(_By Mr. Punch's Own Type-Writer._)
No. V.--THE DILETTANTE.
The Modern Dilettante will have been in boyhood a shorn lamb, for whom
it was necessary to temper the wind of an English education by a liberal
admixture of foreign travel. A prolonged course of interrupted studies
will have filled him with culture, whilst a distaste for serious effort,
whether mental or physical, and an innate capacity for mastering no
subject thoroughly will have produced in him that special refinement
which is to the Dilettante as a trade-stamp to Britannia metal. In
after-life, he will speak with regretful fondness, and with an accuracy
which he fails to apply to other matters of his "days" (four in number)
at a German University, and will submit with cheerfulness to the
reputation of having drunk deep from the muddy fountains of metaphysical
speculation, which are as abundant and as ineffective in Germany, as her
springs of mineral water.
[Illustration]
Having passed his period of storm and stress without committing any of
those follies or indulging in any of those excesses by which the parents
of ordinary young men are afflicted, he will arrive without reproach at
the borders of an apparently blameless middle age, and, finding himself
after the death of his father, in the enjoyment of a settled income of
considerable size, he will set up in life as an acknowledged amateur of
all that is truly precious. In order that nothing may be wanting to him
for the proper pursuit of this calling, he will gather round him a
little band of boneless enthusiasts, who after paying due devotion to
themselves, and to one another, will join him in worshipping the dead or
living nonentities whose laurelled photographs adorn his rooms. He will
cover his couches with soft silks, his walls will be hung with
impressionist etchings and engravings of undraped ladies of French
origin, _terra-cotta_ statuettes principally of the young Apollo, will
be placed in every corner, and a marble bust of the young AUGUSTUS will
occupy the place of honour next to the grand piano, on which, will be
ranged the framed cabinet photographs of interesting young men. Each
photograph will bear upon it an appropriate inscription, announcing it
to be, for instance, a gift "From BOBBY to TODDLEKINS." Nothing more is
necessary for the perfect life of dilettantism, except to settle an
afternoon for tea, and an evening for music. When this is done the
Dilettante is complete.
It is curious, however, that although he aims at being considered a
poet, an artist, a dramatist, and a musical composer, the Dilettante
rather affects the society of those who are amateurs of imperfect
development, than of those who have attained fame by professional
effort. Yet since his nature is tolerant, he does not exclude the latter
from the scope of his benevolence, and they may occasionally be seen at
his parties, wondering how so strange a medley of second-rate
incompetencies can have been gathered together into one room.
It is noticeable, that the Dilettante loves the society of ladies, and
is not averse to encouraging amongst his intimates the belief, which
none of them holds though all express it, that he is in reality a
terrible fellow and much given to the destruction of domestic happiness.
He finds a sense of rest and security in fancying that he is suspected
of an intrigue. But it is somewhat remarkable, that the evil tongues
which make sad havoc of many unwilling reputations are very slow to
gratify the willing Dilettante in this respect. No Dilettante can be
considered genuine, unless he expresses a pitying contempt for
everything that is characteristically English, and for the unfortunate
English who are imbued with the prejudices of their native land. He
gives a practical expression to his scorn by quavering in a reedy voice,
the feeble _chansonnettes_ of an inferior French composer, and by
issuing a volume of poems in which the laws of English Grammar are
trampled under foot, and the restrictions of English metre are defied.
In his lyrical effusions he breathes the passionate desire of a great
soul for Love that is not of the earth. He aspires to the stars, and
invokes the memory of dead heroes, his intimates. He sets out to win
imperishable glory amidst the embattled ranks of his country's foes. He
lashes the cold and cruel heartlessness of the world with a noble scorn.
He addresses the skeletons of departed friends with passionate longing.
He finds that life and its gaudy pleasures are as dust and ashes in the
mouth.
Having read these efforts to an admiring circle, he betakes himself with
infinite zest to the discussion of aesthetic tittle-tattle over a cup of
tea and a toasted bun. "Dear fellow," his friends will say of him at
such a moment, "he is so etherial; and his eyes, did you observe that
far-away, rapt look in them?" They will then take pleasure in persuading
one another without much difficulty, that they are the fine flower of
created beings.
The Dilettante, moreover, is a constant attendant at the first nights of
certain theatres. He figures with equal regularity as a large element in
the society gossip of weekly journals. He is a delicate eater and never
drinks too much out of the Venetian glasses, which his butler ruthlessly
breaks after the manner of domestics. There is amongst the inner circle
of the Dilettanti a jargon, both of voice and of gesture, which passes
muster as humour, but is unintelligible to the outer world of burly
Philistines. They dangle hands rather than shake them, and emphasise
their meaning by delicate finger-taps. Their phrases are distinguished
by a plaintive cadence which is particularly to be remarked in their
pronunciation of the word "dear."
At charitable concerts in aristocratic drawing-rooms the Dilettante is
in great request. On these occasions, he astonishes and delights his
friends with a new song, of which, he will have composed both the words
and the music, if he may be believed, whilst he was leaning from his
casement "watching the procession of the moon-lit clouds." He sometimes
smokes cigarettelets (a word must be coined to express their size and
strength), but he never attempts cigars, and loathes the homely pipe. In
gait and manner he affects a mincing delicacy, by which he seeks to
impress the thoughtless with a sense of his superior refinement. In
later life, he is apt to lose his hair, and to disguise the ravages of
time upon his cheeks by the aid of _rouge_. Yet he deceives nobody, and
having grown stout and wheezy is eventually carried off by a common cold
in an odour of _pastilles_. He will be buried in a wicker-work coffin
covered with lilies, and a rival Dilettante having written a limp and
limping sonnet to his memory, will take his evening.
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