DOI Heft:
April 9, 1892
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17693#0181
172 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [April 9, 1892.
AN EIVIPTY TRIUMPH.
(A Story of Show Sunday.)
It "was Show Sunday ; lovers of Art were streaming: in and out of
every Studio they could hunt up, fired with a laudable ambition to
break the record by the number they visited in the hours between
luncheon and dusk.
The residence of so risin? a painter as Tintoretto Tickler was
naturally a place in which no person of any self-respect would
neglect to be seen; and on this
particular afternoon the en-
^WP$iil$M%^ trance-hall, sitting-rooms, and
w / C^-^P^^^ studio were simply choked with
V;-'' N'f/ ffl|M$fefl# an eager throng of friends,
> V j"' '^^^^^^^^^ acquaintances, and utter
strangers; for Tintoretto's
lavish hospitality was well
known, and. no expense had
been spared to give his guests
as favourable an impression of
his talent as possible. A couple
of knights, clad in complete
steel — the local greengrocer
and an Italian model—took the guests' hats, and announced their
names; there were daffodils and azaleas in profusion; the Red
Roumanians performed national airs in the studio-gallery; Italian
mandolinists sang and strummed on the staircase^ and, in the
dining-room, trim maid-servants, in becoming white caps and
streamers, dispensed coffee, claret-cup, and ices to a swarm of well-
conducted social locusts.
Just outside his painting-room stood Tintoretto Tickler, at the
receipt of compliment, which was abundantly and cheerfully paid.
Indeed, the torrent of congratulation and delicately-expressed
eulogy was almost overwhelming. One lovely and enthusiastic
person told him that the sight of his "Dryad Disturbing a Beanfeast"
had just marked an epoch in her mental development, and that she
considered it quite the supreme achievement of the Art of the
Century. A ponderous man in spectacles, whom Tickler had no
recollection of having ever met before in his life, encouraged him by
his solemn assurance that his " Jews Sitting in a Dentist's Waiting-
room, in the reign of King John" was perfectly marvellous in its
realism and historical accuracy, and that it ought to become the
property of the Nation; while an elderly lady, in furs and a
crimped front, declared that the pathos of his nursery subject—a
child endeavouring to induce a mechanical rabbit to share its bread-
and-milk—was sending her home with tears in her eyes. Some
talked learnedly of his "values," his "atmosphere," and the
subtlety of his modelling ; all agreed that he had surpassed himself
and every living artist by his last year's work, and no one made any
mistake about the nature of his subjects, perhaps because—in con-
sideration for the necessities of the British Art-patron—they had
been fully announced and described in the artistic notes of several
Sunday papers.
When they got outside, it is true, their enthusiasm slightly
evaporated; Tickler was going off, he was repeating himself, he
had nothing that was likely to produce a sensation this year, and
most of his pictures would probably never be seen again.
As, however, these last remarks were not made in Tintoretto's
presence, it might have been thought that the unmistakable
evidences of his success which he did hear would have rendered him
a proud and happy painter,—but if he was, all that can be said was
that he certainly did not look it. He accepted the most effusive
tributes with the same ghastly and conventional smile; from
feminine glances of unutterable gratitude and admiration he turned
away with an inarticulate mumble and an averted eye ; at times he
almost seemed to be suppressing a squirm. If expression is any
index to the thoughts, he was neither grateful nor gratified, and
distinctly uncomfortable.
A painter-friend of his, who had been patiently watching his
opportunity to get a word with him as he stood there exchanging
handshakes, managed at last to get near enough for conversation.
"Very glad to find there's no truth in it! " he began, cordially.
"No truth in what!" said Tickler, a little snappishly, for he
was getting extremely fractious, " the compliments " ?
" No, no, my dear boy. I mean in what a fellow told me outside
just now—that some burglars broke into your studio last night, and
carried off all vour canvasses—a lie, of course! "
"Oh, that?" said Tickler, "that's true enough—they left
nothing behind 'em but the beastly frames ! "
" Then what on earth-?" began the other, in perplexity, for
another group was just coming up, beaming with an ecstasy that
demanded the relief of instant expression.
" Well—er—fact is," explained poor Tickler, in an undertone,
" I did think of shutting the studio up and getting away somewhere
—but my wife wouldn't hear of it, you know; said it would be such
a_ pity to _ have had all the expense and troiible for nothing, and
didn't believe the mere absence of pictures would make any particular
difference. And—er—I'm bound to say that, as you can see for
yourself, it hasn't! "
And, even as he spoke, he had to resign himself once more to a
farewell burst of positively fulsome appreciation.
THE KING AND THE CLOWN.
King Herbert Campbell the First, and Harry Payne, the
Clown, were sitting together, quaffing, after hours, and when work
was done, just as in the s"ood old times was the wont of The King
and the Cobbler, or The King and the Miller. To them entered a
Constable, intent on duty, and no respecter of persons. Often had
he seen the Clown maltreat a policeman on the stage, nay, had seen
him unstuff him, cut his head off, and blow him limb from limb from
a gun, and then put him together again; the only mistake being
that the unfortunate official's head was turned the wrong way. So
this Constable, too, looking backwards, as had done the poor panto-
mimic policeman, remembered all the slights, insults, and injuries,
publicly inflicted on his cloth for many years, and now rejoiced
—Ha! ha!—at last at having the Clown, the original Joey, nay,
the last of the Joeys, in his grasp.
Poor King Herbert the Merry Monarch the Constable pitied,
but still " constabulary duty must be done," as he had heard sung ;
Paynftjl Proceedings ; or, After the Pantomime's over.
[See Times Eeport, Friday last, April 1st, " All Fools' Day."]
and remembering that my Lord Chief Justice, in days gone by, had
sent off the Heir Apparent to prison, so now he the Constable, in the
name of the Law, would hale King Herbert before the Magistrate.
So King and Clown were had up accordingly. _ Did the Clown
whimper, and cry, " Oh, please, Sir, it wasn't me, Sir; it was t'other
boy, Sir! " and did the good King prepare to meet his fate like a
man ? and was he ready to put his head cheerfully on the wig-block
and declare with his latest breath (up to 12 55 p.m.) that in his
closing hours he died for the benefit of the Public ? _ We know not
—except that both delinquents were let off—like squibs—and Mine
Host, the Boniface, had to pay all the fines. He at all events had a
Fine old time of it! Sic transit! So fitly ends the long run of a
good Pantomime. Finis coronat opus !
The Volunteer Review at Dover.
General Idea of Officers in Command.—To make as few mistakes
as possible in handling some thousands of imperfectly-drilled and
entirely undisciplined bodies of men.
The same of the Rank and File.—To spend an annual holiday in
marching and counter-marching, and then, after thirty miles of
moving over a heavy country, to return to London dead beat.
Effectively Settling It.—A "par" in the Daily Telegraph
last Friday informed us that " The Bishop of Exeter administered,
yesterday, the rite of confirmation to thirty-eight patients of the
Western Counties' Idiot Asylum at Starcross, This is the first time
such a rite has been conferred upon inmates of this institution."
Very hard on these inmates, as, previous to the ceremony there
might have been some hope of their recovery; but now they have
become " confirmed idiots."
AN EIVIPTY TRIUMPH.
(A Story of Show Sunday.)
It "was Show Sunday ; lovers of Art were streaming: in and out of
every Studio they could hunt up, fired with a laudable ambition to
break the record by the number they visited in the hours between
luncheon and dusk.
The residence of so risin? a painter as Tintoretto Tickler was
naturally a place in which no person of any self-respect would
neglect to be seen; and on this
particular afternoon the en-
^WP$iil$M%^ trance-hall, sitting-rooms, and
w / C^-^P^^^ studio were simply choked with
V;-'' N'f/ ffl|M$fefl# an eager throng of friends,
> V j"' '^^^^^^^^^ acquaintances, and utter
strangers; for Tintoretto's
lavish hospitality was well
known, and. no expense had
been spared to give his guests
as favourable an impression of
his talent as possible. A couple
of knights, clad in complete
steel — the local greengrocer
and an Italian model—took the guests' hats, and announced their
names; there were daffodils and azaleas in profusion; the Red
Roumanians performed national airs in the studio-gallery; Italian
mandolinists sang and strummed on the staircase^ and, in the
dining-room, trim maid-servants, in becoming white caps and
streamers, dispensed coffee, claret-cup, and ices to a swarm of well-
conducted social locusts.
Just outside his painting-room stood Tintoretto Tickler, at the
receipt of compliment, which was abundantly and cheerfully paid.
Indeed, the torrent of congratulation and delicately-expressed
eulogy was almost overwhelming. One lovely and enthusiastic
person told him that the sight of his "Dryad Disturbing a Beanfeast"
had just marked an epoch in her mental development, and that she
considered it quite the supreme achievement of the Art of the
Century. A ponderous man in spectacles, whom Tickler had no
recollection of having ever met before in his life, encouraged him by
his solemn assurance that his " Jews Sitting in a Dentist's Waiting-
room, in the reign of King John" was perfectly marvellous in its
realism and historical accuracy, and that it ought to become the
property of the Nation; while an elderly lady, in furs and a
crimped front, declared that the pathos of his nursery subject—a
child endeavouring to induce a mechanical rabbit to share its bread-
and-milk—was sending her home with tears in her eyes. Some
talked learnedly of his "values," his "atmosphere," and the
subtlety of his modelling ; all agreed that he had surpassed himself
and every living artist by his last year's work, and no one made any
mistake about the nature of his subjects, perhaps because—in con-
sideration for the necessities of the British Art-patron—they had
been fully announced and described in the artistic notes of several
Sunday papers.
When they got outside, it is true, their enthusiasm slightly
evaporated; Tickler was going off, he was repeating himself, he
had nothing that was likely to produce a sensation this year, and
most of his pictures would probably never be seen again.
As, however, these last remarks were not made in Tintoretto's
presence, it might have been thought that the unmistakable
evidences of his success which he did hear would have rendered him
a proud and happy painter,—but if he was, all that can be said was
that he certainly did not look it. He accepted the most effusive
tributes with the same ghastly and conventional smile; from
feminine glances of unutterable gratitude and admiration he turned
away with an inarticulate mumble and an averted eye ; at times he
almost seemed to be suppressing a squirm. If expression is any
index to the thoughts, he was neither grateful nor gratified, and
distinctly uncomfortable.
A painter-friend of his, who had been patiently watching his
opportunity to get a word with him as he stood there exchanging
handshakes, managed at last to get near enough for conversation.
"Very glad to find there's no truth in it! " he began, cordially.
"No truth in what!" said Tickler, a little snappishly, for he
was getting extremely fractious, " the compliments " ?
" No, no, my dear boy. I mean in what a fellow told me outside
just now—that some burglars broke into your studio last night, and
carried off all vour canvasses—a lie, of course! "
"Oh, that?" said Tickler, "that's true enough—they left
nothing behind 'em but the beastly frames ! "
" Then what on earth-?" began the other, in perplexity, for
another group was just coming up, beaming with an ecstasy that
demanded the relief of instant expression.
" Well—er—fact is," explained poor Tickler, in an undertone,
" I did think of shutting the studio up and getting away somewhere
—but my wife wouldn't hear of it, you know; said it would be such
a_ pity to _ have had all the expense and troiible for nothing, and
didn't believe the mere absence of pictures would make any particular
difference. And—er—I'm bound to say that, as you can see for
yourself, it hasn't! "
And, even as he spoke, he had to resign himself once more to a
farewell burst of positively fulsome appreciation.
THE KING AND THE CLOWN.
King Herbert Campbell the First, and Harry Payne, the
Clown, were sitting together, quaffing, after hours, and when work
was done, just as in the s"ood old times was the wont of The King
and the Cobbler, or The King and the Miller. To them entered a
Constable, intent on duty, and no respecter of persons. Often had
he seen the Clown maltreat a policeman on the stage, nay, had seen
him unstuff him, cut his head off, and blow him limb from limb from
a gun, and then put him together again; the only mistake being
that the unfortunate official's head was turned the wrong way. So
this Constable, too, looking backwards, as had done the poor panto-
mimic policeman, remembered all the slights, insults, and injuries,
publicly inflicted on his cloth for many years, and now rejoiced
—Ha! ha!—at last at having the Clown, the original Joey, nay,
the last of the Joeys, in his grasp.
Poor King Herbert the Merry Monarch the Constable pitied,
but still " constabulary duty must be done," as he had heard sung ;
Paynftjl Proceedings ; or, After the Pantomime's over.
[See Times Eeport, Friday last, April 1st, " All Fools' Day."]
and remembering that my Lord Chief Justice, in days gone by, had
sent off the Heir Apparent to prison, so now he the Constable, in the
name of the Law, would hale King Herbert before the Magistrate.
So King and Clown were had up accordingly. _ Did the Clown
whimper, and cry, " Oh, please, Sir, it wasn't me, Sir; it was t'other
boy, Sir! " and did the good King prepare to meet his fate like a
man ? and was he ready to put his head cheerfully on the wig-block
and declare with his latest breath (up to 12 55 p.m.) that in his
closing hours he died for the benefit of the Public ? _ We know not
—except that both delinquents were let off—like squibs—and Mine
Host, the Boniface, had to pay all the fines. He at all events had a
Fine old time of it! Sic transit! So fitly ends the long run of a
good Pantomime. Finis coronat opus !
The Volunteer Review at Dover.
General Idea of Officers in Command.—To make as few mistakes
as possible in handling some thousands of imperfectly-drilled and
entirely undisciplined bodies of men.
The same of the Rank and File.—To spend an annual holiday in
marching and counter-marching, and then, after thirty miles of
moving over a heavy country, to return to London dead beat.
Effectively Settling It.—A "par" in the Daily Telegraph
last Friday informed us that " The Bishop of Exeter administered,
yesterday, the rite of confirmation to thirty-eight patients of the
Western Counties' Idiot Asylum at Starcross, This is the first time
such a rite has been conferred upon inmates of this institution."
Very hard on these inmates, as, previous to the ceremony there
might have been some hope of their recovery; but now they have
become " confirmed idiots."