Punch (99.1890)

40

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[July 26, 1890.

"WAX TO RECEIVE, AND MARBLE TO RETAIN."

Accokding to an evening paper, the wedding-present of Colonel
Gouratjd to a distinguished couple took the novel and charming form
of a phonograph, recording, for all time, the musical portion of the
marriage ceremony. In all prohahility,
this precedent will he widely followed,
and a set of waxen phonographic cylin-
ders will he a familiar feature in the list
of presents at every wedding of any
pretensions to smartness. Still, there
may be cases in which those who intend
to imitate Colonel Gotjbaud's example
would do well to consider first whether
the conditions are equally appropriate.
For instance, young Jack Rivenlute

uim.»i,.t„i) „ • » is not a bad fellow, though he may
Whaoksto Receive." ^ be giyen to sent'imenti alld yI0LA

Mandoline is a very charming girl, if she is apt to be a trifle
high-flown and exacting at times. When they marry—(they have
not even met at present, but they will marry, the year after next,
unless Mr. Punch's Own Second-sighted Seer grossly deceives
himself)—when they marry, Viola's Uncle John will be the
person to present them with the then orthodox phonograph and
appurtenances. But if he could foresee the future as distinctly as
Mr. Punch's Seer has done in the following prophetic visions, he
might substitute a biscuit-box, or a fish-slice and fork, a Tantalus
spirit-case, or even a dumb-waiter, as likely, on the whole, to inspire
a more permanent gratitude.

FIRST ANNIVERSARY-sat, in 1893.
Scene—A charming drawing-room. Time—About 9'30 p.m.
Mr. Rivenlute is on a chair by the open window ; Mrs. Rivenlute
on a low stool by his side.

Mrs. P. (for the fiftieth time). I can't ever thank you nearly
enough for this lovely ring, Jack dear!

Jack (rather gruffly). Oh, it's all right, Pussy. Glad you like it,
I'm sure. Do they mean to bring in the lamps ? It's pitch dark.

Mrs. R. I'll ring presently—not just yet. It was so dear of you
to remember what day it was !

Jack (who only just remembered it in time, as he was driving home).
Been a brute if I hadn't!

Mrs. P. You couldn't be a brute, Jack, if you tried—not to me.
I'm so glad we haven't got to go out anywhere to-night, aren't you ?

Jack (heartily). Rather! Beastly bore turning out after dinner.
What on earth are you up to over there ?

Mrs. P. (who has risen, and has apparently been winding up some
instrument in the eornei—as she returns). Oh, it'a only something I
wanted to do this evening. . . . Now, Jack, listen!

[ The phonograph begins to click and whirr.

Jack. That beastly cat in the room again! Turn it out quick—
it's going to be ill.

Mrs. P. (laughing a little hysterically). No—no, Jack, it isn't
poor Snowball this time ! "Wait, and you will hear something.

[The " Voice that Breathed o'er Eden" is suddenly rendered by
an organ and full choir: the remarks of ttoo choristers (who
are having a little difference over a hymn-book), and the
subdued sniffs of Mss. Mandoline, being distinctly audible
between the verses.

Mrs. P. (breaking down). Oh, Jack, isn't it beautiful ? Wasn't
it sweet of Uncle John to give it to us !

Jack (who, privately, would have infinitely preferred a small
cheque). Yes—he's a good old buffer at bottom.

Mrs. P. He's a perfect old love ! Tell me, Jack, you 're not sorry
you married me, are you ?

Jack. What a thing to ask a fellow , Of course I'm not!

Mrs. P. (softly). Do you know, Jack, I'm sometimes sorry I
married you, though.

Jack (uneasily). Come, I say, you know—what on earth for ?

Mrs. P. Because I should like to marry you all over again! . .
Ah, I knew I should frighten you! (The final "Amen" of the
Choir dies away, amid the coughing, rustling, and nasal trumpet-
ing of last year's Congregation.) There are some more oylinders,
Jack—shall we put them in next P

Jack (who feels sufficiently solemnised). Well, if you ask me, I
think they '11 keep till next year. Pity to disturb the effect of that
last, eh?

Second Annivehsaet—1894.
Same Scene and Time. Mrs. Rivenlute discovered alone.
Mrs. P. He might at least have made some allusion to the day—it
would have been only decent! He can't possibly have forgotten !
I don't know, though, very likely he has . . Well, I'm not going
to remind him! I suppose he means to stay downstairs, smoking, as
usual, all the evening. Oh, if I oould only make him ashamed of
himself just once ! . . I know! Uncle John's phonograph! He

can't help hearing that. (She winds it up, as Jack R. enters,
yawning.) Dear me, this is an unexpected honour. (Softening
slightly.) Have you come up to keep me company—for once ?

Jack. Well, to tell you the truth, my dear, I fancy I left the
evening paper here. Ah, there it is.

[He seizes it, and prepares to go.

Mrs. P. You can read it here, if you like, you know—I don't
mind your smoking.

Jack. Thanks—but it's cosier in the study.

Mrs. It. Of course I know that any place where I don't happen to
be is cosier in your opinion.

Jack. Oh, hang it, don't begin all that again—there, J'11 stay!
(He chooses a comfortable chair.) What the doose is that ?

[ The phonograph has begun to buzz and hum.

Mrs. P. Hush!—it's Uncle John's present.

[The " Wedding March " strikes up with a deafening blare.

Jack (startled). Bless my soul! I thought something had blown
up. " Hallelujah Chorus?' is it—or what ?

Mrs. P. (coldly). As it happens, it is Mendelssohn's " Wedding
March."

Jack, Sounded familiar somehow. _ 'Jove! Mendelssohn was
determined to let 'em know he was married I

Mrs. P. That was intended to let people know we were married.
It is our Wedding March.

Jack. Ours ? You said it was Mendelssohn's just now! But
what are you turning it on now, for ?

Mrs. P. Do you remember what day this is, by any chance ?

Jack. Haven't an idea. Isn't there a calendar on your writing-
table ?—that ought to tell you, if you want to know.

Mrs. P. Thank you, I don't require a calendar. To-day is the
twenty-third—the day you and I were married. [Sighs.

Jack. 'Pon my word I believe you 're right. The twenty-third—so
it is! [He becomes silent.

Mrs. P. (to herself, as the " Wedding March" continues jubilantly).
He is ashamed of himself. I knew he would be—only he doesn't
quite know how to tell me so; he will presently. ... I wish I could
see his face. ... If he is only sorry enough, I think I shall forgive
him. Jack ! (Softly.) Jack dear! (A prolonged snore from the
arm-chair. She goes to him and touches his arm.) You had better
go down-stairs and have your cigar, hadn't you ? It may keep you
awake I (Bitterly.)

Jack (opening his eyes). Eh ?—oh! Well, if you're sure you don't
mind being alone, I rather think I will.

Mrs. P. I should infinitely prefer being alone—I am so used to it.
[Exit Jack, as the " Wedding March" comes to a triumphant
conclusion.

Third Anniveksaey—1895.

Same Scene. Time, 11 "30 p.m. Mrs. Mandoline discovered with
her Daughter.

Mrs. M. Nearly twelve, and Jack not in yet—on this of all days,
too! Viola, you will be weak, culpably^ weak, if you don't speak to
him, very seriously, when he does come in.

Mrs. P. (ruefully). I can't, Mother. We're not on speaking terms
just now, you know.

Mrs. M. Then I shall. Fortunately, I am on speaking terms with
him—as he will find out! (A ring.) There he is, at last! Go, my
poor darling, leave me to bring him to a sense of his disgraceful
conduct. (Mrs. R. retires by the back drawing-room.) How shall I
begin ? Ah, poor John's phonograph! How lucky I remembered
it! (Selecting a cylinder.) There, if anything can pierce his hard
heart, that will!

[ Winds up machine, which breaks into a merry marriage peal as
Jack enters in evening dress.

Jack (sullenly). Now just look here, Viola—(recognising Mrs. M.)
Hullo, the Mum!

Mrs. M. (raising her voice above the clamour). Mum no longer,
Sir. Do you hear those bells ?

Jack. Bo I hear those bells f Am I deaf ? The whole Parish can
hear them, I should think!

Mrs. M. I don't care if they do. I want to touch your conscience,
if I can, and I still hope—bad as you are—that when the voices of
those bells—so long silent—rung in anticipation of such a very
different future—fall upon your ear once more, they may-

Jack (with a sardonic laug h). "So long silent!" Hike that. Sorry
to disappoint you, my dear Mamma, but that phonograph, as a
domestic stimulant, was played out long ago—it has played me out
often enough! Perhaps you don't know it, but really Viola has
rather overdone it. Whenever we have a tiff, she sets the " Voice
from Eden " at me; if she chooses to consider herself ill-used, I am
treated to a preserved echo of our marriage vows, and the Bishop's
address; when she is in the sulks, I get the congratulations in the
vestry; and if ever I grumble at the weekly bills, it's drowned in
the " Wedding March!" As for your precious bells, I can't dine
with a man at the Club without hearing the confounded things peal-
ing out the moment I let myself in. That infernal phonograph,