Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 102.

May 28, 1892.

VENICE RESERVED.

(_A SKETCH FROM A NUMBERED STALL AT OLYMPIA._)

On the Stage, the Scene represents "A Public Place before the Arsenal," where a number of artisans are apparently busily engaged in making horse-shoes on cold anvils in preparation for the launch of "_The Adriatica_." On extreme R. enter _Antonio_, who expresses commercial embarrassment by going through a sort of dumb-bell exercise on a bridge. On extreme L. enter _Bassanio_, _Lorenzo_, and _Antonio_, who observe, with mild surprise, that there are several other persons present, and proceed to point out objects of local interest to one another with the officious amiability of persons in the foreground of hotel advertisements. (_Here a Small Boy in a box, who has an impression he is going to see a Pantomime, inquires audibly "when the Clown Part will begin?" and has to be answered and consoled._) _Bassanio_ perceives _Antonio_ afar off, and advances towards him with stately deliberation, throwing out signals with one arm at intervals; _Antonio_ goes to meet him; they shake each other by both hands with affectionate cordiality, and then turn their backs on one another, as though, on reflection, they found they had less to say than they had imagined. Presently _Bassanio_ recollects why he wanted to see _Antonio_ so particularly, and, by describing a circle in the air, and pointing from the electric lights above to the balcony stalls in front, and tapping his belt, puts _Antonio_ at once in possession of his chronic impecuniosity, his passion for _Portia_, and his need for a small temporary loan. _Antonio_ curls up his fists, raises them to the level of his ears, and then pretends to take his heart out of his doublet and throw it at _Bassanio_, who fields it with graceful dexterity, instantly comprehending with Italian intuition that his friend is, like himself, rather pressed for ready money, but is prepared to back a bill for any amount. _Shylock_ passes that way, and is introduced by _Antonio_ as a gentleman in the city who is in the habit of making advances on personal security without inquiry. _Shylock_ extracts imaginary ink from his chest, and writes with one hand on the palm of the other, and cringingly produces a paper-knife--whereupon the transaction is complete, and the parties, becoming aware that a Grand Triumphal Procession is waiting to come in, and that they are likely to be in the way, tactfully suggest to one another the propriety of retiring. After the Procession, _Valentina_, "the lovely daughter of the proud _Visconti_" embarks on a barge with her maidens to meet her betrothed.

(_In the Stalls, a Lady with a Catalogue, who hasn't been here before, mistakes this proceeding for "The Launch of the Adriatica," but is set right by a friend who has, and is consequently able to inform her that_ Valentina _is_ Portia _on her way to plead against_ Shylock.)

A mimic battle takes place on a bridge--i.e., rival factions shake their fists with prudent defiance over one another's shoulders. (_An Old Lady in the Balcony, who has been watching this desperate encounter, finds that she has missed a very important Scene between_ Shylock _and_ Jessica _at the other end of the stage, and remorsefully resolves to be more observant in future, as the Scene changes to "Portia's Palatial Home."_) _Portia_ enters (_the Lady in the Stalls, who has been here before, tells her companion that_ Portia's _dress was "lovely when it was clean_"), and greets her guests by extending both arms and inviting them to inspect the palms of her hands, thereby intimating that the abundance of canopied recesses, and the absence of any furniture to sit down upon, is due to the fact that the apartment has been recently cleared for a parlour game. The company express a well-bred gratification by bowing. Enter the _Prince of Morocco (who is of course identified by various Spectators in the Stalls without Catalogues as_ "Othello," _or "the Duke of Thingumbob_--you _know the chap I mean_"), followed by his retinue; he kisses _Portia's_ hand, as she explains to him, the _Prince of Arragon_, and _Bassanio_, the rules of the game in three simple gestures. They reply, by flourishes, that they have frequently played it at home, and promise faithfully not to cheat. The three caskets are brought in and placed on a table; the _Prince of Morocco_ is the first player, and walks towards them very slowly, stopping at every ten paces and signalling to _Portia_ that he is all right so far, and that she is not to be at all uneasy on his account. On coming in sight of the caskets, he pauses and turns to the audience, as if it had only just occurred to him that the odds were two to one against him, and he must be careful. Presently he jerks his right arm above his head and strikes his forehead, to indicate a happy thought, rushes at the golden casket, opens it, and slams the lid disgustedly. After which he signals to _Portia_ that it is not such an amusing game as he thought, and he doesn't mean to play any more, beckons to his retinue and goes off, throwing his cloak over his shoulder with a gesture of manly and not unnatural annoyance. The _Prince of Arragon_ tries the silver casket next, with similar unsuccess. Then _Bassanio_--with an elaborate pretence of uncertainty, considering he can hardly have helped witnessing the proceedings--advances to the caskets, in front of which he performs a little mental calculation, finally arriving at the conclusion that, as the portrait is not in the gold and silver boxes, it may not improbably be in the leaden one. He actually _does_ find it there, and exhibits it to _Portia_ with extreme astonishment, as if it was quite the _last_ thing he expected. Then he advances to meet her, comparing her frequently with the picture, and expressing his approval of it as a likeness, and his determination to be taken by the same artist. Mutual satisfaction, interrupted by the arrival of a gondola with a letter from _Antonio_. To read it and impart its contents and the entire history of the bond to _Portia_, by a semicircular sweep of the arm and sounding his chest, takes _Bassanio_ exactly two seconds and a half, after which he departs in the gondola, and the scene changes to the Piazzetta, where a variety of exciting events--including the Trial, a Musical Ballet, and a Call to Arms--take place, culminating in the embarkation of Venetian soldiers to recapture Chioggia, in three highly ornamental but slightly unseaworthy barges, as the Curtain falls on Act I.

Interval of Fifteen Minutes, spent by some of the lady spectators in speculation whether the dark and light patches on the blue curtains are due to design or the action of damp. After which the Fortress of Chioggia is disclosed, with a bivouac of the Genoese garrison. A bevy of well-meaning maidens enter with fruit and vegetables for the military, but, on the discovery that their wares are properties, and too firmly glued to the baskets to be detached, they retire in confusion. A small sail is seen behind the battlements; the soldiers poke at it with halberds until it retreats, whereupon, soldier-like, they dance. The sail returns with a still smaller one; red fire is burnt under the walls, which so demoralises the Genoese soldiery that they all tumble down with precaution, and the Venetians burst in and stand over them in attitudes as the scene changes to an Island near Venice and a Grand Aquatic Procession. (_Here intelligent Spectators in the Stalls identify the first four pairs of gondolas,--which are draped respectively in icicles, pale green, rose-colour, and saffron,--as typifying the Seasons; another pair come in draped in violet, which they find some difficulty in satisfactorily accounting for. When two more appear hung with white and gold with a harp and palette at the prows, they grow doubtful, and the entrance of the two last couples, which carry shrines and images, reduces them to hopeless mystification. The Small Boy wishes to know whether anybody will be upset in the water, and being told that this is not a fixture in the entertainment, conceives a poor opinion of the capacity of Mediæval Venice for lighthearted revelry._)

Terrace near Portia's Palace, _Portia_, _Bassanio_ and the _Doge_ discovered enjoying a pasteboard banquet.

(_A Lady in the Stalls "wonders whether it is correct to represent_ Portia _as knowing a Doge so intimately as all that," and doubts whether it is in Shakspeare._)

The supper-table is removed, and the proceedings terminate by a Grand Al Fresco Carnival. Ladies of the ballet dance bewitchingly, while soldiers play at Bo-Peep behind enormous red hoops. Finally the entire strength of the ballet link arms in one immense line, and simultaneously execute a wonderful chromatic kick, upon which the blue draperies descend amidst prolonged and thoroughly well-deserved applause from a delighted audience.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE (POLITICAL) LADY-CRICKETERS.

(_A COLLOQUY NEAR THE NETS._)

[At the meeting of the Women's Liberal Federation the following "operative mandatory resolution" was carried:--"That in pursuance of the resolution passed in May 1890, the Council now instructs the Executive Committee that they shall promote the enfranchisement of women, including the local and parliamentary votes for all women, who possess any of the legal qualifications enabling them to vote, among the other Liberal reforms now before the Country, whilst not making it a test question at the approaching Election."]

SCENE--_"At the Nets" on the St. Stephen's Cricket Ground. "The Champion" has been practising in the interval, prior to playing in the Great Match of the Season, "Unionists v. Home-Rulers." Various admiring Volunteers of both sexes have been "scouting" for him._

_First Admiring Bystander._ By Jove, that was a slashing hit! What powder he puts into it, eh? At _his_ age too!

_Second A.B._ Oh, the Grand Old 'Un's in great form this season. Like 'tother W.G., who's just back from the Antipodes and, at forty-four, can knock up his sixty-three in sixty-five minutes. There he goes again, clean over all the "scouts"!

_First A.B._ Oh! he gives 'em plenty to do, "in the country." Keeps 'em on the shift, eh?

_Second A.B._ Bless you, yes. Why a hit like that, _run out_, would be worth seven to his side-_in_ a match!

_First A.B._ (_knowingly_). Ah, but I notice that _in a match_ these tremendous swipes don't always come off, don'tcher-know. I've seen some tremendous sloggers at the nets make a wonderful poor show when between wickets with a watchful "field" round 'em.

_Second A.B._ (_with candour_). Ah, quite so, of course. Everyone must have noticed that. With a demon bowler in front of yer sending 'em down like hundred-tonners, and a blarmed cat of a wicket-keeper on the grab just at your back, not to mention a pouncer at point, it puzzles the best of them to get 'em away, though "in a position of greater freedom and less responsibility," practising at the nets, to wit, with only the ground-bowler and a few scouts fielding, they may punish 'em properly.

_First A.B._ Ah, well, one must allow that the Champion plays the game right away all the time.

_Second A B._ Yea. Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale his infinite variety. Wonderful, all the same, what perversely bad hits he will persist in making, at times. Does things now and again you'd think a school-girl with a bat would be ashamed of.

_First A.B._ Ah, by the way, what do you think of these here new-fangled Lady-Cricketers?

_Second A.B._ (_significantly_). Ask the Old 'Un what _he_ thinks of 'em.

_First A.B._ Ah! can't abide 'em, can he? And yet he likes the Ladies to look on and applaud, and even to field for him at times.

_Second A.B._ Yes; the Ladies have been good friends of his, and now he'd bar them from the legitimate game. I fancy it's put their backs up a bit, eh?

_First A.B._ You bet! And it _do_ seem ray-ther ongrateful like, don't it now? Though as fur as that goes _I_ don't believe Cricket's a game for the petticoats.

_Second A.B._ Nor me neither. But bless yer they gets their foot in in everything now; tennis, and golf, and rowing and cetrer. And if you let 'em in at all, for your own pleasure, I don't quite see how you're going to draw the line arbitrary like just where it suits _you_, as the Grand Old Slogger seems to fancy.

_First A.B._ No; and, if you ask me, I say they won't stand it, even from _him._ "No," says they, "fair's fair," they says. "All very well to treat us like volunteer scouts at a country game, or at the nets, returning the balls whilst you slog and show off. But when we want to put on the gloves and pads, and take a hand at the bat in a businesslike way, you boggle, and hint that it's degrading, unsexing, and all that stuff."

_Second A.B._ Ah, _that_ won't wash. If it unsexes 'em to bat, it unsexes 'em to scout. And if the old cricketing gang didn't want the Ladies between wickets, why, they shouldn't have let em into the field, _I_ say. Strikes me Lady CARLISLE'll show 'em a thing or two. That "operative mandatory resolution" of hers means mischief--_after_ the next big match anyhow. "Ladies wait, and wait a bit more, wait in truth till the day after to-morrow." Yes; but they won't wait for ever.

_First A.B._ Not they. Why, look yonder! There's one of 'em in full fig. Lady-Cricketer from cap to shoes--short skirt, knickers, belt, blouse, gloves, and all the rest of it. D'ye think that sort means volunteer scouting only? Not a bit of it. Mean playing the game, Sir, and having regular teams of their own.

_Second A.B._ Look at her! She's a speaking to the Grand Old Champion himself!

_First A.B._ Giving him a bit of her mind, you bet. What's that she's saying?

_Second A.B._ Why, that she admires his style immensely, and doesn't want to spoil his game; but that, _after_ the next great All England Match, if not sooner, they mean to have a team of their own and go in for the game all round!

_First A.B._ Ah, what did I say?

* * * * *

* * * * *

CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.

NO. X.--THE DUFFER ON THE TURF.

"A horse for a protection is a deceitful thing," as the Scotch translator of KING DAVID has it, and I entirely agree with him. I rather wish to be protected from a horse, than expect any succour from a creature so large, muscular and irrational. Far from being "courageous," as his friends say, the horse (I am not speaking of the war-horse) is afraid of almost everything, that is why I am afraid of him. He is a most nervous animal, and I am a nervous rider. He is afraid of a bicycle or a wheel-barrow, which do not alarm the most timid bipeds, and when he is afraid he shies, and when he shies I no longer remain. Irrational he is, or he would not let people ride him, however, I never met a horse that would let _me_ do so. It is with the horse as an instrument of gambling that I am concerned. In that sense I have "backed" him, in no other sense to any satisfactory result. With all his four legs he stumbles more than one does with only a pair, an extraordinary proof of his want of harmony with his environment.

I was beguiled on to the Turf by winning a small family sweepstakes--£3 in fact. A sporting cousin told me that I had better "put it on _Cauliflower_," who was the favourite for The City and Suburban. He put it on _Cauliflower_ for me, and we won, so that a career of easy opulence seemed open. Then I took to backing horses, a brief madness. I read all the sporting papers, and came to the conclusion that the prophets are naught. If you look at their vaticinations, you will find that they all select their winners out of the first four favourites. Anybody could do that. Now the first four favourites do not by any means always win, and, when they do, how short are the odds you get--hardly worth mentioning! Horses occasionally win with odds of forty to one against them, _these_ are the animals of which I was in search, not the hackneyed favourites of the Press and the Public. This, I think you will find, is usually the attitude of the Duffer, who, in my time, was known, I cannot say why, as the "Juggins." I liked to bring a little romance into my speculations. Often I have backed a horse for his name, for something curious, or literary, or classical about his name. _Xanthus_, or _Podargus_, or _Phäeton_, or _Lampusa_ has often carried my investment to an inconspicuous position in the ruck. Another plan of mine, which I believe every Duffer adopts, was backing my dreams--those horses of air. About the time of the Derby one always reads about lucky persons who backed a dream. But one does not read about the unlucky persons who take the same precaution. Several millions of people in this country read, talk, and think about nothing but racehorses. When the Socialists have their way, may I advise them to keep up Government or communal racing studs and stables? What the betting is to be done in, if there is no money (which is contemplated as I understand), is not obvious. But the people will insist on having races, and what is a race without a bet? However, these considerations wander from the subject in hand. With a fourth of the population thinking about horses, a large proportion must dream about horses. Out of these dreams, perhaps one in one hundred and fifty thousand comes true, and about that dream we read in the papers. We don't read about the other dreams, such as mine were, for I have dreamed of winning numbers, winning colours, winning horses, but my dreams came all through the Ivory Gate, and my money followed them.

I don't pretend to be a judge of a horse; except for their colour they all seem pretty much alike to me. Nor did I haunt race-courses much, people there are often very unrefined, and the Ring is extremely noisy and confusing. Once I heard a man offering to lay considerable odds against the Field, and I offered in a shy and hesitating manner, to accept them. He asked me what horse I backed? I said none in particular, the Field at large, all of them, for really the odds seemed very remarkable. But he did not accede to my wishes, and continued to shout in rather a discourteous manner. Once, too, when I had won some money, I lost it all on the way back, at a simple sort of game of cards, not nearly so complex and difficult as whist. One need only to say which of three cards, in the dealer's hand, was the card one had chosen. Yet here I was finally unsuccessful, though fortunate at first, and I am led to suppose that some kind of sleight of hand had been employed; or, perhaps, that the card of my choice had in some manner been smuggled away. However, once on a racecourse I saw a horse which I fancied on his merits. He looked very tall and strong, and was of a pretty colour, also he had a nice tail. He was hardly mentioned in the betting, and I got "on" at seventy to one, very reasonable odds. I backed him then, and he won, with great apparent ease, for his jockey actually seemed to be holding him in, rather than spurring him in the regrettable way which you sometimes see. But when I went to look for the person with whom I had made my bet, I was unable to find him anywhere, and I have never met him since. He had about him ten pounds, the amount of my bet, which he had insisted on receiving as a deposit, "not necessarily for publication," he said, "but as a guarantee of good faith." Race-courses are crowded, confusing places, and I doubt not, that so scrupulous a man was also looking for me. But we have never met. If this meets his eye, probably he will send a cheque for £700 to the office of _Mr. Punch_. I have often regretted the circumstance, as it was my most fortunate _coup_ on the Turf, and above all, reflected credit on my judgment of a horse.

Conversing afterwards with a friend on this event, I expressed surprise that _my_ horse had not been a favourite, considering his agreeable exterior.

"Why, you Juggins," he answered, "_Rumtifoo_ was a moral--everybody knew _that_; but everybody knew he wasn't meant; he was being kept for the Polehampton Stakes. He only won because he got the better of little BOTHERBY, his jockey, who couldn't hold him. Why, the crowd nearly murdered him, and his master sacked him on the spot--the little idiot!"

I do not quite understand this explanation. Poor _Rumtifoo was_ "moral," like the "moral mare" mentioned by ARISTOTLE in the _Ethics_. He did his best to win, and he did win; what else can you ask for in a horse?

There is, apparently, more in horse-racing than meets the eye. I am not addicted to remembering much about the "previous performances" of horses, as some men are, who will tell you that _Cynic_ was third in the Kelso Hunt Cup for last year, and that you ought to keep an eye on him for the Ayrshire Handicap. But I have remarked that horses are not like men; they do not always run almost equally well, though the conditions of the race seem similar. No doubt this is owing to the nervousness of the animal, who may be discouraged by the noise, the smell of bad tobacco, and so forth.

I have given up Racing. That was after last year's Ascot meeting. I was staying at a country house, some days before, and somehow I lost my betting-book. It is really extraordinary how things do get lost. Perhaps I left it in a railway carriage. Afterwards I tried to put my bets, as far as I could remember them, down on a large sheet of paper, and I think I got it very nearly right. But I left the paper lying about in the library in a very interesting first edition of _Plotinus_, I believe, and either the housemaid burned it, or my host threw it into the waste-paper basket. At all events, it was lost, and I have no head for figures, and things got mixed somehow. The book-maker's recollection of the circumstances was not the same as mine. But I began quite a fresh book, on imaginative principles, on the course. I had not a good Ascot. And as Racing gives me a headache, and I seldom meet any people on the Turf who are at all interested in the same things as myself, I have given it up for good. They say I am a good deal regretted by the Ring. It is always pleasant to remember having made a favourable impression.

* * * * *

THE OPERA-GOER'S DIARY.