Punch (100.1891)

February 7, 1891.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 65

aptitude for turning up tails, which Ben no sooner perceived than he
availed himself of a blessing that had, indeed, come to him in disguise!

But the Bishop—what of him ? Nemesis overtook him at last.
The discontent long smouldering in his diocese broke out_ into a
climax. Thousands of Curates, inflamed by professional agitators,
went out on strike, and their first victim was the Bishop of Tim-
bertows, who was discovered prostrate one dark night by his
horrified Chaplain. He had been picketed as a Blackleg!

the end.

{Copies of the above may be obtained for distribution, at very
reasonable terms, on application to the Author.)

PLAYTIME FOR A DOLUS HOUSE.

Dear Mr. Punch,—According to a well-known Critic, writing of a
morning performance of The DolPs House on Tuesday, the 27th ult.,
at Terry's Theatre, " There is no need to discuss Ibsen's piece any
more." I will go a little further, and say, not only should the play

\ be spared discussion,

V^\$V:.';,/x hut also performance.

N^vV y'.jT"_ All that could be done

Cx.^^^^^^^^^. for this miserable drama

(if a work utterly devoid
'" ^ ~^^^^^^W^^^^=t °t dramatic interest can
Cq , ~~ -^^^^wS^k^^^ 80 entitled) was

' • TOv " effected some years
~^~y^^e. N '('f^ff^X ' since, when Breaking a
" ^^^^AyLg^J^ Butterfly, a version with

™Q M e 8 s r 8.

r' '^T^^Sk. Herman
' '^V ^^V/JWSk- „ and Jones

<< jffl^J f> l&^'k. - <a\ as adapters,

Mi,r ' V> PWJ^fl&m- OC<, \ was played
rmfl ^^Jm^mtM^^^^ at the

Prince's
(now Prince
of Wales's)
Theatre. I
believe some

^Hnl^=~-^^P!!^^y''a''^^m^^. SIIIIIIS Ills ™e or other

*iosrs ^yy^^^^^^^u^- hag8aidthat

Fancy Picture of Hanwellian Admirer of the IbEenseles3 that version
Drama thoroughly enjoying himself. was mis-

leading, because it modified Ibsen, and did not reveal him in his true
colours. This I can readily believe, as my recollection of Breaking a
Butterfly merely suggests boredom ; whereas, when I consider The
Doll's Mouse of Tuesday, I distinctly mingle with boredom a recol-
lection of something that caused a feeling of absolute loathing. That
something, I imagine, must be the new matter which was absent
from the first version, and crops up in the text of the second, which,
according to the Play-bill, appears "inYol. I. of the authorised edition
of Ibsen's Prose Dramas, edited by William Archer, and published
by Mr. Walter Scott." _ By the way, I must confess that, although
the name of the Editor is not familiar to me as a dramatic author,
his superintendence of the authorised text seem3 to have been per-
formed sufficiently creditably to have rendered him as worthy ot an
honourable prefix as the publisher. Why omit the " Mr." ? Now I
come to think of it, there is an Englishman, not unconnected with
dramatic literature, who is known nowadays as William, without
the prefix of Mister, but in his own time he was known as Master
Willlam Shakspeabe, and Master he remains. " But this," as Mr.
Rudyakd Kipling might observe, " is quite another William."

I have not the original for reference handy, but the version played
at Terry's Theatre bears internal evidence of a close translation. An
adapter, I fancy, with a free hand would scarcely have made one of the
characters use the same exit speech on two occasions. Nils Krogstad
does this. He can think of nothing better than, " If I am flung into
the gutter, you shall accompany me," repeated twice with the slight
variation, " If I am flung into the gutter for the second time, you shall
accompany me," used for the last exit. Again, Torvald Helmer has
a long monologue in the final Act that a practised playwright would
have "broken up " with the assistance of a portrait, or a letter, or
something. From this it would appear that the Editor, Willlam
Abcher (without the " Mr.") has very faithfully produced the exact
translation of the original. To be hypercritical, I might suggest that
perhaps occasionally the version is rather too literal. For instance,
Torvald Helmer, although he is cursed with one of the most offensive
wives known to creation,_ would scarcely call her " a little lark,"
which conveys the impression that he is a "gay dog," and one given to
the traditional ways of that species of ultra-sociable animals. I have
confessed I have not the original before me, so I cannot say whether
the title used by Ibsen is " Smallz Larkz," but I fancy that a
" capering capercailzie," if not actually his words, would be nearer
his meaning. A capercailzie is, according to the dictionaries, a bird
of "a delicious flavour" and partially " green ; " it is also found in

Norway " very fine and large," as Ibsen might say. Surely Torvald
would have thus described his semi-verdant Nora, finding her
distinctly to his taste.

Returning to what I venture to imagine must be "new matter " not
in the Herman-p/us-Jonesian version, I consider the scene in which
Nora chaffs Dr. Bank about his illness absolutely nauseous, and
the drink-inspired admiration of husband for wife in the concluding
Act repulsive to the last degree. On Tuesday the spectators received
the piece with patient apathy; and, this being the case, I could
not help feeling that anyone who could single out such a play as
suitable for performance before an English audience, could scarcely
possess the acumen generally considered a necessary adjunct to the
qualifications of an efficient Dramatic Critic. The hero, the heroine,
the doctor, as prigs, could only appeal to prigs, and thank goodness
the average London theatre-goer is the reverse of a prig. There
was but one redeeming point in the play—its conclusion. It ends
happily in Nora, forger, liar, and—hem—wedded flirt, being sepa-
rated from her innocent children.

For the rest, the piece was fairly well acted. But when the Curtain
had fallen for the last time, and the audience were departing more
in sadness than in anger, I could not help asking myself the question,
Had the advantages obtained in witnessing the performance balanced
the expense incurred in securing a seat ? I am forced to reply in the
negative, as I 6ign myself regretfully,

One who Paid for a Place in the Pit.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

I see three ladies in a drawing-room, each with a green volume.
"What is it?" No, they won't hear. Each one is intent on her
volume, and an irritable answer, in a don't bother kind of manner,
is all that I can obtain. The novel is Miss Braldon's latest, One
Life, One Love (but three volumes, for all that), in which they are
absorbed. Later on, at intervals, I get the volumes, and, raven-like,
secrete them. I can quite understand the absorption of my young
friends. Marvellous, Miss Bbaddon ! Very few have approached you
in sensation-writing, and none in keeping up sensationalism as fresh
as ever it was when first I sat up at night nervously to read Aurora
Floyd, and Lady Audley's Secret. In this bad time of year (I am
writing when the snow is without, and the North-East wind is engaged
in cutting leaves), the Baron recommends remaining indoors with this
Three-volume Novel as a between lunch and dinner companion, only
don't take it up to your bed-room, and sit over the fire with it, or—
but there, I won't mention the consequences. Keep it till daylight doth
appear. The Baron being a busy man—no, Sir, not a busy-body,—is
grateful to the authors of good short stories in Magazines. Many
others agree with the Baron, who wishes to recommend " Saint or
Satan " in The Argosy ; The story of an " Old Beau," which might
have been advantageously abbreviated in Scribner; an odd tale
entitled, "The Phantom Portrait," in the Cornhill, which leaves
the reader in doubt as to whether he has been egregiously "sold"
or not; and, above all, the short and interesting—too short and most
interesting—paper on Thackeray, in Harper's Monthly, with
fac-similes of some of the great humorist's most eccentric and most
spirited illustrations, conceived in the broadly burlesquing spirit
that was characteristic of Gilray and Rowlandson. Thackebay,
philosopher and satirist, who can take us behind the scenes of every
show in Vanity Fair, who can depict the career of the scoundrel
Barry Lyndon, of the heathen Becky Sharp, and the death-bed of
the Christian soldier and gentleman, dignissimus, Colonel Newcome,
could on occasion, and when a rollicking spirit moved him, put on a
pantomime mask (have we not his own pathetic vignette representing
him doing this ?) to amuse the children, or give us some rare bur-
lesque writing and drawing to set us all on the broad grin. The
Baron trusts that Mrs. Ritchie will give us more of this, and sincerely
hopes that there may be a " lot more" caricatures in that portfolio
"where these came from." I heartily thank you for so much, and
respectfully ask for more, says yours, very gratefully,

The Baron de Book-Worms.

In Memoriam.

Strong man and strenuous fighter, stricken down
Just when foes owned thee neither knave nor clown!
The fiercest of them, time-taught, need not fear
To drop a blossom now on Bradlaugh's bier.

Arthur and Composer.—Saturday, January 31.—First night !of
Sullivan's Lvanhoe in D'Oyley Carte's new Theatre. _ Full inside,
all right. Sir Arthur's success. We congratulate him Arthurly.
Carte called before horse,—should say before Curtain, but t 'other
came so naturally,—looked pale,—quite carte blanche ; but, like
Sullivan's music, composed. Could get a Carte, but no cab. Gal-
lant gentlemen and delicate ladies braving rain and slosh. More in
our next, but for the present . . . {Paroxysm of sneezing).