It is always delightful to wake up in a new bedroom. The fresh
wall-paper, the strange pictures, the positions of doors and windows,
imperfectly grasped the night before, are revealed with all the charm
of surprise when we open our eyes the next morning.
It was about eight o'clock when Fanfreluche awoke, stretched himself
deliciously in his great plumed four-post bed, murmured "What a pretty
room!" and freshened the frilled silk pillows behind him. Through
the slim parting of the long flowered window curtains, he caught a
peep of the sun-lit lawns outside, the silver fountains, the bright
flowers, the gardeners at work, and beneath the shady trees some early
breakfasters, dressed for a day's hunting in the distant wooded valleys.
"How sweet it all is," exclaimed the Abbé, yawning with infinite
content. Then he lay back in his bed, stared at the curious patterned
canopy above him and nursed his waking thoughts.
He thought or the "Romaunt de la Rose," beautiful, but all too brief.
Of the Claude in Lady Delaware's collection.[1]
Of a wonderful pair of blonde trousers he would get Madame Belleville
to make for him.
Of a mysterious park full of faint echoes and romantic sounds.
Of a great stagnant lake that must have held the subtlest frogs that
ever were, and was surrounded with dark unreflected trees, and sleeping
fleurs de luce.
Of Saint Rose, the well-known Peruvian virgin; how she vowed herself to
perpetual virginity when she was four years old[2]; how she was beloved
by Mary, who from the pale fresco in the Church of Saint Dominic, would
stretch out her arms to embrace her; how she built a little oratory
at the end of the garden and prayed and sang hymns in it till all the
beetles, spiders, snails and creeping things came round to listen;
how she promised to marry Ferdinand de Flores, and on the bridal
morning perfumed herself and painted her lips, and put on her wedding
frock, and decked her hair with roses, and went up to a little hill not
far without the walls of Lima; how she knelt there some moments calling
tenderly upon Our Lady's name, and how Saint Mary descended and kissed
Rose upon the forehead and carried her up swiftly into heaven.
[Illustration: St. Rose of Lima]
He thought of the splendid opening of Racine's "Britannicus."
Of a strange pamphlet he had found in Helen's library, called "A Plea
for the Domestication of the Unicorn."
Of the "Bacchanals of Sporion."[3]
Of Morales' Madonnas with their high egg-shaped creamy foreheads and
well-crimped silken hair.
Of Rossini's "Stabat Mater" (that delightful _démodé_ piece of
decadence, with a quality in its music like the bloom upon wax fruit).
Of love, and of a hundred other things.
Then his half-closed eyes wandered among the prints that hung upon the
rose-striped walls. Within the delicate curved frames lived the corrupt
and gracious creatures of Dorat and his school, slender children in
masque and domino smiling horribly, exquisite letchers leaning over the
shoulders of smooth doll-like girls and doing nothing in particular,
terrible little Pierrots posing as lady lovers and pointing at
something outside the picture, and unearthly fops and huge bird-like
women mingling in some rococo room, lighted mysteriously by the flicker
of a dying fire that throws great shadows upon wall and ceiling.
Fanfreluche had taken some books to bed with him. One was the witty,
extravagant, "Tuesday and Josephine," another was the score of "The
Rheingold." Making a pulpit of his knees he propped up the opera
before him and turned over the pages with a loving hand, and found
it delicious to attack Wagner's brilliant comedy with the cool head
of the morning.[4] Once more he was ravished with the beauty and
wit of the opening scene; the mystery of its prelude that seems to
come up from the very mud of the Rhine, and to be as ancient, the
abominable primitive wantonness of the music that follows the talk and
movements of the Rhine-maidens, the black, hateful sounds of Alberic's
love-making, and the flowing melody of the river of legends.
But it was the third tableau that he applauded most that morning, the
scene where Loge, like some flamboyant primeval Scapin, practises his
cunning upon Alberic. The feverish insistent ringing of the hammers at
the forge, the dry staccato restlessness of Mime, the ceaseless coming
and going of the troup of Niblungs, drawn hither and thither like a
flock of terror-stricken and infernal sheep, Alberic's savage activity
and metamorphoses, and Loge's rapid, flaming tongue-like movements,
make the tableau the least reposeful, most troubled and confusing thing
in the whole range of opera. How the Abbé rejoiced in the extravagant
monstrous poetry, the heated melodrama, and splendid agitation of it
all!
[Illustration: For the Third Tableau of "Das Rheingold"]
At eleven o'clock Fanfreluche got up and slipped off his dainty
night-dress.
His bathroom was the largest and perhaps the most beautiful apartment
in his splendid suite. The well-known engraving by Lorette that forms
the frontispiece to Millevoye's "Architecture du XVIII<sup>me</sup>
siècle" will give you a better idea than any words of mine of the
construction and decoration of the room. Only in Lorette's engraving
the bath sunk into the middle of the floor is a little too small.
Fanfreluche stood for a moment like Narcissus gazing at his reflection
in the still scented water, and then just ruffling its smooth surface
with one foot, stepped elegantly into the cool basin and swam round
it twice very gracefully. However, it is not so much at the very bath
itself as in the drying and delicious frictions that a bather finds his
chiefest joys, and Helen had appointed her most tried attendants to
wait upon Fanfreluche. He was more than satisfied with their attention,
that aroused feelings within him almost amounting to gratitude, and
when the rites were ended any touch of home-sickness he might have
felt was utterly dispelled. After he had rested a little, and sipped
his chocolate, he wandered into the dressing-room, where, under the
direction of the superb Dancourt, his toilet was completed.
As pleased as Lord Foppington with his appearance, the Abbé tripped
off to bid good-morning to Helen. He found her in a sweet white muslin
frock, wandering upon the lawn, and plucking flowers to deck her
breakfast table. He kissed her lightly upon the neck.
"I'm just going to feed Adolphe," she said, pointing to a little
reticule of buns that hung from her arm. Adolphe was her pet unicorn.
"He is such a dear," she continued; "milk white all over, excepting his
nose, mouth, and nostrils. _This_ way." The unicorn had a very pretty
palace of its own made of green foliage and golden bars, a fitting
home for such a delicate and dainty beast. Ah, it was a splendid thing
to watch the white creature roaming in its artful cage, proud and
beautiful, knowing no mate, and coming to no hand except the queen's
itself. As Fanfreluche and Helen approached, Adolphe began prancing and
curvetting, pawing the soft turf with his ivory hoofs and flaunting his
tail like a gonfalon. Helen raised the latch and entered.
"You mustn't come in with me, Adolphe is so jealous," she said, turning
to the Abbé, who was following her, "but you can stand outside and look
on; Adolphe likes an audience." Then in her delicious fingers she broke
the spicy buns and with affectionate niceness breakfasted her snowy
pet. When the last crumbs had been scattered, Helen brushed her hands
together and pretended to leave the cage without taking any further
notice of Adolphe. Adolphe snorted.
AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
[Footnote 1: _The chef d'oeuvre, it seems to me, of an adorable and
impeccable master, who more than any other landscape-painter puts us
out of conceit with our cities, and makes us forget the country can be
graceless and dull and tiresome. That he should ever have been compared
unfavourably with Turner--the Wiertz of landscape-painting--seems
almost incredible. Corot is Claude's only worthy rival, but he does not
eclipse or supplant the earlier master. A painting of Corot's is like
an exquisite lyric poem, full of love and truth; whilst one of Claude's
recalls some noble eclogue glowing with rich concentrated thought._]
[Footnote 2: "_At an age," writes Dubonnet_, "_when girls are for the
most part well confirmed in all the hateful practices of coquetry, and
attend with gusto, rather than with distaste, the hideous desires and
terrible satisfactions of men."_
_All who would respire the perfumes of Saint Rose's sanctity, and enjoy
the story of the adorable intimacy that subsisted between her and Our
Lady, should read Mother Ursula's "Ineffable and Miraculous Life of
the Flower of Lima," published shortly after the canonization of Rose
by Pope Clement X. in_ 1671. "_Truly," exclaims the famous nun, "to
chronicle the girlhood of this holy virgin makes as delicate a task
as to trace the forms of some slim, sensitive plant, whose lightness,
sweetness, and simplicity defy and trouble the most cunning pencil."
Mother Ursula certainly acquits herself of the task with wonderful
delicacy and taste. A cheap reprint of the biography has lately been
brought out by Chaillot and Son._]
[Footnote 3: _A comedy ballet in one act by Philippe Savarat and
Titures de Schentefleur. The Marquis de Vandésir, who was present at
the first performance, has left us a short impression of it in his_
Mémoires:
"The curtain rose upon a scene of rare beauty, a remote Arcadian
valley, a delicious scrap of Tempe, gracious with cool woods and
watered with a little river as fresh and pastoral as a perfect fifth.
It was early morning and the re-arisen sun, like the prince in the
Sleeping Beauty, woke all the earth with his lips.
"In that golden embrace the night dews were caught up and made
splendid, the trees were awakened from their obscure dreams, the
slumber of the birds was broken, and all the flowers of the valley
rejoiced, forgetting their fear of the darkness.
"Suddenly to the music of pipe and horn a troop of satyrs stepped out
from the recesses of the woods bearing in their hands nuts and green
boughs and flowers and roots, and whatsoever the forest yielded, to
heap upon the altar of the mysterious Pan that stood in the middle of
the stage; and from the hills came down the shepherds and shepherdesses
leading their flocks and carrying garlands upon their crooks. Then
a rustic priest, white robed and venerable, came slowly across the
valley followed by a choir of radiant children. The scene was admirably
stage-managed and nothing could have been more varied yet harmonious
than this Arcadian group. The service was quaint and simple, but with
sufficient ritual to give the _corps de ballet_ an opportunity of
showing its dainty skill. The dancing of the satyrs was received with
huge favour, and when the priest raised his hand in final blessing, the
whole troop of worshippers made such an intricate and elegant exit,
that it was generally agreed that Titurel had never before shown so
fine an invention.
"Scarcely had the stage been empty for a moment, when Sporion entered,
followed by a brilliant rout of dandies and smart women. Sporion was a
tall, slim, depraved young man with a slight stoop, a troubled walk, an
oval impassable face with its olive skin drawn lightly over the bone,
strong, scarlet lips, long Japanese eyes, and a great gilt toupet.
Round his shoulders hung a high-collared satin cape of salmon pink with
long black ribbands untied and floating about his body. His coat of sea
green spotted muslin was caught in at the waist by a scarlet sash with
scalloped edges and frilled out over the hips for about six inches.
His trousers, loose and wrinkled, reached to the end of the calf, and
were brocaded down the sides and ruched magnificently at the ankles.
The stockings were of white kid with stalls for the toes, and had
delicate red sandals strapped over them. But his little hands, peeping
out from their frills, seemed quite the most insinuating things, such
supple fingers tapering to the point with tiny nails stained pink, such
unquenchable palms lined and mounted like Lord Fanny's in 'Love at all
Hazards,' and such blue-veined hairless backs! In his left hand he
carried a small lace handkerchief broidered with a coronet.
"As for his friends and followers, they made the most superb and
insolent crowd imaginable, but to catalogue the clothes they had on
would require a chapter as long as the famous tenth in Pénillière's
'History of Underlinen.' On the whole they looked a very distinguished
chorus.
"Sporion stepped forward and explained with swift and various gesture
that he and his friends were tired of the amusements, wearied with the
poor pleasures offered by the civil world, and had invaded the Arcadian
valley hoping to experience a new _frisson_ in the destruction of some
shepherd's or some satyr's _naïveté_, and the infusion of their venom
among the dwellers of the woods.
"The chorus assented with languid but expressive movements.
"Curious and not a little frightened at the arrival of the worldly
company, the sylvans began to peep nervously at those subtle souls
through the branches of the trees, and one or two fauns and a shepherd
or so crept out warily. Sporion and all the ladies and gentlemen made
enticing sounds and invited the rustic creatures with all the grace in
the world to come and join them. By little batches they came, lured by
the strange looks, by the scents and the drugs, and by the brilliant
clothes, and some ventured quite near, timorously fingering the
delicious textures of the stuffs. Then Sporion and each of his friends
took a satyr or a shepherdess or something by the hand and made the
preliminary steps of a courtly measure, for which the most admirable
combinations had been invented and the most charming music written. The
pastoral folk were entirely bewildered when they saw such restrained
and graceful movements, and made the most grotesque and futile efforts
to imitate them. Dio mio, a pretty sight! A charming effect too, was
obtained by the intermixture of stockinged calf and hairy leg, of rich
brocaded bodice and plain blouse, of tortured head-dress and loose
untutored locks.
"When the dance was ended the servants of Sporion brought on champagne,
and with many pirouettes poured it magnificently into slender glasses,
and tripped about plying those Arcadian mouths that had never before
tasted such a royal drink.
* * * * *
"Then the curtain fell with a pudic rapidity."]
[Footnote 4: _It is a thousand pities that concerts should only be
given either in the afternoon, when you are torpid, or in the evening,
when you are nervous. Surely you should assist at fine music as you
assist at the Mass--before noon--when your brain and heart are not too
troubled and tired with the secular influences of the growing day._]
[Illustrations: THE THREE MUSICIANS]
THE THREE MUSICIANS
Along the path that skirts the wood,
The three musicians wend their way,
Pleased with their thoughts, each other's mood,
Franz Himmel's latest roundelay,
The morning's work, a new-found theme, their breakfast and
the summer day.
One's a soprano, lightly frocked
In cool, white muslin that just shows
Her brown silk stockings gaily clocked,
Plump arms and elbows tipped with rose,
And frills of petticoats and things, and outlines as the warm
wind blows.
Beside her a slim, gracious boy
Hastens to mend her tresses' fall,
And dies her favour to enjoy,
And dies for _réclame_ and recall
At Paris and St. Petersburg, Vienna and St. James's Hall.
The third's a Polish Pianist
With big engagements everywhere,
A light heart and an iron wrist,
And shocks and shoals of yellow hair,
And fingers that can trill on sixths and fill beginners with despair.
The three musicians stroll along
And pluck the ears of ripened corn,
Break into odds and ends of song,
And mock the woods with Siegfried's horn,
And fill the air with Gluck, and fill the tweeded tourist's soul
with scorn.
The Polish genius lags behind,
And, with some poppies in his hand,
Picks out the strings and wood and wind
Of an imaginary band,
Enchanted that for once his men obey his beat and understand.
The charming cantatrice reclines
And rests a moment where she sees
Her château's roof that hotly shines
Amid the dusky summer trees,
And fans herself, half shuts her eyes, and smoothes the frock
about her knees.
The gracious boy is at her feet,
And weighs his courage with his chance;
His fears soon melt in noonday heat.
The tourist gives a furious glance,
Red as his guide-book grows, moves on, and offers up a prayer
for France.
AUBREY BEARDSLEY
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The Three Musicians]
[Illustration: The Three Musicians]
THE BALLAD OF A BARBER
Here is the tale of Carrousel,
The barber of Meridian Street.
He cut, and coiffed, and shaved so well,
That all the world was at his feet.
The King, the Queen, and all the Court,
To no one else would trust their hair,
And reigning belles of every sort
Owed their successes to his care.
With carriage and with cabriolet
Daily Meridian Street was blocked,
Like bees about a bright bouquet
The beaux about his doorway flocked.
Such was his art he could with ease
Curl wit into the dullest face;
Or to a goddess of old Greece
Add a new wonder and a grace.
All powders, paints, and subtle dyes,
And costliest scents that men distil,
And rare pomades, forgot their price
And marvelled at his splendid skill.
The curling irons in his hand
Almost grew quick enough to speak,
The razor was a magic wand
That understood the softest cheek.
Yet with no pride his heart was moved;
He was so modest in his ways!
His daily task was all he loved,
And now and then a little praise.
An equal care he would bestow
On problems simple or complex;
And nobody had seen him show
A preference for either sex.
How came it then one summer day,
Coiffing the daughter of the King,
He lengthened out the least delay
And loitered in his hairdressing?
The Princess was a pretty child,
Thirteen years old, or thereabout.
She was as joyous and as wild
As spring flowers when the sun is out.
[Illustration: "The Coiffing"]
Her gold hair fell down to her feet
And hung about her pretty eyes;
She was as lyrical and sweet
As one of Schubert's melodies.
Three times the barber curled a lock,
And thrice he straightened it again;
And twice the irons scorched her frock,
And twice he stumbled in her train.
His fingers lost their cunning quite,
His ivory combs obeyed no more;
Something or other dimmed his sight,
And moved mysteriously the floor.
He leant upon the toilet table,
His fingers fumbled in his breast;
He felt as foolish as a fable,
And feeble as a pointless jest.
He snatched a bottle of Cologne,
And broke the neck between his hands;
He felt as if he was alone,
And mighty as a king's commands.
The Princess gave a little scream,
Carrousel's cut was sharp and deep;
He left her softly as a dream
That leaves a sleeper to his sleep.
He left the room on pointed feet;
Smiling that things had gone so well.
They hanged him in Meridian Street.
You pray in vain for Carrousel.
AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
[Illustration]
CATULLUS
CARMEN CI
By ways remote and distant waters sped,
Brother, to thy sad grave-side am I come,
That I may give the last gifts to the dead,
And vainly parley with thine ashes dumb:
Since she who now bestows and now denies
Hath ta'en thee, hapless brother, from mine eyes.
But lo! these gifts, the heirlooms of past years,
Are made sad things to grace thy coffin shell,
Take them, all drenched with a brother's tears,
And, brother, for all time, hail and farewell!
AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
[Illustration: "Ave atque Vale"]
TABLE TALK OF AUBREY BEARDSLEY
GEORGE SAND, ETC.
After all the Muses are women, and you must be a man to possess
them--properly.
MENDELSSOHN
Mendelssohn has no gift for construction. He has only a feeling for
continuity.
THE BROMPTON ORATORY
The only place in London where one can forget that it is Sunday.
WEBER
Weber's pianoforte pieces remind me of the beautiful glass chandeliers
at the Brighton Pavilion.
SHAKESPEARE
When an Englishman has professed his belief in the supremacy of
Shakespeare amongst all poets, he feels himself excused from the
general study of literature. He also feels himself excused from the
particular study of Shakespeare.
ROSSINI'S "STABAT MATER"
The dolorous Mother should be sung by a virgin of Morales, one of the
Spanish painter's unhealthy and hardly deiparous creatures, with high,
egg-shaped, creamy forehead and well-crimped silken hair.
ALEXANDER POPE
Pope has more virulence and less vehemence than any of the great
satirists. His character of Sporus is the perfection of satirical
writing. The very sound of words scarify before the sense strikes.
IMPRESSIONISTS
How few of our young English impressionists knew the difference between
a palette and a picture! However, I believe that Walter Sickert
_did_--sly dog!
TURNER
Turner is only a rhetorician in paint.
ENGLISH LITERATURE
What a stay-at-home literature is the English! It would be easy to
name fifty lesser French writers whose names and works are familiar
all over the world. It would be difficult to name four of our greatest
whose writings are read to any extent outside England.
THE WOODS OF AUFFRAY
In the distance, through the trees, gleamed a still argent lake,
a reticent water that must have held the subtlest fish that ever
were. Around its marge the trees and flags and fleurs-de-luce were
unbreakably asleep.
I fell into a strange mood as I looked at the lake, for it seemed to
me that the thing would speak, reveal some curious secret, say some
beautiful word, if I should dare to wrinkle its pale face with a pebble.
Then the lake took fantastic shapes, grew to twenty times its size,
or shrank into a miniature of itself, without ever losing its
unruffled calm and deathly reserve. When the waters increased I was
very frightened, for I thought how huge the frogs must have become,
I thought of their big eyes and monstrous wet feet; but when the
water lessened I laughed to myself, for I thought how tiny the frogs
must have grown, I thought of their legs that must look thinner than
spiders', and of their dwindled croaking that never could be heard.
Perhaps the lake was only painted after all; I had seen things like it
at the theatre. Anyhow it was a wonderful lake, a beautiful lake.
TWO LETTERS OF AUBREY BEARDSLEY
Beardsley unfortunately wrote but few letters. The following is
characteristic of the humorous courtesy with which he received
criticism:
_To the Editor of the Pall Mall Budget_.
"SIR,--So much exception has been taken, both by the
Press and by private persons, to my title-page of 'The
Yellow Book,'[1] that I must plead for space in your
valuable paper to enlighten those who profess to find my
picture unintelligible. It represents a lady playing the
piano in the middle of a field. Unpardonable affectation!
cry the critics. But let us listen to Bomvet.
"Christopher Willibald Ritter von Glück, in order to warm
his imagination and to transport himself to Aulis or
Sparta, was accustomed to place himself in the middle of a
field. In this situation, with his piano before him, and
a bottle of champagne on each side, he wrote in the open
air his two "Iphigenias," his "Orpheus," and some other
works.' I tremble to think what critics would say had I
introduced those bottles of champagne. And yet we do not
call Gluck a decadent.
"Yours obediently
"AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
"THE BODLEY HEAD,
"VIGO STREET, W.
"_April_ 27."
_The Daily Chronicle_ on the occasion of the publication of "Plays" by
John Davidson, in criticising Beardsley's frontispiece,[2] deplored the
introduction of "two well-known faces of the day." In the following
day's issue Beardsley wittily excused himself in the following letter
to the editor:
"AN ERROR OF TASTE"
"SIR,--In your review of Mr. Davidson's plays, I find
myself convicted of an error of taste, for having
introduced portraits into my frontispiece to that book. I
cannot help feeling that your reviewer is unduly severe.
One of the gentlemen who forms part of my decoration
is surely beautiful enough to stand the test even of
portraiture, the other owes me half a crown.
"I am, yours truly,
"AUBREY BEARDSLEY.
"114 CAMBRIDGE STREET, S.W.
_"March_ 1, 1894."
[Footnote 1: A reproduction of this appears on page 71.]
[Illustration: Design for Title-Page of "The Yellow Book" Volume I]
[Illustration: Frontispiece to "Plays" by John Davidson]
[Illustration: "Arbuscula"
From "A History of Dancing," by Gaston Vuillier. Reproduced by
permission of Mr. William Heinemann.]
[Illustration: Portrait And other Sketches Hitherto Unpublished
Reproduced by permission of Miss Nellie Syrett.]
[Illustration: Design for Frontispiece to Zola's "L'Abbé Mouret"
Hitherto Unpublished]
LIST OF VOLUMES
ILLUSTRATED BY
AUBREY BEARDSLEY
THE EARLY WORK OF
AUBREY BEARDSLEY
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY H. C. MARILLIER
Price 42s. net (originally published at 31s. 6d. net)
_Also an Edition printed upon Japanese Vellum, limited to one hundred
and twenty copies for England and America. Price_ 84_s. net (originally
published at_ 63_s. net_). _Now out of print._
This handsome volume was published soon after Beardsley's death.
It contains most of his work up to the time of his ceasing to be
associated with the art editorship of "The Yellow Book," and includes
the remarkable designs illustrating "Salomé," a volume long since
out of print. These are considered by the critics as among the best
and most individual work he did. There are in all upwards of 180
reproductions, in addition to two characteristic photographs of
Beardsley, taken by Mr. Frederick H. Evans.
THE LATER WORK OF
AUBREY BEARDSLEY
Demy 4to. Price 42s. net
_Also a Limited Edition of one hundred and twenty copies for England and
America, printed on Japanese Vellum._ 1055. _net (originally published
at_ 84_s net_.)
This collection was not published until nearly three years after
Beardsley's death, and contains most of the designs not included
in "The Early Work." The two volumes thus form an almost complete
record of his artistic production. In all there are upwards of 170
reproductions, including three in colour and eleven in photogravure.
In the Japanese Vellum edition several illustrations are reproduced in
photogravure, instead of half-tone as in the ordinary edition, whilst
the frontispiece is hand-coloured.
A SECOND BOOK OF
FIFTY DRAWINGS
BY AUBREY BEARDSLEY
Crown 4to. Price 10s. 6d. net
_This Edition is limited to one thousand copies of the ordinary issue,
and fifty copies printed on Japanese Vellum (exhausted on publication)._
The First Book of Fifty Drawings, which preceded this volume, is now
selling at a greatly enhanced price. The present volume is remarkable
as containing several reproductions from very early sketches, as well
as many executed in the artist's most individual style, among which
is a photogravure of "Mademoiselle de Maupin," one design in colour,
and three photogravures which show how strong, at one time, was the
Burne-Jones influence upon Beardsley.
THE RAPE OF THE LOCK
BY ALEXANDER POPE
With Nine Full-page Illustrations by AUBREY BEARDSLEY
Crown 4to. Price 10s. 6d. net
_Very few copies remain of this volume_, which was originally published
at 7s. 6d. _net. The Japanese Vellum Edition is exhausted._
Perhaps, with the exception of the series of drawings illustrating
"Salomé," no designs are more characteristic, more strikingly
original, than those contained in "The Rape of the Lock." The edition
is now rapidly nearing exhaustion and the publisher has decided not
to re-issue it in the original form. This work with the original
illustrations is included as Vol. IX. of "The Flowers of Parnassus."
Demy 16mo (5 3/4 x 4 1/2 inches). Bound in Cloth, Price 1s. net. Bound
in Leather, Price is. 6d. net.
VOLPONE: OR THE FOX
BY BEN IONSON
A NEW EDITION, WITH A CRITICAL ESSAY
ON THE AUTHOR BY VINCENT O'SULLIVAN
And Illustrations by AUBREY BEARDSLEY
Together with an Eulogy of the Artist by ROBERT ROSS
Demy 4to. Price 10s. 6d. net (originally published at 7s. 6d. net)
Mr. Robert Ross in his eulogy considers 1896 as Beardsley's _annus
mirabilts_, and remarks that it would be impossible to believe he
could have surpassed the work of that year but for the illustrations
to "Volpone." They characterise in a very marked manner the singular
genius both in creative faculty and draughtsmanship of the artist.
THE PIERROT OF
THE MINUTE
A DRAMATIC PHANTASY IN ONE ACT
BY ERNEST DOWSON
With Illustrations and a Cover-Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY
Crown 4to. Price 10s. 6d. net (originally published at 7s. 6d. net)
_Limited to three hundred copies of the ordinary issue (of which very
few remain)_
A peculiar and pathetic interest attaches itself to this volume on
account of the sad, even tragic end of Ernest Dowson. The obituary
notices following his death were to many the first intimation of
his existence, but to those who knew him there was little room for
doubt that he possessed a genius which was as remarkable as it was
ill-starred.
PLAYS
BY JOHN DAVIDSON
With Frontispiece and Cover-Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY
Small 4to. Price 7s. 6d. net
_The Edition is limited to five hundred copies_
This volume has a special interest, as Beardsley was induced by the
_Daily Chronicle's_ criticism of his illustration to "Scaramouch in
Naxos" to write the letter mentioned in this volume.
THE YELLOW BOOK
AN ILLUSTRATED QUARTERLY
LITERARY EDITOR--HENRY HARLAND
ART EDITOR (Vols. I. to IV.)--AUBREY BEARDSLEY
It was in his capacity as art-editor of "The Yellow Book" that
Beardsley made his first claim to public notice. The earlier volumes
contain twenty designs from his pencil, in addition to a number of
others from the best known black and white artists of the day. Volume
I. is now out of print, but the publisher has been fortunate in
securing several second-hand copies which he supplies only with sets.
THE SAVOY
AN ILLUSTRATED QUARTERLY
LITERARY EDITOR--ARTHUR SYMONS
ART EDITOR--AUBREY BEARDSLEY
Crown 4to. Price 21s. net a Set
Vol. I. 274 pp. 43 Illus.--Vol. II. 286 pp. 29 Illus.
--Vol. III. 280 pp. 30 Illus.
After ceasing to hold the post of art-editor of "The Yellow Book,"
Beardsley became associated in a similar capacity with "The Savoy,"
at the same time contributing the lion's share of the illustrations. In
the three volumes that appeared he had to his credit forty-nine designs,
in addition to a poem and a story entitled "Under the Hill." In
addition to Beardsley's own work, "The Savoy" contains many
notable contributions both literary and artistic.
POSTERS IN MINIATURE
Over 250 reproductions, including several designs by AUBREY
BEARDSLEY, of French, English, and American Posters, with an
Introduction by EDWARD PENFIELD. Large Crown 8vo. Price 5s. net.