PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 100.
May 23, 1891.
MR. PUNCH'S POCKET IBSEN.
(_CONDENSED AND REVISED VERSION, BY MR. P.'S OWN HARMLESS IBSENITE._)
NO. IV.--THE WILD DUCK.
ACT I.
_At WERLE's house. In front a richly-upholstered study.
(R.) a green-baize door leading to WERLE's office. At back,
open folding doors, revealing an elegant dining-room, in
which a brilliant Norwegian dinner-party is going on. Hired
Waiters in profusion. A glass is tapped with a knife. Shouts
of "Bravo!" Old Mr. WERLE is heard making a long speech,
proposing--according to the custom of Norwegian society on
such occasions--the health of his Housekeeper, Mrs. SÖRBY.
Presently several short-sighted, flabby, and thin-haired
Chamberlains, enter from the dining-room, with HIALMAR
EKDAL, who writhes shyly under their remarks._
_A Chamberlain_. As we are the sole surviving specimens of Norwegian
nobility, suppose we sustain our reputation as aristocratic sparklers
by enlarging upon the enormous amount we have eaten, and chaffing
HIALMAR EKDAL, the friend of our host's son, for being a professional
Photographer?
[Illustration: "Father, a word with you in private. I loathe you!"]
_The other Chamberlains_. Bravo! We will.
[_They do; delight of HIALMAR. Old WERLE comes in, leaning
on his Housekeeper's arm, followed by his son, GREGERS
WERLE._
_Old Werle_ (_dejectedly_). Thirteen at table! (_To_ GREGERS, _with
a meaning glance at_ HIALMAR.) This is the result of inviting an old
College friend who has turned Photographer! Wasting vintage wines on
_him_, indeed!
[_He passes on gloomily._
_Hialmar_ (_to Gregers_). I am almost sorry I came. Your old min is
_not_ friendly. Yet he set me up as a Photographer fifteen years ago.
_Now_ he takes me down! But for him, I should never have married GINA,
who, you may remember, was a servant in your family once.
_Gregers_. What? my old College friend married fifteen years ago--and
to our GINA, of all people! If I had not been up at the works all
these years, I suppose I should have heard something of such an event.
But my father never mentioned it. Odd!
[_He ponders; Old EKDAL comes out through the green-baize
door, bowing, and begging pardon, carrying copying work. Old
WERLE says "Ugh" and "Puh" involuntarily. HIALMAR shrinks
back, and looks another way. A Chamberlain asks him
pleasantly if he knows that old man._
_Hialmar_. I--oh no. Not in the least. No relation!
_Gregers_ (_shocked_). What, HIALMAR, you, with your great soul, deny
your own father!
_Hialmar_ (_vehemently_). Of course--what else _can_ a Photographer
do with a disreputable old parent, who has been in a Penitentiary
for making a fraudulent map? I shall leave this splendid banquet. The
Chamberlains are not kind to me, and I feel the crushing hand of fate
on my head! [_Goes out hastily, feeling it._
_Mrs. Sörby_ (_archly_). Any Nobleman here say "Cold Punch"?
[_Every Nobleman says "Cold Punch," and follows her out in
search of it with enthusiasm. GREGERS approaches his father,
who wishes he would go._
_Gregers_. Father, a word with you in private. I loathe you. I am
nothing if not candid. Old EKDAL was your partner once, and it's my
firm belief you deserved a prison quite as much as he did. However,
you surely need not have married our GINA to my old friend HIALMAR.
You know very well she was no better than she should have been!
_Old Werle_. True--but then no more is Mrs. SÖRBY. And _I_ am going to
marry _her_--if you have no objection, that is.
_Gregers_. None in the world! How can I object to a stepmother who
is playing Blind Man's Buff at the present moment with the Norwegian
nobility? I am not so overstrained as all that. But really I can_not_
allow my old friend HIALMAR, with his great, confiding, childlike
mind, to remain in contented ignorance of GINA's past. No, I see my
mission in life at last! I shall take my hat, and inform him that his
home is built upon a lie. He will be _so_ much obliged to me! [_Takes
his hat, and goes out._
_Old Werle_. Ha!--I am a wealthy merchant, of dubious morals, and I
am about to marry my housekeeper, who is on intimate terms with the
Norwegian aristocracy. I have a son who loathes me, and who is either
an Ibsenian satire on the Master's own ideals, or else an utterly
impossible prig--I don't know or care which. Altogether, I flatter
myself my household affords an accurate and realistic picture of
Scandinavian Society!
ACT II.
_HIALMAR EKDAL's Photographic Studio. Cameras, neck-rests,
and other instruments of torture lying about. GINA EKDAL and
HEDWIG, her daughter, aged 14, and wearing spectacles,
discovered sitting up for HIALMAR._
_Hedvig_. Grandpapa is in his room with a bottle of brandy and a jug
of hot water, doing some fresh copying work. Father is in society,
dining out. He promised he would bring me home something nice!
_Hialmar_ (_coming in, in evening dress_). And he has not forgotten
his promise, my child. Behold! (_he presents her with the menu card;
HEDVIG gulps down her tears_; HIALMAR _notices her disappointment,
with annoyance._) And this all the gratitude I get! After dining out
and coming home in a dress-coat and boots, which are disgracefully
tight! Well, well, just to show you how hurt I am, I won't have any
_beer_ now! What a selfish brute I am! (_Relenting._) You may bring
me just a little drop. (_He bursts into tears._) I will play you a
plaintive Bohemian dance on my flute. (_He does._) No beer at such a
sacred moment as this! (_He drinks._) Ha, this is real domestic bliss!
[_GREGERS WERLE comes in, in a countrified suit._
_Gregers_. I have left my father's home--dinner-party and all--for
ever. I am coming to lodge with you.
_Hialmar_ (_still melancholy_). Have some bread and butter. You won't?
then I _will_. I want it, after your father's lavish hospitality.
(_HEDVIG goes to fetch bread and butter._) My daughter--a poor
shortsighted little thing--but mine own.
_Gregers_. My father has had to take to strong glasses, too--he
can hardly see after dinner. (_To Old EKDAL, who stumbles in very
drunk._) How can you, Lieutenant EKDAL, who were such a keen sportsman
once, live in this poky little hole?
_Old Ekdal_. I am a sportsman still. The only difference is that once
I shot bears in a forest, and now I pot tame rabbits in a garret.
Quite as amusing--and safer.
[_He goes to sleep on a sofa._
_Hialmar_ (_with pride_). It is quite true. You shall see.
[_He pushes back sliding doors, and reveals a garret full of
rabbits and poultry--moonlight effect. HEDVIG returns with
bread and butter._
_Hedvig_ (_to GREGERS_). If you stand just there, you get the best
view of our Wild Duck. We are very proud of her, because she gives the
play its title, you know, and has to be brought into the dialogue a
good deal. Your father, peppered her out shooting, and we saved her
life.
_Hialmar_. Yes, GREGERS, our estate is not large--but still we
preserve, you see. And my poor old father and I sometimes get a day's
gunning in the garret. He shoots with a pistol, which my illiterate
wife here _will_ call a "pigstol." He once, when he got into trouble,
pointed it at himself. But the descendant of two lieutenant-colonels
who had never quailed before living rabbit yet, faltered then. He
_didn't_ shoot. Then I put it to my own head. But at the decisive
moment, I won the victory over myself. I remained in life. Now we
only shoot rabbits and fowls with it. After all I am very happy and
contented as I am. [_He eats some bread and butter._
_Gregers_. But you ought _not_ to be. You have a good deal of the
Wild Duck about you. So have your wife and daughter. You are living
in marsh vapours. To-morrow I will take you out for a walk and explain
what I mean. It is my mission in life. Good night! [_He goes out._
_Gina and Hedwig_. What _was_ the gentleman talking about, Father?
_Hialmar_ (_eating bread and butter_). He has been dining, you know.
No matter--what _we_ have to do now, is to put my disreputable old
whitehaired pariah of a parent to bed.
[_He and GINA lift old ECCLES--we mean old EKDAL--up by the
legs and arms, and take him off to led as the Curtain falls._
* * * * *
COCKNEY MOTTO FOR A FEEBLE CRICKETER.--"Take 'Art of GRACE!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: PROPOSED HERALDIC DEVICE FOR THE LONDON COUNTY COUNCIL.
(_See opposite page._)]
* * * * *
KEY TO THE PROPOSED HERALDIC DEVICE.
_Arms_.--Quarterly: 1. A female figure habited in white robes reaching
to the ankles, with Arms elevated, all quite proper, for _Grace_. 2.
A wildman or ratepayer rampant, for _Thrift_. 3. A bend (or bar)
sinister on a chart vert, for _Bloomsbury_. 4. Three demi-councillors,
wings elevated, regardant an empty seat, for _Vacancy_.
_Crest_.--On a beadle's hat erased, a new broom.
_Supporters_.--Dexter, a Paul Pry regardant, grasping an eyeglass
sinister. Sinister, a Stiggins. Both gorged.
_Motto_.--"_Ubi nunc sumus?_"
* * * * *
FAMILIARITY BREEDS RESPECT.
(_A PAGE FROM THE DIARY OF A WOULD-BE BUT COULDN'T-BE DUELLIST._)
_Monday_.--Arrived on the ground ready to fight my opponent to the
death. We had just measured the ground, when an agent of Police
appeared upon the scene, and we had to decamp hurriedly. Duel
postponed till to-morrow.
_Tuesday_.--New spot chosen. Pistols this time instead of rapiers.
Just as we were about to fire, appearance of the agents of the law.
Postponement again absolutely necessary.
_Wednesday_.--Once more ready to meet. Both of us rather amused at
the precautions we have to take to prevent interruption. Opponent
obligingly suggested a new and suitable spot for the settlement of
our little differences. Found it to be a most excellent selection,
but before we could fight, once more interrupted. Both of us greatly
annoyed, and arranged to meet to-morrow.
_Thursday_.--Amused to find myself first in the field--my opponent
five minutes late. Both of us had come before the seconds, and so
spent the time in a pleasant little chat, and cigarettes. My opponent
not half a bad fellow when you come to know him. Just as he was in the
middle of a most amusing story, our seconds arrived--with the Police!
Postponement once more imperative.
_Friday_.--Opponent turned up first, and, at my request, completed
his yesterday's story--one of the best I have ever heard. Most amusing
chap--should have liked to have heard another, when, finding ourselves
uninterrupted, we thought we had better seize the opportunity to
settle our affair of honour. Our customary luck! Seemingly had just
time to kill one another, when enter the Police! Programme as before.
_Saturday_.--Met again. Really quite pleased to have made the
acquaintance of such a nice fellow as my opponent. Full of fun and
anecdote. On comparing notes, we found that we had entirely forgotten
what on earth we had quarrelled about. So shook hands and arranged
that if we fired at anyone, our target should be the Police.
* * * * *
A PLEA FOR THE CART-HORSE PARADE SOCIETY.
All who love English horses, and back English Trade,
Should welcome the annual "Cart-Horse Parade."
No function of Fashion on Racecourse or Row
Should "fetch" our equestrian enthusiast so.
First-rate English horses in holiday guise!
A sight that to please a true Britisher's eyes.
And then the Society--surely _that_ will be
Supported by Britons. Ask good WALTER GILBEY
(Cambridge House, Regent's Park). He will tell you no doubt
What the C.-H.P.S. have, some time, been about.
Fancy prizes to Carmen for care of their horses!
That charms a horse-lover. To plump the resources
Of such a Society--by their support
In subscriptions--all friends of the horse and of sport
Should surely be eager; so, horse-lovers willing,
Despatch the gold pound plus the odd silver shilling!
* * * * *
HISTORY AND ART.--Doubts have been thrown on the genuineness of the
story about St. ELIZABETH of Hungary as illustrated by Mr. CALDERON's
well-known and striking picture in this year's Academy. Mr. CALDERON
affirms, according to the best of his high lights, that he has simply
portrayed the naked truth. So far, in a certain sense, the Court is
with him. Still, historians are neither unbiassed nor infallible, and
painters are inclined to sacrifice much for effect. For our part,
we should be inclined to refer the situation, which this picture
illustrates, to some incident in the life of the celebrated Miss
ELIZABETH MARTIN, generally known as "BETTY MARTIN." The legend may
be found in some work by that voluminous writer _Finis_, or by the
oft-quoted _Ibid_, under the quaint heading, _Historia Mei et Beati
Martini_.
* * * * *
THE PICK OF THE PICTURES. (AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY.)
[Illustration: No. 164. Pilling Him. Affectionate wife insisting on
the invalid taking a Bolus. Sidney Paget.]
[Illustration: No. 259. "A Select Committee." H. Stacy Marks, R.A.]
No. 278. "_The Fleecy Charge_." A title that suggests an attempt at
extortion, but is here applied to _A picture in wool-work_ by the
veteran, T. SYDNEY COOPER, R.A. Of course whatever the artist may ask
for it, it will always be "sheep at the price."
No. 388. "_Writing a Message to St. Helena_." Hope St. Helena received
it. Probably forwarded by a winged messenger as suggested by the name
of the artist, which is EYRE CROWE, A.
No. 519. "_Gorse_." By DAVID MURRAY. Good? Why certainly, as a matter
of gorse.
No. 697. Rather mixed subject, being "_Eventide_" by KNIGHT.
No. 1161. "_A Maiden Fair_." By G.A. STOREY, A. Never heard of such a
thing as "a Maiden Fair," except in Oriental countries. She seems to
be having all the fun of the Fair to herself. This concludes a series
of Storeys in four numbers, 356, 704, 1043 and 1161, making up his
"Tale." "And now my STOREY's done," that is, for this Season.
SCULPTURE.
No. 1962. "_Triumph_" of ADRIAN JONES. It is so. Quite a triumph. The
SMITHS, BROWNS and ROBINSONS nowhere compared with A. JONES.
No. 2001. "_H.M. Stanley--bust._" Is he? Poor STANLEY! It is to be
hoped that the EMIN-ent explorer will forgive the sculptor, who is
C.B. BIRCH, A. Fancy the indomitable STANLEY never yet beaten, but
BIRCH'd at last!
* * * * *
MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.
NO. XVIII.--MARIAN MUFFET: A ROMANCE OF BLACKMORE.
(_BY_ R.D. EXMOOR, _AUTHOR OF "BORN A SPOON;" "PADDOCK ROWEL;" "WIT
AND WITTY;" "TIPS FOR MARRIERS;" "SCARE A FAWN;" "'BRELLAS FOR RAIN,"
&C., &C., &C._)
["This," writes Mr. EXMOOR, "is another of my simple tales.
Yet I send it forth into the world thinking that haply there
may be some, and they not of the baser sort, who reading
therein as the humour takes them, may draw from it nurture
for their minds. For truly it is in the nature of fruit-trees,
whereof, without undue vaunting, I may claim to know somewhat,
that the birds of the air, the tits, the wrens, ay, even unto
the saucy little sparrows, whose firm spirit in warfare hath
ever been one of my chiefest marvels, should gather in the
branches seeking for provender. So in books, and herein too
I have some small knowledge, those that are of the ripest
sort are ever the first to be devoured. And if the public
be pleased, how shall he that made the book feel aught but
gratitude. Therefore I let it go, not being blind in truth
to the faults thereof, but with humble confidence too in much
compensating merit."]
CHAPTER I.
[Illustration]
Fate, that makes sport alike of peasants and of kings, turning the
one to honour and a high seat, and making the other to lie low in the
estimation of men, though haply (as 'tis said in our parish) he think
no small beer of himself, hath seemingly ordained that I, THOMAS
TIDDLER, should set down in order some doings wherein I had a share.
And herein I make no show of learning, being but an undoctrined farmer
and not skilled in the tricks of style, as the word is in these parts,
but trusting simply to strength and honesty (whereof, God knows,
there is but little beyond the limits of our farm), and to that breezy
carriage of the pen which favoureth a plain man treading sturdily the
winding paths and rough places of his native tongue. Notwithstanding
I take no small encouragement from this, that whereas of those that
have made to my knowledge the bravest boasting and the loudest puffing
(though of this I am loth to speak, never having had a stomach for
the work), the writings often perish neglectfully and nothing said,
some, writing afar in quiet places removed from the busy rabblement
of towns, not seldom steer their course to fame and riches, whereof,
thanks be to Heaven, I never yet had covetousness, deeming theirs the
happier lot to whom a dry crust with haply a slice of our good country
cheese and a draught of the foaming cider bring contentment. Each to
his own fashion, say I, and the fashion of the TIDDLERS hath always
been in a manner plain and unvarnished, like to the large oak press
wherein mother stores her Sunday gown and other woman's finery such
as the mind of man, being at best but a coarse week-day creature, hath
never fairly conceived. But lo! I am tarrying on my way, losing myself
in a maze of cheap fancies, while the reader perchance yawns and
stretches his limbs as though for bed. All I know is paper and ink are
cheaper than when I began to write.