'DEEDS-NOT WORDS!'"DEEDS-NOT WORDS!"John Bull."LOOK HERE,—WE'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR PALAVER! ARE YOU GOING TO LET THE GIRL GO, OR HAVE WE GOT TO MAKE YOU?"
John Bull."LOOK HERE,—WE'VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR PALAVER! ARE YOU GOING TO LET THE GIRL GO, OR HAVE WE GOT TO MAKE YOU?"
Ragged UrchinRagged Urchin(who has just picked up very short and dirty end of a Cigarette). "Hi, Billy! Look 'ere! See what you've missed!"
Ragged Urchin(who has just picked up very short and dirty end of a Cigarette). "Hi, Billy! Look 'ere! See what you've missed!"
Dear Charlie,—You know I'm a "biker."I told yer a good bit ago'Ow I learnt to cavort on the cycle; and now,from Land's End to Soho,There isn't a scorchinger Scorcher than'Arry, when fair on the spin.Somemightdo me for pace, but for style,and for skylark, I'd jest about win.Lil Johnson—you know littleLilwith thecopper-wire fringe and rum lisp!'Er as flower-mounts Clerkenwell way, an'wos donah to youngIky Crisp!She's blue sancho on learnin' to "bike," so Itook 'er to Battersea Park,As I'd 'eard wosthepitch for a spry lydycyclist as longed for a lark.Larks,Charlie! It's spruce, and nopickles! You know I fly cool without fidge,But I wosn't prepared for the toppers astreddle it nigh Chelsea Bridge.No slow Surrey-siders, my pippin, but smartbits o' frock from Mayfair;It tookmeaback for a jiff, tho' of courseI wos speedy all there."Lor, 'Awwee!" lispedLil, "thithiththplendid! But 'adn'twebetter sthand by?Thee 'ow thpiffing they thpinth, thoth sthwelllydith! No,'Awwee, I don'tliketer twy.Fanthy me in my cotton pwint wobblingamong thuch A-wonnerth ath thoth!Look at 'er in the kniekerth and gaiterth, andthpot t'otherth Balbriggan hoth!"PoorLil! She's no clarss, not comparative.Ain't got no savvy, yer see;And carn't 'old 'er own among quolity, notwith a flyer like me.Don't like to be done,Idon'tCharlie; andso I sez "Jest as yer like.Ony, ifImeant biking, in Battersea, dash itold girl,Ishouldbike!""Oh,'awwee," sez she, "you're a 'ot 'un!But let uth look on, dear,thithgo;Yer thee I carn't balanth, or pedal. I don'twant ter mykeyouno show.""All right," I sez, 'orty an' airy. Butontrynoo,Charlie, old pal,When I stocked up them beauties on bikes, Iwos most arf ashymed o'mygal.One young piece in grey knicks and creamcloth, and a sort of soft tile called atoke,Took my fancy perdigious, dear boy. I'dha' blued arf-a-bull to 'ave spoke,But a stiff-bristled swell in a dog-cart 'ad gota sharp eye upon'er;AndIcouldn't ha' done the perlite withoutraising a bit of a stir.If I could ha' got rid o'Lil, I'd ha' mountedmy wheel, and wired in,Balloon-tyred smart safety, old man!I'dha' showed MissGrey Knicks'ow to spin.One tasty young thing wos in tears, 'cos thebike she'd bespoke wosn't there,I hoffered 'er mine, but the arnser I got wosa freeze-me-stiff stare."Thtuck-up cat, my dear 'Awwee!" sezLil."Well," sez I, "shemaybe a Princess,As a lot o' them hexercise here. Lydy B.and a young MarchernessDo paternise Battersea Park on a bike;leastways so I've bin told;And the breakfusts and five-o'clock teas giveby dooks is a sight to behold.""Garn, 'Awwee," snigsLil, "you're akiddin'. But, thithorth! it ith a rum thing.To thee Batterthea Park, ath wath onth allkid-cwicket and kith-in-the ring,Now the pet-pitch of thwell lydy thyclists!""It shows yer," I sez, "'ow things move.From hansoms and bus-tops to bikes! Oh,the lydiesmustkeep on the shove."They borrow their barnies fromhus, arter all,Lil. Toffs want a new lark,So they straddle the bikeah lahBrixton, andtumble to Battersea Park.'Divideds' and 'Knickers,' my dysy, aresniffed at out Hislington way,But when countesses mount 'em at Chelsea,they're trotty and puffeck O K!"World shifts it, old man, that's a moral!We'll soon 'ave some duchess, on wheels,A-cuttin' all records, and showing youngZimmya clean pair of 'eels.Hadvanced Women? Jimminy-Whizz! Withthe spars and the sails they now carryThey'll race us all round, pooty soon, andromp in heasy winners! Yours,'Arry.
Dear Charlie,—You know I'm a "biker."I told yer a good bit ago'Ow I learnt to cavort on the cycle; and now,from Land's End to Soho,There isn't a scorchinger Scorcher than'Arry, when fair on the spin.Somemightdo me for pace, but for style,and for skylark, I'd jest about win.
Dear Charlie,—You know I'm a "biker."
I told yer a good bit ago
'Ow I learnt to cavort on the cycle; and now,
from Land's End to Soho,
There isn't a scorchinger Scorcher than
'Arry, when fair on the spin.
Somemightdo me for pace, but for style,
and for skylark, I'd jest about win.
Lil Johnson—you know littleLilwith thecopper-wire fringe and rum lisp!'Er as flower-mounts Clerkenwell way, an'wos donah to youngIky Crisp!She's blue sancho on learnin' to "bike," so Itook 'er to Battersea Park,As I'd 'eard wosthepitch for a spry lydycyclist as longed for a lark.
Lil Johnson—you know littleLilwith the
copper-wire fringe and rum lisp!
'Er as flower-mounts Clerkenwell way, an'
wos donah to youngIky Crisp!
She's blue sancho on learnin' to "bike," so I
took 'er to Battersea Park,
As I'd 'eard wosthepitch for a spry lydy
cyclist as longed for a lark.
Larks,Charlie! It's spruce, and nopickles! You know I fly cool without fidge,But I wosn't prepared for the toppers astreddle it nigh Chelsea Bridge.No slow Surrey-siders, my pippin, but smartbits o' frock from Mayfair;It tookmeaback for a jiff, tho' of courseI wos speedy all there.
Larks,Charlie! It's spruce, and no
pickles! You know I fly cool without fidge,
But I wosn't prepared for the toppers as
treddle it nigh Chelsea Bridge.
No slow Surrey-siders, my pippin, but smart
bits o' frock from Mayfair;
It tookmeaback for a jiff, tho' of course
I wos speedy all there.
"Lor, 'Awwee!" lispedLil, "thithiththplendid! But 'adn'twebetter sthand by?Thee 'ow thpiffing they thpinth, thoth sthwelllydith! No,'Awwee, I don'tliketer twy.Fanthy me in my cotton pwint wobblingamong thuch A-wonnerth ath thoth!Look at 'er in the kniekerth and gaiterth, andthpot t'otherth Balbriggan hoth!"
"Lor, 'Awwee!" lispedLil, "thithith
thplendid! But 'adn'twebetter sthand by?
Thee 'ow thpiffing they thpinth, thoth sthwell
lydith! No,'Awwee, I don'tliketer twy.
Fanthy me in my cotton pwint wobbling
among thuch A-wonnerth ath thoth!
Look at 'er in the kniekerth and gaiterth, and
thpot t'otherth Balbriggan hoth!"
PoorLil! She's no clarss, not comparative.Ain't got no savvy, yer see;And carn't 'old 'er own among quolity, notwith a flyer like me.Don't like to be done,Idon'tCharlie; andso I sez "Jest as yer like.Ony, ifImeant biking, in Battersea, dash itold girl,Ishouldbike!"
PoorLil! She's no clarss, not comparative.
Ain't got no savvy, yer see;
And carn't 'old 'er own among quolity, not
with a flyer like me.
Don't like to be done,Idon'tCharlie; and
so I sez "Jest as yer like.
Ony, ifImeant biking, in Battersea, dash it
old girl,Ishouldbike!"
"Oh,'awwee," sez she, "you're a 'ot 'un!But let uth look on, dear,thithgo;Yer thee I carn't balanth, or pedal. I don'twant ter mykeyouno show.""All right," I sez, 'orty an' airy. Butontrynoo,Charlie, old pal,When I stocked up them beauties on bikes, Iwos most arf ashymed o'mygal.
"Oh,'awwee," sez she, "you're a 'ot 'un!
But let uth look on, dear,thithgo;
Yer thee I carn't balanth, or pedal. I don't
want ter mykeyouno show."
"All right," I sez, 'orty an' airy. Butontry
noo,Charlie, old pal,
When I stocked up them beauties on bikes, I
wos most arf ashymed o'mygal.
One young piece in grey knicks and creamcloth, and a sort of soft tile called atoke,Took my fancy perdigious, dear boy. I'dha' blued arf-a-bull to 'ave spoke,But a stiff-bristled swell in a dog-cart 'ad gota sharp eye upon'er;AndIcouldn't ha' done the perlite withoutraising a bit of a stir.
One young piece in grey knicks and cream
cloth, and a sort of soft tile called atoke,
Took my fancy perdigious, dear boy. I'd
ha' blued arf-a-bull to 'ave spoke,
But a stiff-bristled swell in a dog-cart 'ad got
a sharp eye upon'er;
AndIcouldn't ha' done the perlite without
raising a bit of a stir.
If I could ha' got rid o'Lil, I'd ha' mountedmy wheel, and wired in,Balloon-tyred smart safety, old man!I'dha' showed MissGrey Knicks'ow to spin.One tasty young thing wos in tears, 'cos thebike she'd bespoke wosn't there,I hoffered 'er mine, but the arnser I got wosa freeze-me-stiff stare.
If I could ha' got rid o'Lil, I'd ha' mounted
my wheel, and wired in,
Balloon-tyred smart safety, old man!I'd
ha' showed MissGrey Knicks'ow to spin.
One tasty young thing wos in tears, 'cos the
bike she'd bespoke wosn't there,
I hoffered 'er mine, but the arnser I got wos
a freeze-me-stiff stare.
"Thtuck-up cat, my dear 'Awwee!" sezLil."Well," sez I, "shemaybe a Princess,As a lot o' them hexercise here. Lydy B.and a young MarchernessDo paternise Battersea Park on a bike;leastways so I've bin told;And the breakfusts and five-o'clock teas giveby dooks is a sight to behold."
"Thtuck-up cat, my dear 'Awwee!" sezLil.
"Well," sez I, "shemaybe a Princess,
As a lot o' them hexercise here. Lydy B.
and a young Marcherness
Do paternise Battersea Park on a bike;
leastways so I've bin told;
And the breakfusts and five-o'clock teas give
by dooks is a sight to behold."
"Garn, 'Awwee," snigsLil, "you're akiddin'. But, thithorth! it ith a rum thing.To thee Batterthea Park, ath wath onth allkid-cwicket and kith-in-the ring,Now the pet-pitch of thwell lydy thyclists!""It shows yer," I sez, "'ow things move.From hansoms and bus-tops to bikes! Oh,the lydiesmustkeep on the shove.
"Garn, 'Awwee," snigsLil, "you're a
kiddin'. But, thithorth! it ith a rum thing.
To thee Batterthea Park, ath wath onth all
kid-cwicket and kith-in-the ring,
Now the pet-pitch of thwell lydy thyclists!"
"It shows yer," I sez, "'ow things move.
From hansoms and bus-tops to bikes! Oh,
the lydiesmustkeep on the shove.
"They borrow their barnies fromhus, arter all,Lil. Toffs want a new lark,So they straddle the bikeah lahBrixton, andtumble to Battersea Park.'Divideds' and 'Knickers,' my dysy, aresniffed at out Hislington way,But when countesses mount 'em at Chelsea,they're trotty and puffeck O K!"
"They borrow their barnies fromhus, arter all,
Lil. Toffs want a new lark,
So they straddle the bikeah lahBrixton, and
tumble to Battersea Park.
'Divideds' and 'Knickers,' my dysy, are
sniffed at out Hislington way,
But when countesses mount 'em at Chelsea,
they're trotty and puffeck O K!"
World shifts it, old man, that's a moral!We'll soon 'ave some duchess, on wheels,A-cuttin' all records, and showing youngZimmya clean pair of 'eels.Hadvanced Women? Jimminy-Whizz! Withthe spars and the sails they now carryThey'll race us all round, pooty soon, andromp in heasy winners! Yours,'Arry.
World shifts it, old man, that's a moral!
We'll soon 'ave some duchess, on wheels,
A-cuttin' all records, and showing young
Zimmya clean pair of 'eels.
Hadvanced Women? Jimminy-Whizz! With
the spars and the sails they now carry
They'll race us all round, pooty soon, and
romp in heasy winners! Yours,
'Arry.
There seems to be a feeling among lady writers that they also should have been remembered in the Birthday-honour distribution. That is all very well, but quite a new demand has been started by theCork Constitution, which remarks,—
"It would not of course be regular to bestow a knighthood upon a lady; but the rule in the case of Mrs.Disraelimight be observed, and a Baroness be conferred upon the author ofLady Audley's Secret."
"It would not of course be regular to bestow a knighthood upon a lady; but the rule in the case of Mrs.Disraelimight be observed, and a Baroness be conferred upon the author ofLady Audley's Secret."
What wouldMiss Braddondo with a Baroness when she got her? Work her up into her next plot? Peeresses must be "cheap to-day," if they can be given away in this generous style.
(Cheapside, June 6, 1895.)
Oh, princely guest from Afghan clime,The poet's lot is hard! Ah!When he would find the proper rhyme,To balance with Shah-zada!I see the guardsman ride erect,The bugle sounds! Aha!Mypart should be, in verse correct,To greet the Shahza-da!Thy quantities have kill'd my song!Despair! I'm off to Mada-gascar, or anywhere! I longTo have it right. Shah-zădă?
Oh, princely guest from Afghan clime,The poet's lot is hard! Ah!When he would find the proper rhyme,To balance with Shah-zada!
Oh, princely guest from Afghan clime,
The poet's lot is hard! Ah!
When he would find the proper rhyme,
To balance with Shah-zada!
I see the guardsman ride erect,The bugle sounds! Aha!Mypart should be, in verse correct,To greet the Shahza-da!
I see the guardsman ride erect,
The bugle sounds! Aha!
Mypart should be, in verse correct,
To greet the Shahza-da!
Thy quantities have kill'd my song!Despair! I'm off to Mada-gascar, or anywhere! I longTo have it right. Shah-zădă?
Thy quantities have kill'd my song!
Despair! I'm off to Mada-
gascar, or anywhere! I long
To have it right. Shah-zădă?
AFairCorrespondent adds the letters "L. C. C." after her signature. She isnota member of the London County Council, but of the "Lady Cyclists Club."
PARLIAMENTARY INDIAN EXHIBITION.PARLIAMENTARY INDIAN EXHIBITION.
Dear Mr. Punch,—A touching epitaph has lately come under my notice. It runs as follows:—
"HIC JACET ANONYMA.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways,Where yellow asters throve,A maid whom there were few to praiseAnd fewer still to love.She lived unknown, so none can knowThe hour she ceased to be,Enough to know she has, and oh!Pray, all men, R. I. P."
She dwelt among the untrodden ways,Where yellow asters throve,A maid whom there were few to praiseAnd fewer still to love.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Where yellow asters throve,
A maid whom there were few to praise
And fewer still to love.
She lived unknown, so none can knowThe hour she ceased to be,Enough to know she has, and oh!Pray, all men, R. I. P."
She lived unknown, so none can know
The hour she ceased to be,
Enough to know she has, and oh!
Pray, all men, R. I. P."
Is it possible that our old friend, the New Woman, that quite "impossible she," has left us for "another place"? It seems almost too good to be true.
Yours unfeelingly,
A. Misoneogynist.
P.S.—You will observe that she died a spinster, of uncertain age.
A sportsman, not particularly literary, but very fond of theatricals, says that he hears there is a play going on calledDon Quickshot. He thinks the first syllable may have been accidentally omitted, but feels certain that theLondon Quickshotought to make a hit.
Scoring forDr. Grace.—"A Running Commentary."
HOW THINGS WILL OUT.HOW THINGS WILL OUT.(The Judge is not at home, and Brown, Q.C., asks permission to write him a Note.)Mary Elizabeth Jane."Would you like this Book, Sir? Master always uses it when he writes Letters!"[Heavens! it's an English Dictionary!
(The Judge is not at home, and Brown, Q.C., asks permission to write him a Note.)
Mary Elizabeth Jane."Would you like this Book, Sir? Master always uses it when he writes Letters!"
[Heavens! it's an English Dictionary!
TheStandard, giving its account of "Speeches," at Eton, on Fourth of June, said, "The speakers were attired in Court dress, the Oppidans wearing their black school gowns." Since when have Oppidans worn "gowns," black or otherwise? Those who used to wear gowns were the Collegers. Surely the custom, sanctioned by some centuries, has not been changed. The "Oppidans," or Town Boys, could not possibly be metamorphosed into Gown Boys—at least so writes to us
The Tug of Warre.
Good Evans!—TheDaily Telegraphreported "The Heroism of a Lady." The act and deed was that of MissEvans, of Hythe, near Southampton, who, after rescuing a man and a woman from drowning, plunged in again, dived, and rescued a girl, who was sinking for the third and last time. The girl saved will ever gratefully remember MissEvansas the lady who "brought her up by hand," and in finishing her education she will not neglect the extra-accomplishment of swimming. Honour to MissEvans, who is a real female champion, not of the Salvation Army, but of a Nautical Salvage Corps!
(What the Heart of the Young Masher said to the Music-hall Singer.)
(A Long Way after Longfellow.)
Air—"The Day is Done."
The day is done, and the darknessFalls from the brow of night,Like a crape-mask drifting downwardFrom a burglar in his flight.I see the lights of "the village"Gleam through the evening mist,And a feeling of dryness comes o'er me,And a tiddley I can't resist.A feeling of blueness, and longingFor a spree, and another drain;It resembles sorrow onlyAs gooseberry does champagne.Come, tip me some snappy poem,Some iky and rorty lay,That shall banish this chippy feeling,And drive dull care away.Not from the slow old stodges,Not from the smugs sublime,Who hadn't a notion of patter,And were slaves to tune and time:For, like chunks ofWagner'smusic,They worrying thoughts suggest,Dull duty, and dry endeavour,And to-night I long for rest.Tip a stave from some Lion Comique,Whose songs are snide and smart,And who makes you roar, likeRoberts,Till tears from your optics start.Who, without thought or labour,And "on his own," with ease,Can whack out the ripping chorusOf music-hall melodies.Such songs have power to quickenThe pulse that beats low with care;And come like the "Benedictine"That follows the bill-of-fare.So pick from the cad, or the coster,Some patter—slang for choice;And lend to the rhymes of the ComiqueThe tones of a stentor voice.And our feet shall thump tune to the music,And the bills that I cannot payShall be folded up, like my brolly,And as carefully put away.
The day is done, and the darknessFalls from the brow of night,Like a crape-mask drifting downwardFrom a burglar in his flight.
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the brow of night,
Like a crape-mask drifting downward
From a burglar in his flight.
I see the lights of "the village"Gleam through the evening mist,And a feeling of dryness comes o'er me,And a tiddley I can't resist.
I see the lights of "the village"
Gleam through the evening mist,
And a feeling of dryness comes o'er me,
And a tiddley I can't resist.
A feeling of blueness, and longingFor a spree, and another drain;It resembles sorrow onlyAs gooseberry does champagne.
A feeling of blueness, and longing
For a spree, and another drain;
It resembles sorrow only
As gooseberry does champagne.
Come, tip me some snappy poem,Some iky and rorty lay,That shall banish this chippy feeling,And drive dull care away.
Come, tip me some snappy poem,
Some iky and rorty lay,
That shall banish this chippy feeling,
And drive dull care away.
Not from the slow old stodges,Not from the smugs sublime,Who hadn't a notion of patter,And were slaves to tune and time:
Not from the slow old stodges,
Not from the smugs sublime,
Who hadn't a notion of patter,
And were slaves to tune and time:
For, like chunks ofWagner'smusic,They worrying thoughts suggest,Dull duty, and dry endeavour,And to-night I long for rest.
For, like chunks ofWagner'smusic,
They worrying thoughts suggest,
Dull duty, and dry endeavour,
And to-night I long for rest.
Tip a stave from some Lion Comique,Whose songs are snide and smart,And who makes you roar, likeRoberts,Till tears from your optics start.
Tip a stave from some Lion Comique,
Whose songs are snide and smart,
And who makes you roar, likeRoberts,
Till tears from your optics start.
Who, without thought or labour,And "on his own," with ease,Can whack out the ripping chorusOf music-hall melodies.
Who, without thought or labour,
And "on his own," with ease,
Can whack out the ripping chorus
Of music-hall melodies.
Such songs have power to quickenThe pulse that beats low with care;And come like the "Benedictine"That follows the bill-of-fare.
Such songs have power to quicken
The pulse that beats low with care;
And come like the "Benedictine"
That follows the bill-of-fare.
So pick from the cad, or the coster,Some patter—slang for choice;And lend to the rhymes of the ComiqueThe tones of a stentor voice.
So pick from the cad, or the coster,
Some patter—slang for choice;
And lend to the rhymes of the Comique
The tones of a stentor voice.
And our feet shall thump tune to the music,And the bills that I cannot payShall be folded up, like my brolly,And as carefully put away.
And our feet shall thump tune to the music,
And the bills that I cannot pay
Shall be folded up, like my brolly,
And as carefully put away.
(A Fable.)
A Goose that had miss-spent a long life, and, in addition to being old and ugly, was of a sour, ill-natured disposition, in despair of rendering herself any longer agreeable to her male acquaintances, conceived the desperate design of emancipating her female friends.
"It is intolerable," she declared to a large assemblage of the latter who flocked together directly the news of her design was noised abroad, "it is intolerable that, whilst all the good things of this life are reserved for the exclusive use and enjoyment of our male tyrants, we poor female creatures should be put off with feeble bodies and dowdy, unattractive plumage. I will go immediately to the King of Birds and demand the instant redress of these grievances under pain of my serious displeasure."
Scarcely had the Goose received the thanks of her audience for this valiant speech, when an Eagle, which chanced to be soaring at that moment in the heavens above them, and was attracted by the clamour that reached him, dropped suddenly to the earth in order to discover the cause of it; to whom the Goose, so soon as she was sufficiently recovered of her fears, humbly addressed her complaint.
"Foolish bird!" exclaimed the Eagle, when the Goose had made an end of her complainings, "know you not that what is fixed by Nature cannot possibly be altered by birds; and that if your sex have weaker bodies and a less attractive plumage than belong to us of the male gender, it is because Nature wills it so, and must be obeyed? Learn to be content with what you have, and cease envying those to whom Nature has been more prodigal of certain favours than she has been to you. Remember, also, foolish bird! that strength of mind is not the same thing with strength of body, and that though you may possess the one and pretend to despise the other, yet is Might the foundation of nearly all Right in the animal world, and must remain so because Nature will have it so and must be obeyed."
Shakspearian Characters at Manchester,—Last Friday H.R.H. the Prince ofWales'shorseFlorizel II.took the cake, or, rather, the Manchester Cup.Florizel II.is nowFlorizel I.In this new illustration to a Summer's notA Winter's Tale,Perditashould represent the race from the point of view of those who didn't win.
Another Title!! Supplemental Gazette of Birthday Honours.—Dr. W. G. Graceto be Cricket-Field-Marshal.
'Just look at Mr. Jones over there, flirting with that Girl!'"Just look at Mr. Jones over there, flirting with that Girl! I always thought he was a Woman-hater?""So he is; but She's not here to-night!"
"Just look at Mr. Jones over there, flirting with that Girl! I always thought he was a Woman-hater?"
"So he is; but She's not here to-night!"
(A Dramatic Fragment from Drury Lane.)
Scene—The Auditorium of the National Theatre. Present the customary throng. A performance on the stage is occupying the spectators' wrapt attention. Newly-married couple in stalls holding a discussion in undertones.
Scene—The Auditorium of the National Theatre. Present the customary throng. A performance on the stage is occupying the spectators' wrapt attention. Newly-married couple in stalls holding a discussion in undertones.
Angelina.I am so glad, dear, you did not get a book of the words. It will be such a capital exercise for my Italian. I find that I can understand every word.
Edwin(happy to have saved the expense of purchasing a translated libretto). Quite so, dear. You can tell me what they are doing.
Ang.Certainly, dear. Look, they are now having supper. You see, the heroine called for candles, and the waiter put them on the table. And now they are talking about things in general. And that isArmande. And don't you seeMargueriteis ill.
Edwin.Yes; she is fainting in front of a window.
Ang.Exactly. Italian is so easy—almost like English. She gives him a flower, and he goes away. He says adieu, and then the curtain falls.
EdwinWas that in Italian too?
Ang.Don't be absurd. (They discuss things in general, until the curtain rises on the Second Act.) Look, it is the same scene. You see, they are engaged. She is making love to him.
Edwin.Is that why he is sitting in a chair with his back to the audience whileMargueritestrokes his hair?
Ang.Yes. While she is stroking his hair she is saying how fond she is of him. And now he is telling her how fond he is of her.
Edwin(after a quarter of an hour). What are they saying?
Ang.Oh, just the same thing over and over again. The Italian language is so beautiful. "Oh,Armande!" She calls him by his Christian name. She is so attached to him.
Edwin.But what was the meaning of that?
Ang.(at the end of the Act). Oh, don't you see, he said something that pleased her. Then she kissed him. Really, I had no idea how easy Italian was. Of course, one understands it from knowing French. (Entr'acte passes as before, and curtain rises on Act Three.) Ah, here we are at Auteuil. Yes, and here comesMargueritewith some flowers. Isn't it interesting?
Edwin.Isn't this piece rather like theTraviata?
Ang.I don't know. But I never saw the Opera. And there, that old gentleman has come to call uponMarguerite.
Edwin.Why, of course, like the old chap with the baritone song. Now I begin to understand Italian myself.
Ang.Do you, dear? Well, you see, he was going to be rude, and then they made it up, and she gave him a chair. And there, do you see? she leaves a letter forArmande. It is for him to read. And now she leaves him. And he is reading the letter.
Edwin.And doesn't seem to like it. And there's the old chap (without the song), and he is consoling him.
Ang.(after a glance at her playbill). Yes, because they are father and son. (The Fourth Act passes, and she explains to her husband that Marguerite has been playing at cards, and that Armande is very angry with her.) That's why he throws money at her.
Edwin.Rather a cad—Armande.
Ang.Oh, no. You know we must not judge foreigners by an English standard. (The last Act commences.) You see, she is very ill. That cradle covered with rugs is her bed.
Edwin.Indeed!
Ang.Yes. And that I suppose must be the doctor. I wonder what they are saying! This Act they all seem to be talking faster than they did in the others. That old woman was her friend. I wonder why she has left her like that!
Edwin.Didn't she say something like "What a rum go?" It is the only line I have understood since the commencement of the performance. What is she saying now?
Ang.(hesitating). Well, I am not quite sure. But you see she is very ill. She scarcely recognisesArmande.
Edwin.What is he saying? What has he done with his father?
Ang.(perplexed). I can't quite follow this Act—they talk so fast.
Edwin.And, I say, why on earth have these two turned up? A lady in complete bridal costume—wreath, veil, and all—and a chap in evening dress. What on earth havetheygot to do with the story?
Ang.Don't you think, dear, we had better get a book?
Edwin(ignoring the suggestion). There's the poor thing dead!
Ang.Ah, I understood the last bit quite well. The Italian language is so much more expressive than our own, isn't it, dear?
Edwin.Darling, it is!
[Cigarettes, cabs, and Curtain.
Transcriber's NoteSundry damages or missing punctuation has been repaired.Page 277: 'Christain' corrected to 'Christian'. "(says this truly Christian cleric)".Page 282: 'Plantaganet', retained: perhaps an alternative spelling of 'Plantagenet'.
Sundry damages or missing punctuation has been repaired.
Page 277: 'Christain' corrected to 'Christian'. "(says this truly Christian cleric)".
Page 282: 'Plantaganet', retained: perhaps an alternative spelling of 'Plantagenet'.