedral belfry. But I have done
with home, with father, with patriotism, with claret, with walnuts,
and with all simple pleasures. _Ca va sans dire._ They talk to me
of Good, and Nature. The words are meaningless to me. Are there
realities behind these words--realities that can touch the heart of
a confirmed _marroneur_? Cold and pitiless, Nature sits aloft like a
mathematician, with his balance regulating the storm-pulses of this
troubled world. Bah! I fling myself in her teeth. I brazen it out. She
quails. For, since the accursed food passed my lips, the strength of a
million demons is in me. I am pitiless. I laugh to think of the fool
I once was in the days when I fed myself on _Baba au Rhum_, and other
innocent dishes. Now I have knowledge. I am my own good. I glance
haughtily into--[Ten rhapsodical pages omitted.--ED. _Punch_.] But
there came into my life a false priest, who was like the ghost of
a fair lost god--and because he was a fair lost, the cabmen loved
him not--and he had to die, and lie in the Morgue--the Morgue where
murdered men and women love to dwell--and thus he should discover the
Eternal Secret!
CHAPTER IV.
Again--again--again! The moon rose, shimmering like a _Marron Glace_
over Paris. Oh! Paris, beauteous city of the lost. Surely in Babylon
or in Nineveh, where SEMIRAMIS of old queened it over men, never
was such madness--madness did I say? Why? What did I mean? Tush! the
struggle is over, and I am calm again, though my blood still hums
tumultuously. The world is very evil. My father died choked by a
_marron_. I, too, am dead--I who have written this rubbish--I am dead,
and sometimes, as I walk, my loved one glides before me in aerial
phantom shape, as on page 4, Vol. II. But I am dead--dead and
buried--and over my grave an avenue of gigantic chestnuts reminds the
passer-by of my fate: and on my tombstone it is written, "Here lies
one who danced a cancan and ate _marrons glaces_ all day. Be warned!"
THE END.
* * * * *
QUITE EXCEPTIONAL THEATRICAL NEWS.--Next Thursday at the Vaudeville,
the Press and the usual Free-Admissionaries will be let in for
_Money_.
* * * * *
MORE KICKS THAN HALFPENCE.
"The root of Volunteer inefficiency is to be ascribed to the
Volunteer officer. The men are such as their officers make
them ... The force is 1,100 officers short of its proper
complement."--_Times_.
[Illustration: _General Redtape_ (_of the Intelligence Department,
W.O._) "WHAT! GOING TO RESIGN!"
_Volunteer Officer_. "YES. WHY SHOULD I ONLY GET YOUR KICKS FOR MY
HALFPENCE?"]
* * * * *
MORE KICKS THAN HALFPENCE.
_VOLUNTEER OFFICER, LOQUITUR_.--
Yes, take back the sword! Though the _Times_ may expostulate,
Tired am I wholly of worry and snubs.
You'll find, my fine friend, what your folly has cost you, late,
Henceforth for me the calm comfort of Clubs!
To lounge on a cushion and hear the balls rattle
'Midst smoke-fumes, and sips on the field of green cloth,
Is better than leading slow troops to sham battle,
In stupid conditions that rouse a man's wrath.
Commissions, they say, go a-begging. Precisely!
Incapables take them, but capables shy.
For twenty-one years you have harried us nicely.
And now, like the rest, we're on Strike, Sir. And why?
The game, you old fossil, is not worth the candle,
Your kicks for my halfpence? The bargain's too bad!
If you want bogus leaders sham soldiers to handle,
You'll now have to take duffers, deadheads, and cads!
The _Times_ wisely says you should make it attractive,
This Volunteer business. But that's not your game.
You're actively snubby, or coldly inactive:
We pay, and you pooh-pooh! 'Tis always the same.
We do not mind giving our time and our money,
Or facing March blasts, or the floods of July;
But till nettles bear grapes, Sir, or wasps yield us honey,
You won't get snubbed men to pay up and look spry.
The "multiplication of camps and manoeuvres"?
All right! Let us learn in a _soldierlike_ school;
But what is the good of your Bisleys and Dovers.
If the whole game resolves into playing the fool?
To play that game longer and pay for it too, Sir,
Won't suit me at all. I'm disgusted and bored.
Your kicks for my halfpence? No, no, it won't do, Sir!
And therefore, old Tapenoddle--take back the sword!
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRUE SENTIMENT.
"I'M WRITING TO MRS. MONTAGUE, GEORGIE,--THAT PRETTY LADY YOU USED TO
TAKE TO SEE YOUR PIGS. HAVEN'T YOU SOME NICE MESSAGE TO SEND HER?"
"YES, MUMMIE; GIVE HER MY LOVE, AND SAY I NEVER LOOK AT A LITTLE BLACK
PIG NOW WITHOUT THINKING OF _HER_!"]
* * * * *
LEAVES FROM A CANDIDATE'S DIARY.
[CONTINUED.]
_March 11_.--I shall have to be pretty careful in my speech to the
Council. Must butter up Billsbury like fun. How would this do? "I am
young, Gentlemen, but I should have studied the political history of
my country to little purpose if I did not know that, up to the time of
the last election, the vote of Billsbury was always cast on the side
of enlightenment, and Constitutional progress. The rash and foolish
experiments of those who sought to impair the glorious fabric of our
laws and our Constitution found no favour in Billsbury. It was not
your fault, I know, that this state of things has not been maintained,
and that Billsbury is now groaning under the heavy burden of a
distasteful representation. Far be it from me to say one word
personally against the present Member for Billsbury. This is a
political fight, and it is because his political opinions are mistaken
that you have decided to attack him"--&c., &c., &c. Must throw in
something about Conservatives being the true friends of working-men.
CHUBSON is not an Eight Hours' man, so I can go a long way. What
shall I say next? Church and State, of course, Ireland pacified and
contented, glorious financial successes of present Government, steady
removal of all legitimate grievances, and triumphs of our diplomacy
in all parts of the world. Shall have to say a good word for
Liberal-Unionists. TOLLAND says there are about thirty of them,
all very touchy. Must try to work in the story of the boy and the
plum-cake. It made them scream at the Primrose League meeting at
Crowdale.
By the way, Uncle HENRY said, "What about the Bar?" I told him I meant
to keep on working at it--which won't be difficult if I don't get more
work. I got just two Statements of Claim, and a Motion before a Judge
in Chambers, all last year, the third year after my call. Sleepy. To
bed.
_March 12_, _"George Hotel," Billsbury_.--Left London by 2.15 to-day,
and got to Billsbury at 5.30. TOLLAND met me at the station with
half a dozen other "leaders of the Party." One was Colonel CHORKLE,
a Volunteer Colonel; another was Alderman MOFFATT, a Scotchman with
a very broad dialect. Then there was JERRAM, the Editor of the
_Billsbury Standard_, "the organ of the Party in Billsbury," so
TOLLAND said, and a couple of others. I was introduced to them all,
and forgot which was which immediately afterwards, which was most
embarrassing, as I had to address them all as "you," a want of
distinction which I am afraid they felt. Tipped two porters, who
carried my bag and rug, a shilling each. They looked knowing, but
old TOLLAND had hinted that the other side had got a character for
meanness of which we could take a perfectly proper advantage without
in any way infringing the Corrupt Practices Act. Must look up that
Act. It may be a help. From the station we went straight to the
"George." There I was introduced to half a dozen more leaders of the
Party. Can't remember one of them except BLISSOP, the Secretary of
the Association, a chap about my own age, who told me his brother
remembered me at Oxford. There was a fellow of that name, I think, who
came up in my year, a scrubby-faced reading man. We made hay in his
room after a Torpid "rag," which he didn't like. Hope it isn't the
same. I said I remembered him well. Dined with TOLLAND; nobody but
leaders of the Party present, all as serious as judges, and full
of importance. CHORKLE, who drops his "h's" frightfully, asked me
"'ow long it would be afore a General Election," and seemed rather
surprised when I said I had no information on the matter.
The meeting of the Council came off in the large hall of the Billsbury
Beaconsfield Club. TOLLAND was in the chair, and made a long speech
in introducing me. I didn't take in a word of it, as I was repeating
my peroration to myself all the time. My speech went off pretty well,
except that I got mixed up in the middle, and forgot that blessed
story. However, when I got into the buttering part, it took them
by storm. I warmed old GLADSTONE up to-rights, and asked them to
contrast the state of England now with what it was when he was in
power. "Hyperion to a Satyr," I said. Colonel CHORKLE, in proposing
afterwards that I was a fit and proper person to represent Billsbury,
said, "Mr. PATTLE's able and convincing speech proves 'im not only
a master of English, but a consummate orator, able to wield the
harmoury" (why he put the "h" there I don't know) "of wit and sarcasm
like a master. _I'm_ not given to boasting," he continued. "_I_
never indulge in badinage" (query, braggadocio?); "but, with such a
Candidate, we _must_ win." JERRAM seconded the resolution, which was
carried _nem. con._ Must get local newspapers, to show to mother.
She'll like that. Shall go back to London to-morrow.
* * * * *
"FORTNIGHTLY" V. SO-CALLED "NINETEENTH CENTURY."--Change of Author's
name. Mr. FREDERIC HARRISON to be known in future as "FREDERIC
HARRASIN' KNOWLES."
(_Signed_) [Greek: Phrederik]
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S POCKET IBSEN.
(_CONDENSED AND REVISED VERSION BY MR. P.'S OWN HARMLESS IBSENITE._)
NO. II.--NORA; OR, THE BIRD-CAGE (ET DIKKISVOeIT).
ACT II.
_The Room, with the cheap Art-furniture as before--except that the
candles on the Christmas-tree have guttered down and appear to have
been lately blown out. The cotton-wool frogs and the chenille monkeys
are disarranged, and there are walking things on the sofa._ NORA
_alone_.
_Nora_ (_putting on a cloak and taking it off again_). Bother
KROGSTAD! There, I won't think of him. I'll only think of the costume
ball at Consul STENBORG's, over-head, to-night, where I am to dance
the Tarantella all alone, dressed as a Capri fisher-girl. It struck
TORVALD that, as I am a matron with three children, my performance
might amuse the Consul's guests, and, at the same time, increase his
connection at the Bank. TORVALD _is_ so practical. (_To_ Mrs. LINDEN,
_who comes in with a large cardboard box._) Ah, CHRISTINA, so you
have brought in my old costume? _Would_ you mind, as my husband's new
Cashier, just doing up the trimming for me?
_Mrs. L._ Not at all--is it not part of my regular duties? (_Sewing._)
Don't you think, NORA, that you see a little too much of Dr. RANK?
_Nora_. Oh, I _couldn't_ see too much of Dr. RANK! He _is_ so
amusing--always talking about his complaints, and heredity, and
all sorts of indescribably funny things. Go away now, dear; I hear
TORVALD. [Mrs. LINDEN _goes. Enter_ TORVALD _from the Manager's room._
NORA _runs trippingly to him._
_Nora_ (_coaxing_). Oh, TORVALD, if only you won't dismiss KROGSTAD,
you can't think how your little lark would jump about and twitter!
_Helmer_. The inducement would be stronger but for the fact that,
as it is, the little lark is generally engaged in that particular
occupation. And I really _must_ get rid of KROGSTAD. If I didn't,
people would say I was under the thumb of my little squirrel here,
and then KROGSTAD and I knew each other in early youth; and when
two people knew each other in early youth--(_a short pause_)--h'm!
Besides, he _will_ address me as, "I say, TORVALD"--which causes me
most painful emotion! He is tactless, dishonest, familiar, and morally
ruined--altogether not at all the kind of person to be a Cashier in a
Bank like mine.
[Illustration: "A poor fellow with both feet in the grave is not the
best authority on the fit of silk stockings."]
_Nora_. But he writes in scurrilous papers,--he is on the staff of the
Norwegian _Punch_. If you dismiss him, he may write nasty things about
_you_, as wicked people did about poor dear Papa!
_Helmer_. Your poor dear Papa was not impeccable--far from it. I
_am_--which makes all the difference. I have here a letter giving
KROGSTAD the sack. One of the conveniences of living close to the Bank
is, that I can use the housemaids as Bank-messengers. (_Goes to door
and calls._) ELLEN! (_Enter parlourmaid._) Take that letter--there is
no answer. (ELLEN _takes it and goes._) That's settled--so now, NORA;
as I am going to my private room, it will be a capital opportunity for
you to practise the tambourine--thump away, little lark, the doors are
double! [_Nods to her and goes in, shutting door._
_Nora_ (_stroking her face_). How _am_ I to get out of this mess! (_A
ring at the Visitors' bell._) Dr. RANK's ring! _He_ shall help me out
of it! (Dr. RANK _appears in doorway, hanging up his great-coat._)
Dear Dr. RANK, how _are_ you? [_Takes both his hands._
_Rank_ (_sitting down near the stove_). I am a miserable,
hypochondriacal wretch--that's what _I_ am. And why am I doomed to be
dismal? Why? Because my father died of a fit of the blues! _Is_ that
fair--I put it to _you_?
_Nora_. Do try to be funnier than _that_! See, I will show you the
flesh-coloured silk tights that I am to wear to-night--it will cheer
you up. But you must only look at the feet--well, you may look at the
rest if you're good. _Aren't_ they lovely? Will they fit me, do you
think?
_Rank_ (_gloomily_). A poor fellow with both feet in the grave is not
the best authority on the fit of silk stockings. I shall be food for
worms before long--I _know_ I shall!
_Nora_. You mustn't really be so frivolous! Take that! (_She hits him
lightly on the ear with the stockings; then hums a little._) I want
you to do me a great service, Dr. RANK. (_Rolling up stockings_,) I
always liked _you_. I love TORVALD most, of _course_--but, somehow,
I'd rather spend my time with you--you _are_ so amusing!
_Rank_. If I am, can't you guess why? (_A short silence._) Because I
love you! You can't pretend you didn't know it!
_Nora_. Perhaps not--but it was really too clumsy of you to mention it
just as I was about to ask a favour of you! It was in the worst taste!
(_With dignity._) You must not imagine because I joke with you about
silk stockings, and tell you things I never tell TORVALD, that I am
therefore without the most delicate and scrupulous self-respect! I
am really quite a good little doll, Dr. RANK, and now--(_sits in
rocking-chair and smiles_)--now I shan't ask you what I was going to!
[ELLEN _comes in with a card._
_Nora_ (_terrified_). Oh, my goodness! [_Puts it in her pocket._
_Dr. Rank_. Excuse my easy Norwegian pleasantry--but--h'm--anything
disagreeable up?
_Nora_ (_to herself_). KROGSTAD's card! I must tell _another_ whopper!
(_To_ RANK.) No. nothing, only--only my new costume. I want to try
it on here. I always do try on my dresses in the drawing-room--it's
_cosier_, you know. So go into TORVALD and amuse him till I'm ready.
[RANK _goes into_ HELMER's _room, and_ NORA _bolts the door upon him,
as_ KROGSTAD _enters from hall in a fur cap._
_Krogs._ Well, I've got the sack, and so I came to see how _you_ are
getting on. I mayn't be a nice man, but--(_with feeling_)--I have a
heart! And, as I don't intend to give up the forged I.O.U. unless
I'm taken back, I was afraid you might be contemplating suicide, or
something of that kind; and so I called to tell you that, if I were
you, I wouldn't. Bad thing for the complexion, suicide, and silly,
too, because it wouldn't mend matters in the least. (_Kindly._) You
must not take this affair too seriously. Mrs. HELMER. Get your husband
to settle it amicably by taking me back as Cashier; _then_ I shall
soon get the whip-hand of _him_, and we shall all be as pleasant and
comfortable as possible together!
_Nora_. Not even that prospect can tempt me! Besides, TORVALD wouldn't
have you back at any price now!
_Krogs._ All right, then. I have here a letter, telling your husband
all. I will take the liberty of dropping it in the letter-box at your
hall-door as I go out. I'll wish you good evening! [_He goes out;
presently the dull sound of a thick letter dropping into a wire box is
heard._
_Nora_ (_softly, and hoarsely_). He's done it! How _am_ I to prevent
TORVALD from seeing it?
_Helmer_ (_inside the door, rattling_). Hasn't my lark changed its
dress yet? (NORA _unbolts door_.) What--so you are _not_ in fancy
costume, after all? (_Enters with_ RANK.) Are there any letters for me
in the box there?
_Nora_ (_voicelessly_). None--not even a postcard! Oh, TORVALD, don't,
please, go and look--_promise_ me you won't! I do _assure_ you there
isn't a letter! And I've forgotten the Tarantella you taught me--do
let's run over it. I'm so afraid of breaking down--promise me not to
look at the letter-box. I can't dance unless you do.
_Helmer_ (_standing still, on his way to the letter-box_). I am a man
of strict business habits, and some powers of observation; my little
squirrel's assurances that there is nothing in the box, combined with
her obvious anxiety that I should not go and see for myself, satisfy
me that it is indeed empty, in spite of the fact that I have
not invariably found her a strictly truthful little dicky-bird.
There--there. (_Sits down to piano._) Bang away on your tambourine,
little squirrel--dance away, my own lark!
_Nora_ (_dancing, with a long gay shawl_). Just _won't_ the little
squirrel! Faster--faster! Oh, I _do_ feel so gay! We will have some
champagne for dinner, _won't_ we, TORVALD? [_Dances with more and more
abandonment._
_Helmer_ (_after addressing frequent remarks in correction_). Come,
come--not this awful wildness! I don't like to see _quite_ such a
larky little lark as this ... Really it is time you stopped!
_Nora_ (_her hair coming down as she dances more wildly still, and
swings the tambourine_). I can't ... I can't! (_To herself, as she
dances._) I've only thirty-one hours left to be a bird in; and after
that--(_shuddering_)--after _that_, KROGSTAD will let the cat out of
the bag! [_Curtain._
N.B.--The final Act,--containing scenes of thrilling and realistic
intensity, worked out with a masterly insight and command
of psychology, the whole to conclude with a new and original
_denoument_--unavoidably postponed to a future number. No money
returned.
* * * * *
TAKING THE CENSUS.
(_A STORY OF THE 6TH OF APRIL, 1891._)
[Illustration]
As I have but a limited holding in the Temple, and, moreover, slept
on the evening of the 5th of April at Burmah Gardens, I considered
it right and proper to fill in the paper left me by the "Appointed
Enumerator" at the latter address. And here I may say that the title
of the subordinate officer intrusted with the addition of my household
to the compilation of the Census pleased me greatly--"Appointed
Enumerator" was distinctly good. I should have been willing (of course
for an appropriate _honorarium_) to have accepted so well-sounding an
appointment myself. To continue, the general tone of the instructions
"to the Occupier" was excellent. Such words as "erroneous,"
"specification," and the like, appeared frequently, and must have been
pleasant strangers to the householder who was authorised to employ
some person other than himself to write, "if unable to do so himself."
To be captious, I might have been better pleased had the housemaid who
handed me the schedule been spared the smile provoked by finding me
addressed by the "Appointed Enumerator" as "Mr. BEEFLESS," instead of
"Mr. BRIEFLESS." But this was a small matter.