Chapter 3

Silence reigned in the woods! Silence! Deep silence! Save for the chortle of the night-jar, the tap of the snipe's beak against the tree-trunks, the snores of a weary game-keeper, the chirp of the burying-beetle, the croak of the bat, the wild laughter of the owl and the boom, boom of the frog, deep silence reigned. The crescent moon stole silently above the horizon. Wonderful, significant is that silent, stealthy approach of the moon. Red Head lumbered from his lair and crouched beside the shimmering fire of the furze. A startled grass-snake strove to leap out of the way of the monarch of the woods--- a hurried crunch and a string of thirty white eggs was left motherless, forlorn.

A careless cock-pheasant gurgled on a bough. In a moment Red Head had silently scaled the tree. Two tail feathers alone remained to show an awed game-keeper that Red Head had passed that way. A woodcock floated silently on the bosom of the tiny lake. He did not note the ripple which showed that a powerful animal was swimming towards him. A scream, and the woodcock, trumpeting shrilly, is drawn into the depths.

[_Editor._ But what is Red Head?

_The Expert._ I am not quite sure whether he is a tree-climbing fox or a swimming badger. Anyhow he might have escaped from a menagerie.]

Peace reigned in the hole of the bumble-bee. Weary with culling sweets from the lime-trees, the heather-bloom, the apple-blossom and the ivy-flower be had sought his humble couch. Suddenly great claws tear away his roof-tree. Red Head is at work. Bees and honey make his nightly meal.

White Paws had listened from his burrow. All seemed well. He darted forth and bathed in the bright light of the full moon.

[_Editor._ Wasn't it a crescent moon?

_The Expert._ You must make allowances for development in the course of a story. Suppose we say it was a full-sized crescent.]

Then White Paws, standing on his hind-legs, danced for sheer joy of life.

A leaf bitten from a bough by a sturdy green caterpillar fell suddenly to the ground. Like lightning White Paws darted to the top of an immemorial elm. In a moment he was reassured and returned to his graceful dance in the bosky dell.

But what is this? A hideous red head emanates slowly from a bush. A protruding tongue vibrates in the pale moonlight. Weak, curious White Paws wonders what this strange thing is. Beware, White Paws! Think of thy tender mate and innocent cubs.

Drawn by a fatal curiosity he advances towards it. The awful glimmer of Red Head's eye fascinates him. He must see. Nearer he draws and nearer. A sudden plunge from the bush--a sickening crunch. Red Head has dined for the fifth time in one evening.

Death and Silence reign in the woods. Save for the chortling of the night-jar, the chirp of the burying-beetle, the snores of the gamekeeper, etc., etc. (see above) one might imagine oneself in the solemn stillness of Piccadilly Circus at midnight.

Death and Silence.

[_Editor._ "Yes, but the identity of the protagonists in this Sophoclean tragedy is still a little in doubt."

_The Expert._ "Any nature sketch ends satisfactorily with a meal."]

All this time the crescent moon has been swelling silently under the watchful stars. It is now at the full. So is Red Head. He has dined five times. He sleeps.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE ROCK GARDENESS IN LONDON.

(_A Ballad of Labels._)

Dame Fashion, when she calls the tune, Must surely crave my pardon For prisoning me in leafy June Far from my Alpine garden.

So that in crowded square or street My Fancy's playful mockery Plants all the pavement at my feet With favourites from the rockery.

And so that, heedless to the claims Of passing conversation, I murmur to myself their names By way of consolation.

The thread of compliment may run Through many ball-room Babels-- I have one language, only one, The language of the labels.

In Kedar's tents are festive hours, The _noctes_ and the _coenæ_; My heart is where _RETUSA_ flowers, And crimson-starred _SILENE_.

I see the grey stones overhung With lilac and laburnum; I hear the drone of bees among Blue depths of _LITHOSPERNUM_.

And in the box on opera nights Between each thrilling scene I Recall the miniature delights Of _MENTHA REQUIENII_;

Admirers find me deaf and dumb To all their honeyed wheedling, I muse on _LONGIFOLIUM_ And dream of _STORMONTH SEEDLINGS_.

And, when they come to hint their loves Through all the usual stages, I wish I were in gardening gloves Among my Saxifrages.

* * * * *

More Russian Methods.

"EAST-END DEPUTATION RECEIVED BY WHIP."

_Daily News and Leader._

* * * * *

_The Daily News_, in describing an adventure between the CROWN PRINCE of Germany (in a motor) and a peasant of Saarbrücken, ventures (with a knowledge of the Saarbrücken dialect which we ourselves cannot claim) to give the peasant's actual words:--

"'Ain't 'eard nowt,' said the peasant; 'the lane be narrow like. You must just wait till I be druv ahead.'"

Its likeness to the Loamshire dialect of England will interest the philologist.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"AN INDIAN SUMMER."

We plunged into the action quickly enough. A breakfast-gong--a sip of coffee--a bite of toast--and _Nigel Parry_ locks up his morning's love-correspondence; _Helen_, his wife, breaks open the drawer and peruses the damning letter; _Nigel_ returns and catches her red-handed. After this we took a long breath and lingered over the moral aspect of the situation. Indeed, during the next ten years nothing occurred except the separation of the couple; the reported decease of the other woman (whom we never saw, dead or alive), and the marriage of the boy _Parry_ with an actress bearing the ascetic name of _Ursula_. We now left the old trail in pursuit of this red herring; and for the rest of the play, up to the last moment, our attention was concentrated on the attitude of the elder heroine to her daughter-in-law, to whom she had taken a profound dislike at sight.

But something had to happen if the author was to bring about a reconciliation of the original pair and so justify the symbolic title of her play. Thinking it out, she seems to have recalled that it is customary in these cases to let an accident occur to some junior member of the family, over whose prostrate body the old ones may kiss again with tears. Accordingly, no sooner had mention been made, quite arbitrarily, of an automatic pistol, alleged to be unloaded, than old stagers knew by instinct that _Ursula_ would shoot herself inadvertently. This occurred with such promptitude that even the author recognised that we should not be satisfied with so ingenuous an episode. Complications had therefore to be devised at all costs. Young _Parry_ must be kept in ignorance of the fact that the episode was due to his stupidity in leaving the weapon loaded. So _Ursula_ invents a story to show that the wound in her thigh was due to a fall downstairs. It is true that blood-poisoning--not amongst the more familiar sequelæ of a fall downstairs--supervened. But the legend served well enough on the stage. Among other effects it increased the irritation of the mother-in-law, who felt that the accident indicated a criminal carelessness in one who was about to make her a grandmother, a condition of things that had been brought home to us in the course of some female conversation flavoured with the most pungent candour. When the truth came out, the proved devotion of the young wife causes an _entente_ between her and her mother-in-law, accompanied--for reasons which I cannot at the moment recall--by a parallel reconciliation between the senior couple. Personally, I felt that the threatened "Indian Summer" was not likely to be much warmer than the ordinary English kind.

Perhaps the most intriguing feature of the play was the author's attitude toward her own sex. Mrs. HORLICK frankly took the man's point of view. Never for one moment did she attempt to encourage our sympathy for _Helen_ as a wronged wife. Commonly in plays it is the woman, married to a man she never loved, who claims the liberty of going her own way and getting something out of life. Here it is the man who is the victim of a marriage not of his own making (as far as love was concerned), and the author, through the mouthpiece of the woman's confidante, makes ample excuse for his desire to snatch some happiness from fate.

Unhappily Mrs. HORLICK has much to learn in stage mechanism. The motive of her exits when, as constantly, she wanted to leave any given couple alone together, was insufficiently opaque. She began very well and held our interest closely for some time; but long before the end we should have been worn out but for the childlike charm and attractive _gamineries_ of Miss DOROTHY MINTO as _Ursula_. Mr. ALLAN AYNESWORTH, who acted easily in the rather ambiguous part of _Nigel Parry_, seemed to share our doubts as to the chances of Mrs. HORLICK'S achieving popularity at her first attempt, for he confided to us, in a brief first-night oration, that she was engaged on another play which he hoped to secure.

But no one will question the serious promise of her present comedy, and I trust that in any future production she may be assisted by as excellent a cast. For they all played their parts, however trivial in detail, with great sincerity. Miss GOODALL was the only disappointment, though the fault was not altogether her own. At first she was very effective, but later her entries came to be a signal for gloom, like those of a skeleton emergent from the family cupboard.

"PRINCE IGOR."

All is fair in Love and War, and the only ethical difficulty arises when they clash. This was the trouble with _Vladimir Igorievich_, heir of _Prince Igor_. Father and son had been taken in battle, and were held captive in the camp of the Tartars; but, while _Prince Igor_ felt very keenly his position (though treated as a guest rather than a prisoner and supplied every evening with spectacular entertainments), _Vladimir_ beguiled his enforced leisure by falling in love (heartily reciprocated) with the daughter of his captor, _Khan Konchak_. An opportunity of escape being offered, _Prince Igor_ seizes it, but _Vladimir's_ dear heart is divided between passion and patriotism, and before he can make up his mind the chance of freedom is gone. A study of the so-called "libretto" showed that this was the only thing in the opera that bore any resemblance to a dramatic situation. Figure, therefore, my chagrin when I discovered that the character of _Vladimir Igorievich_ had been cut clean out of the text of the actual opera. I could much more easily have dispensed with the buffooneries of a couple of obscure players upon the _goudok_ (or prehistoric hurdy-gurdy), who wasted more than enough of such time as could be spared from the intervals.

There was no part of adequate importance for M. CHALIAPINE, so he doubled the _rôles_ of _Galitsky_, the swaggering and dissolute brother-in-law that _Prince Igor_ left behind when he went to the wars, and _Khan Konchak_, most magnanimous of barbarians. Neither character gave scope for the particular subtlety of which (as he proves in _Boris Godounov_) M. CHALIAPINE is the sole master among male operatic singers. But to each he brought that gift of the great manner, that ease and splendour of bearing, and those superb qualities of voice which, found together, give him a place apart from his kind.

Of the rest, M. PAUL ANDREEV, as _Prince Igor_, gave his plaint of captivity with a noble pathos. As for the chorus, it sang with the singleness and intensity of spirit which are only possible to a national chorus in national opera, and which (I hope) are the envy of the cosmopolitans of Covent Garden.

The _clou_ of the evening was the ballet, already well-known, of the Polovtsy warriors, executed with the extreme of fanatic fervour and frenzy. The art of M. MICHEL FOKINE can turn his Russians into Tartars without a scratch of the skin. BORODINE'S music, taking on a more barbaric quality as the action travelled further East, here touched its climax, and the final scene, where _Prince Igor_ returns home and resumes the embraces of his queen, (a model of fidelity), was of the character of a sedative.

"DAPHNIS ET CHLOË."

Those who complained--I speak of the few whose critical faculties had not been paralysed by M. NIJINSKI--that in _L'Après-midi d'un Faune_ the limitations of plastic Art (necessarily confined to stationary forms) were forced upon an art that primarily deals with motion, will have little of the same fault to find in _Daphnis et Chloë._ Here there is no fixed or formal posing, if we except the attitude adopted (after a preliminary and irrelevant twiddle) by certain Nymphs to indicate, appropriately enough, their grief over the inanimate form of _Daphnis_. The dances in which, to the mutual suspicion of the lovers, _Chloë_ was circled by the men and _Daphnis_ by the maidens, were a pure delight. There was one movement, when heads were tossed back and then brought swiftly forward over hollowed breasts and lifted knees that had in it an exquisite fleeting beauty. But memory holds best the grace of the simpler and more elemental movements, the airy swing and poise of feet and limbs in straight flight, linked hands outstretched.

In the _pas seul_ competition M. ADOLPH BOLM as _Darkon_ did some astonishing feats which made the performance of M. FOKINE as _Daphnis_ seem relatively tame and conventional; and if I, instead of _Chloë_, had been the judge I should have awarded the palm to the former. I am sure that _Chloë_ was prejudiced, though certainly _Darkon_ was a very rude and hirsute shepherd, and had none of _Daphnis'_ pretty ways.

The dancing of the brigands was in excellent contrast with the methods of the pastoral Greeks. I will not, like the programme, distinguish them as "Brigands with Lances," "Brigands with Bows" and "Young Brigands." To me they were all alike very perfect examples of the profession; though I admit that the flight of their spears was not always as deadly as it should have been, and that one of the arrows refused to go off the string and had to be thrown by hand into the wings.

It is not easy at a first performance to take in everything with both eye and ear, and I shall excuse myself from attempting to do justice to M. RAVEL'S music. But I was free (the curtain being down) to listen to one long orchestral passage which followed the capture of _Chloë_. It was of the nature of a dirge, and it seemed to me to suggest very cleverly the sorrows of a poultry-yard. I suppose _Chloë_ must have been in the habit of feeding them and they missed her.

I hate to say one word of disparagement about a performance for which I could never be sufficiently grateful. But I agree with a friend of mine who complained to me of the way in which _Pan_ was presented. It was this beneficent god who caused a panic among the brigands and so enabled _Chloë_ to return to her friends, though I don't know why he ever let her be captured, for he was there at the time. Well, I agree that he ought to have been represented by something more satisfactory than a half-length portrait painted on a huge travelling plank of pasteboard, which was pushed about from Arcadia to Scythia (if this was the brigands' address) and back again, appearing in the limelight, when required, like a whisky sky-sign.

O. S.

* * * * *

* * * * *

TEMPORA MUTANTUR.

[Suggested by recent correspondence in a leading journal.]

WHY USE SPECS?

_A Centenarian's Testimony to the Editor of "The Chimes."_

SIR,--I was 117 on the 1st of April and have never used any artificial aid to eyesight, yet I can read the articles for ladies on the Court Circular page of your splendid publication without turning a hair. It is true that I am, and have always been, of an iron constitution, having practically dispensed with sleep for the last sixty years. For some considerable time I have been able to do without physical sustenance as well, owing to the extraordinarily nutritious nature of the contents of your superb South American Encyclopædias.

Yours faithfully,

NESTOR PARR.

A PERFECT CURE.

_To the Editor of "The Chimes."_

SIR,--Is my experience worth recording? Until two or three years ago I was entirely dependent on spectacles, and suffered unspeakable inconvenience if I happened to mislay them. But since I became a subscriber to your unique and unparalleled organ I have found my eyesight so marvellously improved that I am now able to discard glasses entirely. The extraordinary part of the business is this, that if I take up any other paper I am utterly unable to decipher a word. As my wife cleverly put it the other day, of all the wonderful spectacles in the world the new _Chimes_ is the most amazing.

Yours gratefully, VERAX.

FROM AN ARTIFICIAL EYE-MAKER.

_To the Editor of "The Chimes,"_

SIR,--An extraordinary case of recovery of sight was brought to my knowledge yesterday by an esteemed customer. About thirty years ago I supplied him with an artificial eye to replace one which he lost while duck-shooting in the Canary Islands. About six months ago he lost the remaining sound eye through a blow from a golf-ball. I accordingly fitted him with a second artificial eye, and you may imagine my surprise when he came round to my place of business a few days later by himself and read aloud to me the whole of your admirable leading article on "Braces _v._ Belts." The therapeutic effect of high-class journalism on myopic patients has, I believe, been noted by Professor Hagenstreicher, the famous German oculist, but this is, I believe, the first instance on record of a patient recovering his sight after both eyes had been removed.

I am, Sir, etc., ANNAN EYAS.

CATARACT ARRESTED.

_To the Editor of "The Chimes."_

SIR,--Yesterday, which happened to be my ninety-seventh birthday, I spent in reading your wonderful Potted Meat Supplement from cover to cover. As there is more printed matter in it than in Mr. DE MORGAN'S latest novel you might expect to hear that I am suffering to-day from eye-strain. On the contrary the symptoms of incipient cataract, which declared themselves a few months ago, have entirely disappeared, and I was able to see the French coast distinctly this morning from my house on the sea-front.

Yours truthfully,

_Folkestone._ JUDITH FITZSIMONS.

FROM OUR OLDEST SUBSCRIBER.

_To the Editor of "The Chimes."_

SIR,--I was 165 last birthday. I was in the merchant marine for upwards of eighty years, and then became a Swedenborgian, but never had occasion to consult an oculist. I was born in the reign of George II., or was it Queen Anne?--I really forget which. My wife is 163, and we walk out, when weather permits, and seldom omit church on Sundays. We both still read your "Births, Deaths, and Marriages," and consider that they are the best.

Yours venerably, W. A. G.

* * * * *

Another Suffragette Outrage.

"Among the elementary and fundamental rights and duties are (_sic_) the security of the person. But it is violated as much by he (_sic_) or she (_sic_) who challenges assault as by he (_sic_) or she (_sic_) who assaults."

The five "_sics_" are ours. The rest belongs to the leader-writer of _The Morning Post_, on whom militancy seems to have had a painful effect.

* * * * *

"A Central News telegram from Montreal states that Miss Edith Shaughnessy, daughter of Sir Thomas Shaughnessy, was married at St. James's Roman Catholic Cathedral yesterday to Mr. W. H."--_Morning Post._

From the wedding presents, which were both numerous and costly: "Mr. W. Shakespeare to Bridegroom--Sonnets."

* * * * *

A correspondent in _The Exchange and Mart_ writes:--

"At night Tree-Frogs are active and utter various sounds, some a pleasing chirrup (like mine), others a loud shriek."

We shall hope to hear the writer's pleasing chirrup in Bouverie Street some day.

* * * * *

ADVENTURERS.

It must have been off a pirate trip, In a life forgot 'o me, That I saw the Barbary pirate ship Come close-hauled out of the sea; She crawled in under a goat-cropped scaur Beneath the fisher-huts, And she sent a dozen o' men ashore To fill her water-butts.

I clambered up where the cliff sprung sheer Till I looked upon her decks And saw the plunder of half-a-year And the loot of her scuttled wrecks; There were gems and ivory, plate and pearl, And Tyrian rugs a-pile, And, set in the midst, was a milk-white girl, The loot of a Grecian isle.

As white as the breasted terns that flit Was the smooth arm's rounded shape As she idly played with a pomegranate To anger a chained grey ape; And her Sun-God's self for diadem Had kissed her curls to gold; But blue--sea-blue as the sapphire gem, Her eyes were cold, sea-cold.

And, gleam of shoulder and glint of tress, They sailed ere the sun went down And sold her, same as a black negress, For the marts o' Carthage town, Where she lived, mayhap, of her indolent grace, Content with her silks and rings, Or rose, by way of her wits, to place Her foot on the necks of kings.

The deuce can tell you how this may be, 'Tis far as I take the tale; For it's lives upon lives ago, you see, That the Barbary men set sail; So I only know she was ivory white, As white as a sea-bird lone; And her eyes were wonderful blue and bright And hard as a sapphire stone.

* * * * *

The New Rowing.

"Give a last pull at the oar with clenched teeth and knit muscles."--_The Young Man._

_The Cork Examiner_ on Sir PERCY SCOTT'S letter:--

"'If a battleships is not safe either on the high seas or in rabour,' he asks, 'what is the use of a battlesh?'"

To be more accurate, this is how one puts it to one's neighbour after dinner, when--the ladies having removed themselves, and the necessity for mere social chit-chat being over--we men are at last able to devote ourselves to the affairs of empire.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)