Puppets at Large: Scenes and Subjects from Mr Punch's Show

First Comm. (still pining for notice). When you say shirts, Sir, I presume you mean clean ones?

Mr. L. – B. No man with the shlightest feelin' or reverence for Art would put sush a queshtion! (The First Comm. collapses.) Between a couple of – (underlining the word) Shirts, and brought it home. Now I'm comin' to my point. One afternoon after my return, I wash walking down Bond Street, when I saw a sketch exhibited in a window by the shame f'ler. I went in and shaid, "What are you asking for thish? Mind I don' wanter buy it; ashk me any price yer like!" And they shaid forty guineash.

Mr. Milb. Apparently they availed themselves of your permission, and did ask you any price they liked.

Mr. L. – B. No doubt; but wait till I've done. I saw another – a finished drawing not qui' so good as mine, there. Then I shaid to them quietly, "Now, look here, why don' you go an' buy 'em for yourshelves in the artist's own shtudio?" It shtruck me as sho odd, a man like Middleman, being there, and having the pick, shouldn' buy more of 'em!

Mr. Milb. Wasn't worth his while; he can't buy everything!

Mr. L. – B. (after considering this impartially with some more whiskey). No; your ansher is a very good one, and a very fair one. He can't buy everything. I did pick, however, an' I gorrit. I said to him, "How mush?" an' he tol' me, and there wash an end of it, do you shee?

Mr. Milb. It's the ordinary course of business, isn't it?

Mr. L. – B. Egshackly. But how few do it! Now, I'll tell you 'nother shtory 'bout my poo' dear father. He came 'pon a sculpture in a curioshity shop; it wash very dirty and used up, but my dear father saw it was worth shpotting, and a thing to be shpotted, and sho he put hish finger on it!

First Comm. (undaunted by past failure). And was it antique, Sir?

Mr. L. – B. That'sh more'n I can tell you; it wash very dirty, at any rate, and he only gave fifty guineash for it. Wasn't a great shum —

First Comm. (encouraged by his affability). No, indeed; a mere nothing, so to speak, Sir!

Mr. L. – B. (annoyed). Will you have the goodnesh to lemme finish what I was telling thish gentleman? When my poo' father got that busht home, it was the mos' perfect likenesh o' Napoleon!

Mr. Milb. Ha! puts me in mind of the old story of the man who picked up a dingy panel somewhere or other, took it home, cleaned it, and found a genuine Morland; went on cleaning and discovered an undoubted Rembrandt; cleaned that, and came to a Crivelli; couldn't stop, kept on cleaning, and was rewarded by a portrait of George the Fourth!

First Comm. (deeply impressed). And all of them genuine? How very extraordinary, to be sure!

Mr. L. – B. (wagging his head sapiently). I could tell you shtranger things than that. But as I was shaying, here was this busht of Napoleon, by some French chap – which you would tell me was against it.

Mr. Milb. Why? The French are the best sculptors in the world.

Mr. L. – B. The Frensh! I can not bring myshelf to believe that, if only for thish shimple reashon, they haven't the patiensh for it.

First Comm. So I should have said. For my own part – not knowing much about it, very likely – I should have put the Italians first.

Mr. Milb. If you are talking of all time —

First Comm. (feeling at last at his ease). I should say, even now. Why, there was a piece of statuary in the Italian Exhibition at Earl's Court some years back that took my fancy and took my wife's fancy very much. It was a representation in marble of a 'en and chickens, all so natural, and with every individual feather on the birds done to such a nicety – !

Mr. Milb. I was hardly referring to the skill with which the Italians carve – ah —poultry.

Mr. L. – B. Ridic'lous! Great mishtake to talk without unnershtanding shubject. (The First Commercial retires from the room in disorder.) One thing I should like to ashk is thish. Why are sculptors at present day so inferior to the antique? Ishn't the human form divine ash noble and ash shymmetrical ash formerly? Why can't they reproduce it then?

Mr. Milb. You must first find your sculptor. Providence doesn't see fit to create a Michael Angelo or a Praxiteles every five minutes, any more than a Shakspeare.

Mr. L. – B. (wavering between piety and epigram). Thank the Lord for that! Now there'sh Florensh. Shome of us who have had the run there – well, there you see all the original thingsh – all the originalsh. And yet, if you'll believe me (dreamily), with all my love and charm for Art, gimme the Capitoline Venush living and breathing in flesh and blood, Sir, not in cold lifelesh marble!

Mr. Milb. That of course is a matter of taste. But we are talking about Art, not women.

Mr. L. – B. (profoundly). Unforsh'nately, women are the shubjects of Art. You've got to find out your client's shtyle of Art firsht, and then carry it out in the besht possible manner.

Mr. Milb. (rising, and knocking his pipe out). Have I? But I'm going to bed now, so you'll excuse me.

Mr. L. – B. (detaining him). But look here again. Take the Louvre. (As Mr. Milboard disclaims any desire to take it.) Now, nobody talksh about the Gallery there, and yet, if you only egshemp the thingsh that are rude and vulgar, and go quietly roun' —

Second Commercial (who sees a Socratic opening at last). Might I ask you, Sir, to enumerate any pictures there, that, in your opinion, are "rude and vulgar"?

    [Mr. Milboard avails himself of this diversion to escape.

Mr. L. – B. In the Grand Gallery of the Louvre there'sh an enormous amount of shtuff, as everybody who'sh an artisht and a lover of Art knowsh. If I had a friend who wash thinking of going to the Louvre (here he looks round vaguely for Mr. Milboard), I should shay to him, "Do you care about pictursh at all? If you don't, don't borrer yourshelf 'bout it. If you do, drop in shome day with Me, and I'll give you a hint what to shee." (As he cannot make out what has become of Mr. Milboard, he has to content himself with the Second Commercial.) If you were my boy, I should shay to you —

Second Comm. (at the door). Pardon me for remarking that, if I was your boy, I should probably prefer to take my own opinion. (With dignified independence.) I never follow other persons' taste in Art!

    [He goes out as the Smoke-room Page enters.

Mr. L. – B. (hazily with half-closed eyes). If you wash my boy, I should shay to you, very quietly, very sherioushly, and without 'tempting to dictate – (Perceives that he is addressing the Page.) Jus' bring me 'nother glash whiskey an' warrer.

    [He is left sitting.

THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW

A Contrast

The Stables at Saddlesprings, the Wheelers' Country House near Bykersall. Miss Diana's Horse Bayard discovered in his Stall.

Bayard (talking to himself, as is the habit of some horses when alone). I can't make it out. She's here. All the family came down yesterday – I heard the omnibus start for the station to meet them. And yet she hasn't sent for me; hasn't even been near me! She always used to rush in here and kiss me on the nose the very first – She's ill – that's it of course – sprained her fetlock or something. If she was well, she'd have had me saddled as soon as she'd had her morning feed, and we'd have gone for a canter together somewhere… I hope she'll get well soon. I'm sick of being taken out by the stable-man; he's so dull – no notion of conversation beyond whistling! Now, Miss Diana would talk to me the whole way… Perhaps her hands and seat might have been – But what did that matter? I liked to feel she was on my back, I liked the sound of her pretty voice, and the touch of her hand when she patted me after her ride… (He pricks his ears.) Why, that's her voice outside now! She's all right, after all. She's coming in to see me!.. I knew she couldn't have forgotten!

Miss Diana's Voice (outside). Yes, you might put it in here for the present, Stubbs. I suppose it will be quite safe?

Stubbs' Voice. Safe enough, Miss, there's plenty o' empty stalls this side. Nothing in 'ere just now, except —

Miss D.'s Voice. Very well, then. Just wipe some of the dust off the mud-guards, because I shall want it again after lunch. And mind you don't scratch the enamel taking it in.

Stubbs. Very good, Miss. I'll be keerful.

    [Miss Diana's steps die away upon the cobbles.

Bayard (to himself). She's gone – without even asking after me! What has she been out in – a bath chair? I'm sure she must be ill.

Stubbs (to the Bicycle, as he wheels it in). 'Ere, steady now, 'old up, can't ye? And keep that blarsted near pedal o' yourn off o' my enamel. Blest if I wouldn't rather rub down arf a dozen 'unters nor one o' them yere bloomin' bi-cycles. I know where I am with a 'orse; but these 'ere little, twisty, spidery wheels – Come over, will ye. I'll lean ye up agen 'ere till I've 'ad my dinner.

    [He places the machine against a partition next to Bayard's stall, and goes out.

Bayard (to himself, as he inspects his neighbour with the corner of his eye). It's not a bath-chair; it's one of these bicycles. It must be a sort of animal, I suppose, or Stubbs wouldn't have spoken to it. I should like to ask it one or two questions. (He gets his neck over the partition, and breathes gently through his nostrils upon the handle-bars.) Excuse me, but do you understand horse-language at all?

The Bicycle (answering by a succession of saddle-creaks). Perfectly. I'm a kind of horse myself, I believe, only greatly improved, of course. Would you mind not breathing on my handle-bars like that? It tarnishes the plating so. The saddle is the seat of my intelligence, if you will kindly address your remarks here.

Bayard. I beg your pardon. I will in future. I don't creak myself, but I've been closely connected with saddles ever since I was a two-year-old, so I can follow you fairly well. Didn't I hear my mistress's voice outside just now?