Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 100.

February 14, 1891.

MODERN TYPES.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN TYPE WRITER._)

NO. XXIII.--THE TOLERATED HUSBAND.

It is customary for the self-righteous moralists who puff themselves into a state of Jingo complacency over the failings of foreign nations, to declare with considerable unction that the domestic hearth, which every Frenchman habitually tramples upon, is maintained in unviolated purity in every British household. The rude shocks which Mr. Justice BUTT occasionally administers to the national conscience are readily forgotten, and the chorus of patriotic adulation is stimulated by the visits which the British censor finds it necessary to pay (in mufti) to the courts of wickedness in continental capitals. It may be that among our unimaginative race the lack of virtue is not presented in the gaudy trappings that delight our neighbours. Our wickedness is coarser and less attractive. It gutters like a cheap candle when contrasted with the steady brilliancy of the Parisian article. Public opinion, too, holds amongst us a more formidable lash, and wields it with a sterner and more frequent severity. But it is impossible to deny that our society, however strict its professed code may be, can and does produce examples of those lapses from propriety which the superficial public deems to be typically and exclusively continental. Not only are they produced, but their production and their continuance are tolerated by a certain class, possibly limited, but certainly influential.

Amongst these examples, both of lapse and of toleration, the Tolerated Husband holds a foremost place. Certain conditions are necessary for his proper production. He must be not only easy-going, but unprincipled,--unprincipled, that is, rather in the sense of having no particular principles of any kind than in that of possessing and practising notoriously bad ones. He must have a fine contempt for steady respectability, and an irresistible inclination to that glittering style of untrammelled life which is believed by those who live it to be the true Bohemianism. He should be weak in character, he may be pleasant in manner and appearance, and he must be both poor and extravagant. If to these qualities be added, first a wife, young, good-looking, and in most respects similar to her husband, though of a stronger will, and secondly a friend, rich, determined, strictly unprincipled, and thoroughly unscrupulous, the conditions which produce the Tolerated Husband may be said to be complete.

The Tolerated Husband may have been at one time an officer in a good regiment. Having married, he finds that his pay, combined with a moderate private income, and a generous allowance of indebtedness, due to the gratification of expensive tastes, is insufficient to maintain him in that position of comfort to which he conceives himself to be entitled. He therefore abandons the career of arms, and becomes one of those who attempt spasmodically to redeem commercial professions from the taint of mere commercialism by becoming commercial themselves. It is certain that the gilded society which turns up a moderately aristocratic nose at trade and tradesmen, looks with complete indulgence upon an ex-officer who dabbles in wine, or associates himself with a new scheme for the easy manufacture of working-men's boots. An agency to a Fire and Life Assurance Society is, of course, above reproach, and the Stock Exchange, an institution which, in the imagination of reckless fools, provides as large a cover as charity, is positively enviable--a reputation which it owes to the fancied ease with which half-a-crown is converted into one hundred thousand pounds by the mere stroke of an office pen.

The Tolerated Husband tries all these methods, one after another, with a painful monotony of failure in each. Yet, somehow or other, he still keeps up appearances, and manages to live in a certain style not far removed from luxury. He entertains his friends at elaborate dinners, both at home and at expensive restaurants; he is a frequent visitor at theatres, where he often pays for the stalls of many others as well as for his own. He takes a small house in the country, and fills it with guests, to whom he offers admirable wines, and excellent cigars. His wife is always beautifully dressed, and glitters with an array of jewels which make her the envy of many a steady leader of fashion. The world begins to ask, vaguely at first, but with a constantly increasing persistence, how the thing is done. Respectability and malice combine to whisper a truthful answer. Starting from the axiom that the precarious income which is produced by a want of success in many branches of business cannot support luxury or purchase diamonds, they arrive, _per saltum_, at the conclusion that there must be some third party to provide the wife and the husband with means for their existence. His name is soon fixed upon, and his motives readily inferred. It can be none other than the husband's rich bachelor friend, the same who accompanies the pair on all their expeditions, who is a constant guest at their house, and is known to be both lavish and determined in the prosecution of any object on which he has set his heart. His heart, in this instance, is set upon his friend's wife, and the obstacles in his way do not seem to be very formidable. The case, indeed, is soon too manifest for any one but a born idiot to feign ignorance of it. The husband is not a born idiot--he either sees it plainly, or (it may be, after a struggle) he looks another way, and resigns himself to the inevitable. For inevitable it is, if he is to continue in that life of indolence and extravagant comfort which habit has made a necessity for him. So he submits to the constant companionship of a third party, and, in order to be truly tolerated in his own household, becomes tolerant in a manner that is almost sublime. He allows his friend to help him with large subventions of money; he lets him cover his wife with costly jewels. He is content to be supplanted without fuss, provided the supplanter never decreases the stream of his benevolence; and the supplanter, having more wealth than he knows what to do with, is quite content to secure his object on such extremely easy terms. And thus the Tolerated Husband is created.

It is curious to notice how cheerfully, to all outward appearance, he accepts what other men would consider a disaster. Before the world he carries his head high with an assumption of genial frankness and easy good temper. "Come and dine with us to-morrow, my boy," he will say to an old acquaintance, "there'll only be yourself and a couple of others besides ourselves. We'll go to the play afterwards." And the acquaintance will most certainly discover, if he accepts the invitation, that the "ourselves" included not only husband and wife, but friend as well. He will also notice that the last is even more at home in the house, and speaks in a tone of greater authority than the apparent host. Everything is referred to him for decision, and the master of the house treats him with a deferential humility which goes far to contradict the cynical observation that there is no gratitude on earth. The Tolerated Husband, indeed, never tires of dispensing hospitality at the cost of his friend, and though the whole world knows the case, there will never be a lack of guests to accept what is offered.

At last, however, in spite of his toleration, he becomes an encumbrance in his own house, and, like most encumbrances, he has to be paid off, the friend providing the requisite annual income. One after another he puts off the last remaining rags of his pretended self-respect. He haunts his Clubs less and less frequently, and seems to wither under the open dislike of those who are repelled by the mean and sordid details of his despicable story. And thus he drags on his life, a degraded and comparatively impoverished outcast, untidy, haggard and shunned, having forfeited by the restriction of his spending powers even the good-natured contempt of those who were not too proud to be at one time mistaken for his friends.

* * * * *

LABOURS FOR LENT.

_Emperor of Germany_.--To conciliate the great men who have had to prefix "Ex" to their official titles since he ascended the Throne.

_Emperor of Russia_.--To find a resting-place safe from the Nihilists.

_King of Italy_.--To do without CRISPI, and the Triple Alliance.

_The Emperor of Austria_.--To master the subject of Home Rule as applied to Austria, Hungary, and the Bulgarian Nationalities.

_King of Portugal_.--To settle the Map of Africa with Lord SALISBURY.

_The President of the French Republic_.--To adapt _Thermidor_ for the German stage.

_The President of the American Republic_.--To bless the McKinley Tariff.

_The Marquis of Salisbury_.--To consider with his son and heir the Roman Catholic Disabilities Removal Bill.

_Mr. W.H. Smith_.--To renew his stock of Copy-book proverbs.

_Mr. Gladstone_.--To compile and annotate a new volume of _Gleanings_, containing the _Quarterly_ Article on "Vaticanism," and the speech in support of the Ripon-plus-Russell Relief Bill.

_Mr. Goschen_.--To divide the coming Surplus to everyone's satisfaction.

_Mr. Balfour_.--To learn to love both wings of the Irish Party.

_Mr. Justin McCarthy_.--To discover his exact position.

_Mr. S.B. Bancroft_.--To regard with satisfaction his gift to General Dealer BOOTH.

* * * * *

Awake, O Themis-twangled lyre, awake, And give to pæans all thy sounding strings! Here is a triumph joyfuller than Spring's. JEUNE smacks of Summer rather, and must take The cake! As frescoed heroes cloud-borne progress make, So--happy apotheosis!--advances Stately Sir FRANCIS! See how late-knighted Justice moves along, High, majestic, smooth and strong, Through Cupid's maze and Neptune's mighty main (O Wimpole Street, uplift the strain!) Toward that proudly portal'd door. Silk gowns and snowy wigs raise the applausive roar! O Sovereign of the Social Soul, Lady of bland and comfort--breathing airs, Enchanting hostess! Business cares And Party passion own thy soft control, In thy saloons the Lord of War Muffles the wheels of his wild car, And drops his thirsty lance at thy command. Smoothed by a snowy hand, Aquila's self, the fierce and feathered king, With sleek-pruned plumes, and close-furled wing Will calmly cackle, and put by The terrors of his beak, the lightnings of his eye. Thine the voice, the dance obey; Tempered to thy pleasant sway, Blue and Buff, Orange and Green, In polychromatic harmony are seen, As on a bright Jeune day. And now JEUNE triumphs in no minor measure. Judicial Pomp and Social Pleasure Now indeed make marvellous meeting. See with suasion firmly sweet That brisk trio, gaily greeting To that portal guide his feet. Neptune's hoarse hails his friend's approach declare, Probate, the winged sprite, about must play; With wanton wings that winnow the soft air In gliding state Lord Cupid leads the way To where grave Law must mark, assay, reprove Wanderings of young Desire, and lures of fickle Love!

* * * * *

TOMMY ATKINS'S HARD LOT.

"TOMMY ATKINS," writing modestly enough to the _Daily Chronicle_ of the 6th February, complains that the coal supplied by the Authorities for barrack-rooms, is so limited in quantity that "during the winter this, as a rule, only lasts about two days" in the week, and TOMMY and his comrades have to "club-up" to supply the deficiency out of their own microscopical pay. "In fact" (says T.A.) "I have been in barrack-rooms where the men have had no fires after the first two days of the week." _If_ this be so, _Mr. Punch_ agrees with TOMMY in saying, "Surely this ought not to be!" TOMMY ATKINS may reasonably be expected to "stand fire" at any season, but not the absence of it in such wintry weather as we have had recently!

If this is poor TOMMY ATKINS's lot, As TOMMY might say, It is all Tommy-rot!

* * * * *

COLUMBIA ON HER SPARROW.

(_WITH APOLOGIES TO WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT._)

["The Americans have had enough of the Sparrow (_Passer domesticus_), and the mildest epithet reserved for him seems to be that of 'pest.'"--_Daily Chronicle_.]

Tell me not of joy,--a hum! Now the British Sparrow's come. Sent first was he Across the sea, Advisers kind did flatter me, When he winged way o'er Yankee soil, My caterpillar swarms he'd spoil; And oh, how pleasant that would be!

He would catch a grub, and then _It_ would never feed again. My fields he'd skip, And peck, and nip, And on the caterpillars feed; And nought should crawl, or hop, or run When he his hearty meal had done. Alas! it was a sell, indeed!

O'er my fields he makes his flight, In numbers almost infinite; A plague, alas! That doth surpass The swarming caterpillar crew. What I did I much regret; _Passer_ is multiplying yet; Check him I can't. What shall I do?

The British Sparrow won't depart, His feathered legions break my heart. Would _he_ away I would not, nay! About mere caterpillars fuss. Patience with grubs and moths were mine, Would _he_ but pass across the brine. _I_ call _Passer Domestic Cuss_!

* * * * *

"HERE WE HARE AGAIN!"--There are two Johnnies on the stage. JOHNNY Senior being J.L. TOOLE (now on his way home from New Zealand), and JOHNNY Junior, JOHN HARE, both immensely popular as comedians, and both in high favour with our most illustrious and judicious Patron of the Drama, H.R.H. the Prince of WALES. It is gratifying to learn that, after the performance of _A Pair of Spectacles_ at Sandringham, the Prince presented the Junior of these two Johnnies with a silver cigar-box. In the right-hand corner of the lid is engraved a hare looking through a pair of spectacles, and inside is a dedication to JOHN HARE from ALBERT EDWARD. "Pretty compliment this," as Sir WILL SOMERS, the Court Jester, might have said,--"to JOHNNY HARE from the Hare Apparent."

* * * * *

THEIR "IBSEN-DIXIT."

A new set of Faddists has been gradually growing up, not in our midst, but in the parts about Literature and the Drama. The object of their cult is, one HENRIK IBSEN, a Norwegian Dramatist, (perhaps it would be more correct to say, _the_ Norwegian Dramatist,) of whose plays a pretty sprinkling of scribes, amateur and professional, but all of the very highest culture, profess themselves the uncompromisingly enthusiastic admirers. You may not know the Ibsenites or any of their works, but in their company at least,--that is, supposing yourself so highly privileged as to be admitted within the innermost circle of the Inner Ibsen Brotherhood,--_not_ to know IBSEN would be proof positive of your being in the outer darkness of ignorance, and in need, however unworthy, of the grace of Ibsenitish enlightenment. Recruits are wanted in the Ibsenite ranks, so as to strengthen numerically the one party against the other; for the Ibsenitish sect has so for progressed as to be at loggerheads amongst themselves; not indeed on any really essential question, such as would be, for example, any doubt as to the position of IBSEN as a Dramatist, or as to the order of merit and precedence to be assigned to his works. No, on such matters they are apparently at one; but in other matters they are at one another. Thus the unity appears to be only superficial, a decent plaster hiding the rift occasioned by one of their number having literally translated into English IBSEN's latest Norwegian drama, of which translation the verbal correctness is impugned by another learned Ibsenite.

Not being "a hardy Norseman," and having neither a reading nor speaking acquaintance with the Norse language, I am unable to decide abstruse points on which such learned doctors disagree; but not being altogether without some practical experience of English and French drama, I venture to call in question not only the dramatic ability of the dramatist himself, but also, after perhaps allowing him some merit as a type-writer or character-sketcher, to assert that the style and matter of most of his work is always tiresome, frequently childish, and the subject often morbid and unhealthy; and, further, that his method is tedious to the last degree of boredom; for, as a writer, if I may judge him fairly by his translators, he is didactic and prosy, and never more tedious than when his dialogue is intended to be at its very crispest. As a playwright his construction is faulty. Here and there he gives expression to pretty ideas, reminding me (still judging by the translation) of TOM ROBERTSON, not when the latter was in his happiest vein, but when laboriously striving to make his puppets talk in a sweetly ingenuous manner.

I have never seen any play of IBSEN's on the stage, but I have read several of them--indeed, as I believe, all that have hitherto been translated and published in this country. I was prepared to be charmed, expecting much. I was soon disillusioned, and great was my disappointment. Then I re-read them, to judge of them not merely as dramas for the closet, but as dramas for the stage, written to be acted, not to be read; or, at all events, as far as the general public were concerned, to be acted first, and to be read afterwards. As acting dramas, it is difficult to conceive anything less practically dramatic. I do not know what the pecuniary result of his theatrical productions may be in his own country--where, I believe, he doesn't reside--but, out of his own country (say, here in London), I should say that a one-night's performance, with a house half full, would exhaust IBSEN's English public, and quite exhaust the patience of those who know not IBSEN.

Years ago we had the Chatterton-Boucicault dictum that "SHAKSPEARE spelt failure." Now, for SHAKSPEARE read "IBSEN," and insert the words "swift and utter" before "failure," and you have my opinion as to how the formula would stand with regard to IBSEN. I should be sorry to see any professional Manager making himself pecuniarily responsible for the success of such an undertaking, a word which, in its funereal sense, is of ill omen to the attempt. Let the Ibsenites club together, lease a theatre, and see how the public likes their show. There's nothing doing at the Royalty just now; let them pay rent in advance, and become Miss KATE SANTLEY's tenants; then, if the IBSEN-worshippers, with their Arch-priest, or ARCHER-priest, at their head, come to a temporary understanding with the Gosse-Ibsenites, they could craftily contrive to be invited as guests to a dinner at the Playwreckers' Club. The _dilettanti_ members of this association the United Ibsenites could flatter by deferring to the opinions of their hosts, while inculcating their own, thus securing the goodwill and patronage of the Playwreckers, a plan nowadays adopted with considerable success by some of our wiliest dramatists, eager to secure a free course and be glorified; and so, by making each one of these mighty amateurs feel that the success of IBSEN in this country depended on him personally, that is, on his verdict or "_Ibsen dixit_," a run of, say, perhaps three nights might possibly be secured, when they could play to fairly-filled houses. One "nicht wi' IBSEN," one night only, would, I venture to say, be quite enough for most of us. "Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!" "Oh, that my enemy would bring out an Ibsenite play," and try to run it! Perhaps he will. In which case I will either alter my opinion or give him a dose of ANTI-FAD.

* * * * *

* * * * *

SULLIVANHOE!

_BRAVISSIMO_, Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN of Ivanhoe, or to compress it telegraphically by wire, "_Bravissimo Sullivanhoe!_" Loud cries of "ARTHUR! ARTHUR!" and as ARTHUR and Composer he bows a solo gracefully in front of the Curtain. Then Mr. JULIAN STURGIS is handed out to him, when "SULLIVAN" and "JULIAN"--latter name phonetically suggestive of ancient musical associations, though who nowadays remembers "Mons. JULLIEN"?--the composer and librettist, bow a duet together. "Music" and "Words" disappear behind gorgeous new draperies. "All's swell that ends swell," and nothing could be sweller than the audience on the first night. But to our tale. As to the dramatic construction of this Opera, had I not been informed by the kindly playbill that I was seeing _Ivanhoe_, I should never have found it out from the first scene, nor should I have been quite clear about it until the situation where that slyboots _Rebecca_ artfully threatens to chuck herself off from the topmost turret rather than throw herself away on the bad Templar _Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert-sans-Sullivan_. The Opera might be fairly described as "Scenes from _Ivanhoe_," musically illustrated. There is, however, a continuity in the music which is lacking in the plot.

The scenic effects are throughout admirable, and the method, adopted at the end of each _tableau_, of leaving the audience still more in the dark than they were before as to what is going on on the stage, is an excellent notion, well calculated to intensify the mystery in which the entire plot is enveloped.

The change of scene--of course highly recommended by the leech in attendance on the suffering _Ivanhoe_--from the little second-floor-back in the top storey of the castle tower, where the stout _Knight of Ivanhoe_ is in durance, is managed with the least possible inconvenience to the invalid, who, whether suffering from gout or pains in his side,--and, judging by his action, he seemed to feel it, whatever it was, all over him,--found himself _and_ his second-hand lodging-house sofa (quite good enough for a prisoner) suddenly deposited at the comparatively safe distance of some three hundred yards or so from the burning Castle of Torquilstone, in which identical building he himself, not a minute before, had been immured. So marvellous a flight of fancy is only to be found in an Arabian, not a Christian, Night's Entertainment.