DOI issue:
December 14, 1867
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16880#0257
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
[December 14, 1867.
246
THE DELIGHTS OF FASHION. (A CAUTION TO LADIES WHO HUNT IN CHIGNONS.)
“ 0 Tom, help me ! I ’ll never Wear it again ! ”
A TEW TRIENDS.
[FROM MY PHOTOGRAPH BOOK.)
TABLEAU VIE—MY LATE FRIEND.
At four in the morning my Late Friend is ready to go. That is,
we get (for the third or fourth time, for something has invariably
brought him back again) to the passage. I have lighted my candle, as
a hint that Bed is my immediate destination. The caudle burns
smokily on the sideboard. My Late Friend leans against the wall,
regarding it with an air of intense interest. I find myself gradually
occupied in the same intellectual process.
“Well! ” says my Late Friend, slowly, as if, after being thoroughly
satisfied with the candle, he must now go. He doesn’t, however. He
only shifts his position slightly, apparently for the purpose of obtaining
another survey of the candle from a different point of view. Strange
to say, that, while perfectly alive to the absurdity of our situation, I
can’t help staring at the candle, too. It mesmerises us—both of us.
It is the rattlesnake charming a couple of late birds. The passage is
cold. I become more and more aware of it every minute, yet I don’t
feel inclined to break the solemn silence by drawing my Late Friend’s
attention to the fact. It seems to me that he is waiting to say something
important—something he has kept till the last moment.
Thunniwell has often acknowledged to me that he hates saying,
“ Good-bye! ” This is very odd, as he generally manages to say it
several times before he really disappears.
“ Well,” he says, for the second time, after an interval of twenty
minutes, employed by us only in staring vacantly at the candle—
“Well, I suppose I must be going.”
Three, hours ago he was certain he must be going; now, after re-
peated failures, lie can only “ suppose ” it.
Pulling myself together, so to speak, I reply, “Yes, it’s time.” I
simulate extra drowsiness (I am sufficiently sleepy, and have been for
the last hour and a half), to encourage him in his determination of
leaving.
“ Difficult to tear oneself away,” says he, lounging against the wall,
with his eye fixed on the candle ag:ain.
I undo the bolts. The street is a chilly, ghostly blue and white.
Thunniwell comes to the door.
A supernatural freshness seizes both of us for the next quarter of an
hour.
“ How light it is !” says Thunniwell.
I stand on the steps with a view to seeing the light better. . !
“ Wish we were starting for Zurich.” He is quite brisk. Zurich,
by the way, was settled upon at 2 30 this morning.
“ I wish we were,” I return. I don’t mind admitting this much,
being aware of its utter impossibility.
“Well, why not?” he asks, becoming brisker.
I weakly object that “it would never do.”
“ Not do !” he exclaims (so awake he is !). “ It would be the very
thing. Train at_7'30. How long do you take to pack ?”
Not more than an hour and a half, I imagine.
“ Well, say you begin now; it’s 430. At six you’ve done. Take
a cab; come to my lodgings, fetch me and my traps. I’ll give you
coffee and toast, and off we go by the 7 30. Breakfast at Folkestone,
lunch at Boulogne, dine at Paris.”
“And sleep?” 1 suggest.
“ In the train,” he answers, contemptuously, as if I ought to have
known that by this time.
He is so brisk, he is so lively; I think to myself if my Late Friend is
not “taken while he is in the humour” (tow row row, and, Paddy, will
you now ? is the chorus, but nothing to do with the subject on this
occasion) he will not be taken at all; or certainly will put it oft so late
that my vacation will have to be considerably curtailed, and I may
have to go (if ever I do go) without a companion.
All this flashes through my mind (not exactly “flashes,” or I should
be electrically awakened, but “gleams” or “dawns” upon my mind,
which is rousing itself and getting up) as I stand on the door-step,
“Well, the fact is,” I say, “1 wanted to—that is I ought to—but
it doesn’t matter.” I was going to say that I ought to have called to
say “ Good-bye” to Sophia Theresa (to whom 1 have been engaged
for five years—picture very little way on); but Sophia Theresa will
understand it, and I ’ll write.
[December 14, 1867.
246
THE DELIGHTS OF FASHION. (A CAUTION TO LADIES WHO HUNT IN CHIGNONS.)
“ 0 Tom, help me ! I ’ll never Wear it again ! ”
A TEW TRIENDS.
[FROM MY PHOTOGRAPH BOOK.)
TABLEAU VIE—MY LATE FRIEND.
At four in the morning my Late Friend is ready to go. That is,
we get (for the third or fourth time, for something has invariably
brought him back again) to the passage. I have lighted my candle, as
a hint that Bed is my immediate destination. The caudle burns
smokily on the sideboard. My Late Friend leans against the wall,
regarding it with an air of intense interest. I find myself gradually
occupied in the same intellectual process.
“Well! ” says my Late Friend, slowly, as if, after being thoroughly
satisfied with the candle, he must now go. He doesn’t, however. He
only shifts his position slightly, apparently for the purpose of obtaining
another survey of the candle from a different point of view. Strange
to say, that, while perfectly alive to the absurdity of our situation, I
can’t help staring at the candle, too. It mesmerises us—both of us.
It is the rattlesnake charming a couple of late birds. The passage is
cold. I become more and more aware of it every minute, yet I don’t
feel inclined to break the solemn silence by drawing my Late Friend’s
attention to the fact. It seems to me that he is waiting to say something
important—something he has kept till the last moment.
Thunniwell has often acknowledged to me that he hates saying,
“ Good-bye! ” This is very odd, as he generally manages to say it
several times before he really disappears.
“ Well,” he says, for the second time, after an interval of twenty
minutes, employed by us only in staring vacantly at the candle—
“Well, I suppose I must be going.”
Three, hours ago he was certain he must be going; now, after re-
peated failures, lie can only “ suppose ” it.
Pulling myself together, so to speak, I reply, “Yes, it’s time.” I
simulate extra drowsiness (I am sufficiently sleepy, and have been for
the last hour and a half), to encourage him in his determination of
leaving.
“ Difficult to tear oneself away,” says he, lounging against the wall,
with his eye fixed on the candle ag:ain.
I undo the bolts. The street is a chilly, ghostly blue and white.
Thunniwell comes to the door.
A supernatural freshness seizes both of us for the next quarter of an
hour.
“ How light it is !” says Thunniwell.
I stand on the steps with a view to seeing the light better. . !
“ Wish we were starting for Zurich.” He is quite brisk. Zurich,
by the way, was settled upon at 2 30 this morning.
“ I wish we were,” I return. I don’t mind admitting this much,
being aware of its utter impossibility.
“Well, why not?” he asks, becoming brisker.
I weakly object that “it would never do.”
“ Not do !” he exclaims (so awake he is !). “ It would be the very
thing. Train at_7'30. How long do you take to pack ?”
Not more than an hour and a half, I imagine.
“ Well, say you begin now; it’s 430. At six you’ve done. Take
a cab; come to my lodgings, fetch me and my traps. I’ll give you
coffee and toast, and off we go by the 7 30. Breakfast at Folkestone,
lunch at Boulogne, dine at Paris.”
“And sleep?” 1 suggest.
“ In the train,” he answers, contemptuously, as if I ought to have
known that by this time.
He is so brisk, he is so lively; I think to myself if my Late Friend is
not “taken while he is in the humour” (tow row row, and, Paddy, will
you now ? is the chorus, but nothing to do with the subject on this
occasion) he will not be taken at all; or certainly will put it oft so late
that my vacation will have to be considerably curtailed, and I may
have to go (if ever I do go) without a companion.
All this flashes through my mind (not exactly “flashes,” or I should
be electrically awakened, but “gleams” or “dawns” upon my mind,
which is rousing itself and getting up) as I stand on the door-step,
“Well, the fact is,” I say, “1 wanted to—that is I ought to—but
it doesn’t matter.” I was going to say that I ought to have called to
say “ Good-bye” to Sophia Theresa (to whom 1 have been engaged
for five years—picture very little way on); but Sophia Theresa will
understand it, and I ’ll write.