Volume 108 — THE SCARLET PARASOL.
Reading edition
Scene II.—Drawing-room. Windows opening on to Terrace. Ladies alone.
Muriel (to Viola). Claude Mignon has been saying that I am the only woman he has ever loved!
Viola. Exactly what he says to me!
Muriel. Is it a boast—or a confession?
Viola (quietly). It is a lie, that's all. But what did Alan Roy say? He didn't speak to me.
Muriel. He says you have a far-away look in your eyes.
Viola (eagerly). Yes? I did my best!
Muriel (simply). So I told him you wanted to have a secret in your life—a romance. He seemed very much interested.
Viola. Oh, Muriel! How could you? How silly of you! I am very angry indeed.
Muriel (calmly). Why, Viola? Albert is getting accustomed to his being grown-up, and Claude to his being so young. They all like him immensely. But I think they will be glad when he goes away.
[Enter gentlemen.
Claude (talking to Alan). Yes, I felt I had something to say—and I said it—in one volume.
Alan. There is no mistake so fatal as to write because one has something to say.
Claude. How about Robinson Crusoe, Don Quixote——
Alan. I am afraid I never read them. I couldn't read till I was ten—and then I read dear Herbert Spencer.
[He tries to join Viola and passes Mrs. Averidge, who moves to leave room for him on the sofa, and smiles.
Alan (standing by the sofa). Weren't the flowers quite sweet on the table to-night, Mrs. Averidge?
Mrs. Averidge (trying to be original). I can't bear flowers.
Alan. What do you like, Mrs. Averidge?
Mrs. Averidge (looking out of the window). Oh—trees, I think.
Alan. What! on the table! (He escapes, and joins Viola.) Is that the moon outside, Mrs. Travers?
Viola (gazing at it intensely). I think it is.
Alan. Shall we go and see?
[They move out on to the terrace.
Muriel (sitting next to Mrs. Averidge). Isn't Alan Roy a little dear?
Mrs. Averidge (spitefully). So your sister seems to think. I had no idea she was so fond of children.
Muriel. He has such pretty ways! That new shade of blue is very fashionable, Mrs. Averidge. But it's a little trying to you, do you know? You don't mind my saying so, do you? [Amenities continue.
Mr. Averidge. It's perfectly amazing! That boy knows everything. He talks politics——
Claude. He's a staunch Tory!
Mr. Averidge. Literature——
Claude. He tells me he's not a Romanticist; he cares only for the Classics.
Mr. Averidge. Art——
Claude (resigned). He dismisses Symbolism with a word, smiles at Impressionism as old-fashioned, but speaks most kindly both of Millais and Whistler. He calls them "poor dears." I think that was the phrase. I won't be sure, but I think so.
Mr. Averidge. Yes, he's astounding.
[Ponders.
Claude (to Muriel). Aren't we going to have some music? How I should like you to play those chants to me again! Won't you, Miss Vane? I love sacred music so.
Muriel. Yes; with pleasure. Viola has had my organ put in the billiard-room, to be out of the way.
[Rises.
Claude (as he and Muriel go into the billiard-room). The worst point about these clever boys is that they are so cynical! No sentiment—no heart!
[Continues ad lib.
On the Terrace.
Alan (to Viola). You have very wonderful eyes, Mrs. Travers, haven't you?
Viola. Have I?
Alan. You know you have. Do you believe in palmistry?
Viola. I think I do. Do you?
Alan. I don't know whether I believe in it, I like it.... Your line of life....
[Continues ad lib.
In the Drawing-room.
Albert. That boy is bewildering! He flits over every subject under the sun! Have a game of piquet, Averidge?
[They play piquet.
In the Billiard-room. Muriel playing the organ. Claude by her side trying to look like Dicksee's picture, "Harmony."
Claude. Do you ever have that curious feeling that you are doing exactly what you have done before, hearing—seeing something for the second time?
Muriel. Oh, yes! continually! I felt it during the whole of dinner!
Claude. Do you think it shows we knew each other in a previous existence, Miss Vane?
Muriel. No. I am afraid it only shows that you sometimes repeat yourself.
[She smiles.
Claude. How can you be so unkind, and yet look such a perfect angel!
Muriel. I feel exactly like St. Cecilia when I am playing the organ.
Claude. And I feel like St. Anthony, Miss Vane.
On the Terrace.
Alan. To get right away from people, to take a drive together, and bathe our heads in the golden sunlight! In secret! Do—do let us, Mrs. Travers!
"Bathing her head in the golden sunlight."
Viola. It would be nice! Albert is going to town for the day, and the Averidges are going for an excursion.... But what could we drive in?
Alan. Oh, I will arrange that. I will hire a dog-cart in the village; and we must meet in a lane, or a field, or something. And you must say you have been to teach the orphan boy to sew or something. It would be too sweet!
Viola. But—Master Roy——
Alan. Don't call me Master Roy. Call me Alan—when no one is listening.
Viola. Alan—wouldn't it be much simpler, merely to say we were going for a drive, and to order the carriage?
Alan. Then where's your mystery?
Viola. Very well! Then mind you don't tell anyone!
Alan. Not tell anyone, Mrs. Travers! But what's the use of a secret if one doesn't tell it to everyone?
Viola. Oh!
Alan. I was only joking, dear Mrs. Travers. At three, then.... Sh-sh! (He picks up her fan with the air of a conspirator.) If I think of anything else, I'll write a little note, and put it under the clock on that mantelpiece. Shall I?
Viola. What fun! But would it be safe?
Alan. Would you rather we corresponded in the Times about it, Mrs. Travers?
Viola. You're making fun of the whole thing.
[She pouts, &c. He shows by her Line of Fate that all will be well.
Mrs. Averidge (to herself). Well of all the dull houses I ever stayed at!... Piquet in the drawing-room, chants in the billiard-room, palmistry with Infant Phenomenons on the Terrace!... It's quite true, too, what that affected little Vane girl said—the colour is trying.... I'll never come here again!
[Retires to her room in disgust.
"Heckling."—At a meeting of the supporters of Mr. Murray, Master of Elibank, the Liberal candidate for West Edinburgh, the following "heckle" took place:—
"Mr. Guy. Seeing you approve of Home Rule all round, what is the smallest number of Parliaments the United Kingdom would require? (Laughter and a Voice: 'Send it back to Parliament Square.')
The Master of Elibank. I think that is a question which can be settled by an ordinary addition sum. (Cheers and laughter.)"
Which shows that the Master is a real Master of Arts as well as of Elibank, and, as regards platform difficulties, good at getting out. But whether he is equally good at "getting in" the future must decide. A slippery customer, evidently, is Mr. Murray, and his title ought to be "the Master of Eely-bank!"
A real "Man of the Times."—Mr. Punch congratulates Dr. W. H. Russell, endeared to his friends and companions-in-arms as "Billy Russell," on his becoming Sir William Howard Russell, Knight of the Pen. Prosit!
Scotch Junketing.—A "Curd Fair" has been held, as usual, at Kilmarnock, and the number of excursionists who left the town, both by road and rail, is said to have been very large. Well, of course a Curd Fair naturally leads to a number of whey-farers!
ANIMAL SPIRITS ON DERBY DAY.
(With Apologies to W. Frith.)]
AFTER THE PLAY.
Junior Playgoer. Why is it called The Prude's Progress. I didn't see any Prude, did you?
Elderly Playgoer. No; and no Progress. Slow. Cyril Maude and Fanny Brough quite the life and soul of the piece.
Jun. P. High premium wanted to insure its life, eh? Righton good all round man?
Eld. P. Very much all round. Playfair's part recalled Wyndham jotting down mems. on shirt-cuff.
Jun. P. Yes; somehow it all reminded me of various pieces I've seen.
Eld. P. Quite so. Remember old pantomime song?—
"A little piece here, and a little piece there, Here a piece, and there a piece, And everywhere a piece."
Jun. P. And it might finish with author—no (refers to programme)—authors, Jerome and Philpott, singing—
"We are two merry, merry men, Nobody precisely can find us out."
Eld. P. Exactly. Good night old boy. Better luck next time.
[Exeunt severally.
THAT TELEGRAM.
(Some Yildiz Comments on a Recent Editorial Exploit.)
Mashallah! Am I, the Full Moon That Blazeth in Heaven Like Anything, to be bested by a Penny Journalist, a Feringhee Writer of the Thing that is Not, a Gazetteer who is Ac-cust? Shall I, the Padishah Whose Piano-playing Edifieth the Distant Constellations, submit to be out-manœuvred in my own particular line by an Unbelieving Dog, a Giaour of Giaours? What though he be Lord of Lo Ben and of a Hundred Press-carts, he shall learn that a Concocter of Copy is no match for The Unspeakable One! Inshallah!... What ho! Summon the Grand Vizier, and let the Chief Bowstringer be in attendance! Bring in the medicated coffee for one, and rahat lakoum for two!...
What saith the dog of a dragoman? The Infidel Frank refuseth the mark of My very distinguished Favour, the Medjidieh of the Fourth Class? Will not that stop his accursed inquisitiveness? Or doth he wish for an Osmanieh, set in brilliants? Ingleez though he be, he must have his price!... No? He will not take an Osmanieh, not even of the First Class!!
Ah, perhaps he will give, if he will not take? Times are hard, and there is that Russian indemnity. Nay, it need but take the form of an Irredeemable Loan, or a Mortgage on the flourishing revenues of Our most prosperous province of Arabia Felix. We sorely need a new ironclad or two, for Our boilers are rusting badly, and Our keels are rotting beyond repair at their anchorage in the Bosphorus....
What!? The alien unbeliever neither giveth nor taketh? And doth not care one "snuff" (whatever that may mean) whether his telegram to Europe in general, and the P-ll M-ll G-z-tte in particular, goeth or not? Verily, he knoweth not the rules of Oriental diplomacy. But though the telegram shall not go, if we know it, the Sublime Porte shall yet give the quill-driving outcast a lesson in shilly-shally and hanky-panky. He shall know that the Commander of the Faithful is not to be called an impotent Potentate (with a big P) in vain. We will sit up all night, pretending to re-draft his telegram, and really enjoying his discomfiture! "Impotent Potentate," indeed! Let the chief telegraph-clerk be beheaded on the spot!...
"Wheel and Woe."—"A Word of Warning" to women bicyclists appeared in the St. James's Gazette last Friday, by "A Medical Man." Quite right. This Round of Wheel is overdone. Instead of "Wheel," the Medico cries "Woa!"
THE LOSS OF RICHMOND HILL.
Air—"The Lass of Richmond Hill."
From Richmond Hill there is a view As fair as Tempe's morn; Its charms are such that sure by few Their loss were calmly borne. This view so sweet, no "Jerry" street Must intercept or kill; We all decline thus to resign, The view from Richmond Hill! How happy would that builder be Who'd call that plot his own! His heart is fixed on lease and fee, Ours on the view alone. This view so sweet must rest complete, For not with our good will For villas fine will we resign That view from Richmond Hill!
FELINE AMENITIES.
"Are you going to the Browns' Dance?"
"No. I haven't been asked."
"Oh—I suppose it's quite a Young People's Dance, you know!"