Book: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, January 14, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, January 14, 1920
Another thing: dentists should not be allowed out loose about the streets.
They exercise a blighting influence. You are strolling along in the
sunshine, head high, chest expanded, telling some wide-eyed young thing
what you and HAIG did to LUDENDORFF, when suddenly you meet the dentist.
You look at him, he looks at you, and his eyes seem to say, "What ho, my
hero! Last week you went to ground under my sofa and couldn't be dislodged
until I put the page-boy in to ferret you."
"And what happened then," inquires the wide-eyed young thing, "after you
had caught the Hun tank by the tail and ripped it up with a tin-opener?"
"After that," says the eye of the dentist, "you wept, you prayed, you lay
on the floor and kicked, you--"
"And did you kill all the crew yourself?" bleats the maiden, "single-handed
--every one of them?"
"Oh, I--er," you stutter--"what I mean to say--that is--Oh, dash it, let's
go and get tea somewhere, what?"
PATLANDER.
* * * * *
From the _dramatis personae_ in a Malta opera-programme:--
"Singers, Old Beans, and Abbes."
The "old beans" no doubt were drawn from the local garrison.
* * * * *
"The old wooden streets which survived in the more ancient parts of the
capital [Petrograd] have, on account of the lack of fuel since the
Bolshevists became all-powerful, been torn down and demobilished."--
_Daily Paper_.
The last word in destructiveness.
* * * * *
"The standing joint committee of the Industrial Women's Organisations
have passed a resolution unanimously endorsing the action of the
Consumers' Council in opposing the decontrol of meat."--_Daily
Graphic_.
The "standing joint" committee would seem to be the very one for the job.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MANNERS AND MODES.
HOW TO APPEAR BEAUTIFUL THOUGH PLAIN:--SURROUND YOURSELF WITH SPECIMENS OF
THE LATEST ART.]
* * * * *
DRESS OF THE DAY.
"BATHROOM TOILETTES.
"This season balls and dances, both private and public, are being given
in greater numbers than ever."--_Local Paper._
* * * * *
"A couple of ciphers, followed by a string of noughts, represents
Germany's debt to France. And it looks as if the noughts are all France
will get in the present generation."--_Evening Paper._
But it is possible that under pressure Germany might throw in the ciphers
as well.
* * * * *
"LOST AND FOUND.
"ADDRESS BY THE LORD ADVOCATE.
"Will the party who took the wrong Umbrella from the Ante-Room, Music
Hall, kindly return same in exchange for his own to ----, Music Hall?"
--_Scotch Paper._
An odd address for the LORD ADVOCATE.
* * * * *
"Wells' 'History of the Universe' describes the slow disappearance of
certain species, taking hundreds of thousands of years to do it."--
_Daily Paper_.
In an age of hustle it is gratifying to find one eminent author approaching
his work with due deliberation.
* * * * *
THE PROFITEER'S ANTHEM.
"The Hymns to be sung will be: (1) 'All people that on earth do
well.'..."--_Rangoon Times._
* * * * *
From _Surplus_, the official organ of the Disposal Board:--
"PORK AND BEANS.
"16 oz. tins (15 ozs. Beans and Sauce, 1 oz. Pork); 21 oz. tins (20 ozs.
Beans and Sauce, 1 oz. Pork)."
So the question which vexed many billets on the Western Front is now
answered. There _was_ pork in it.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND.
"YOU'RE IN LUCK, MY BOY. THEY'VE IMPORTED A GENUINE MEXICAN BANDIT FOR YOUR
KNIFE-FIGHT SCENE IN 'BAD HAT, THE HALF-BREED.'"]
* * * * *
MY FIRE.
"Seventy-five per cent. of the world's accidents arise from gross
carelessness!" I thundered at Suzanne, who for the fifteenth time in five
years of matrimony had left her umbrella in the 'bus. Being on a month's
leave, and afraid of losing by neglect the orderly-room touch, I thought
fit to practise on her the arts of admonition. Admonishing, I wagged at her
the match with which I was in the act of lighting my pipe. Wagging the
match, I did not notice the live head drop off on to the khaki slacks which
I had donned that afternoon to grace a visit to the War Office. Only when I
traced Suzanne's petrified stare to its target did I discover that a
ventilation hole had been created in a vital part of His Majesty's uniform.
With great presence of mind I put out the conflagration before venturing on
an encounter with Suzanne's eye.
"You were discussing accidents," she observed sweetly. "What percentage of
them did you say was due to gross carelessness?"
I did not bandy words. There was no escaping the fact that they were, as
Suzanne reminded me, my sole surviving pair of khaki slacks, and that I
should certainly have to get a new pair before returning to the Depot; for
these were obviously beyond wear or repair.
"Well, anyhow I've three weeks to get them in," I said as lightly as I
could. "My leave isn't up till the end of the month."
"Men's clothes are terribly dear just now," remarked Suzanne pensively.
"And I _was_ going to ask you to give me a new hat. But now I suppose--"
This roused my pride and self-respect.
"Suzanne," I said, "the world is not coming to an end because I have to buy
a pair of slacks. You shall have your new hat to-morrow."
She clapped her hands in triumph, and a moment's reflection showed me that
I had been caught. If it hadn't been for the conflagration she would never
have dared to ask for a new hat. Now I came to remember, I had taken her
out and bought her one on the first day of my leave.
However, the damage was done (twice over, in fact), and I sat gently
brooding over it in silence. Suddenly an inspiring thought struck me.
Eagerly I made my way to the writing-table and drew out a long and bulky
envelope from the bottom drawer. For some time I sat there carefully
mastering its contents.
"What's that funny-looking thing you're reading?" asked my wife at last.
"Oh, nothing important," I answered as casually as I could. "Er--by the
way, do you know we're insured?"
"Considering that I've paid the premiums regularly while you were away, I
should think I ought to know."
"Of course I shall put in a claim for the slacks," I murmured.
"But how can you?" she asked, and wondering looked at me. "I read the
policy once, and as far as I remember there's nothing whatever about khaki
slacks in it."
"Do you know what this policy is?" I exclaimed, brandishing the document
impressively. "It's a Comprehensive Householder's policy. I don't know what
a Comprehensive Householder is, but I think I must be one."
"But I'm _sure_ it says nothing about slacks," she objected.
"Comprehensive!" I shouted. "That means all-embracing. This policy embraces
my slacks."
"That sounds almost indelicate."
"Listen. 'Whereas the undermentioned, hereinafter called the Accused--the
Assured, I mean--has paid blank pounds, shillings and pence Premium or
Consideration ... to insure him/her from loss or damage by Lightning,
Explosion, Earthquake, Thunderbolts ...'"
"Oo-er," said Suzanne with a shiver.
"'... Aeroplanes, Airships, and/or other Aerial Craft, Storm, Tempest,
Subterranean Fire ...'"
"Monsoon, Typhoon, Volcano, Avalanche," put in Suzanne impatiently. "Cut
the cataclysms and come to the slacks."
"I'm just coming to them. '... Burglary, Housebreaking, Theft and/or
Larceny'--now hold your breath, for we're getting there--'Conflagration
and/or Fire....'" I paused to let it sink in. "The fact is," I continued
weightily, "we've had a Fire."
"Have we? But I wasn't dressed for it. I should have worn a mauve
_peignoir_, and been carried down to safety by a blond fireman. To have a
fire without a fire-engine is like being married at a registry-office. Next
time--"
"Nevertheless, we've had a Fire, within the meaning of the policy. Now I'm
going to write a letter to the Insurance Company."
And I did so to the following effect:--
"77, _The Supermansions_,
_S.W._
"DEAR SIRS,--I regret to inform you that a fire took place at/in the above
demesne and/or flat after tea to-day and damaged one (1) pair of khaki
slacks/trousers so as to render them unfit for further use. I shall
therefore be glad to receive from you the sum of two guineas, the original
cost price of the damaged article of apparel.
"Yours, etc."
Next day I took Suzanne out to buy the new hat. This done, we went on to my
tailor's to replace the ill-starred slacks. A casual inquiry as to price
elicited the statement that it would be four guineas. I cut short a
rambling discourse, in which the tailor sought to saddle various remote
agencies with the responsibility for the increase, and stamped out of the
establishment with the blasphemous vow that I'd get a pair ready-made at
the Stores.
That evening I received a reply from the Insurance people:--
"In all communications please quote Ref. No. 73856/SP/QR.
"SIR,--We note your claim for garments injured by an outbreak of fire at
your residence. We await the reports of the Fire Brigade and Salvage Corps,
on receipt of which we will again communicate with you. Meanwhile, will you
kindly inform us what other damage was done?
"We are, yours, etc."
I at once wrote back to remove their misapprehension:--
"DEAR SIRS,--My fire was not what you would call an outbreak. It was
essentially a quiet affair, attended by neither Fire Brigade nor Salvage
Corps, but just the family (like being married at a registry-office, don't
you think?). My khaki slacks were the only articles injured. As I am now
going about without them, you will realise that no time should be lost in
settling the claim.
"Yours, etc.
"P.S. I nearly forgot--73856/RS/VP. There!"
A day or two later I received a request, pitched in an almost slanderously
sceptical tone, for more detailed information. I humoured them, and there
ensued a ding-dong correspondence, in which that wretched Ref. No. was
bandied backwards and forwards with nauseating reiteration, and of which
the following are the salient points:--
_They._ Kindly state what you estimate the total value of the contents of
your residence to be.
_Myself_ (_after a searching inquiry into present prices_). L1,500.
_They_ (_promptly_). We beg to point out that you are only insured for a
total sum of L750. In accordance with the terms of your policy you are only
entitled to recover such proportion of the value of the loss or damage as
the total insured bears towards the total value of the contents--_i.e._,
one-half.
_Myself._ Two guineas is exactly one-half of four guineas, the present cost
of slacks. Please see attached affidavit from tailor. (By a masterly stroke
I had actually induced the rascal to set out his iniquity in black and
white.)
At last, twenty days after the fire, when I had finally screwed myself up
to the point of going out to buy a pair of reach-me-downs, I was rewarded
by receiving a cheque for two guineas from the Insurance Company, "in full
settlement."
By the same post I received a letter from the Adjutant of my Depot
informing me that I was not to return at the expiration of my leave, but by
War Office instructions (I will spare you the Ref. No.) was to proceed
instead to the Crystal Palace for immediate demobilization. (That, by the
way, is part of the game of being a volunteer for the Army of Occupation.)
It was Suzanne who brought the two letters into their proper correlation.
"You won't have to get a new pair of slacks now," she said.
"Bless my soul, no!" I exclaimed. "Then what ought I to do with this
cheque? Send it back?"
"Certainly not," cried Suzanne as she snatched it from my wavering hand.
"I've been wanting a new hat for some time."
* * * * *
[Illustration: ANOTHER COMBINE.
_Bystander._ "'OW YER GOIN', MATE?"
_Gutter Merchant._ "FINE! I'VE JUST AMALGAMATED WITH THE BUSINESS NEXT
DOOR."]
* * * * *
"FRENZIED FINANCE."
"The guardians want more money also. What the Treasury finan-local
taxations are _only the be_-lical taxations are _only the beginning_ of
the demand upon the citizen's pocket."--_Evening Paper._
* * * * *
"JUMPER CHAMPION.
"The reference to a young woman living at Esher, Surrey, who has
knitted 50 jumpers since August 20, which her friends claim to be a
world's record for an amateur, has resulted in a challenge.
"'Jumper,' who lives at Margate, writes: 'I find it quite easy to knit
in the dark and to read while knitting.'"--_Daily Paper_.
The Margate candidate will get our vote.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE SERVANTS' BALL.
_Groom_ (_somewhat heated_). "CARE FOR A BREATHER, MY LADY?"]
* * * * *
MY SALES DAY.
7.0 to 8.30. Rise, breakfast, and make out shopping-list. I put down:--
Waterproof for Henry.
School-frock and boots for the Kid.
Replenish household linen.
9.0. Arrive at large emporium just as the doors open. Ask to be directed to
gentleman's mackintoshes. Pause on the way to look at evening wraps marked
down from five guineas to 98/11. It seems a sweeping reduction, but I do
not require an evening wrap.
9.10 to 10.15. Try on evening wraps. Select a perfectly sweet _Rose du
Barri_ duvetyn lined _gris fonce_.
10.15. Continuing to head for mackintoshes. The course runs past a job-line
in silk hosiery. Remember I ought to get stockings to go with the evening
wrap.
10.15 to 11.5. Match stockings.
11.15. Arrive at gentlemen's mackintoshes. Find they are not being reduced
in the sale. Observe however that some handsome silk shirts with broad
stripes are marked half-price; get three for Henry, also a fancy waistcoat
at 6/11-3/4 (was 25/-), only slightly soiled down front.
11.40. Ask for Children's Department. Take wrong turning and arrive at
millinery.
11.40 to 1.10. Try on hats. Decide on a ducky little toque and a
fascinating river hat (for next summer).
1.10 to 1.30. Still asking for Children's Department. When it is finally
given to me I am told that useful school-frocks have all been sold.
1.30 to 6.30. Drift to Shoe Department; secure a pair of pink satin
slippers--rather tight, but amazingly cheap. Swept by crowd into "Fancy
Goods"; make several purchases. Get taken in a crush to "Evening
Accessories"; am persuaded to buy.
6.35. Leave emporium. It is raining heavily.
7.15. Arrive home wet and exhausted. Have an argument, conducted affably on
my side, with Henry, who flatly refuses to wear the half-price striped
shirts or pay for the only-slightly-soiled waistcoat. He makes pointed
remarks about the bad weather, with cynical reference to mackintoshes. Am
struck afresh by the selfishness of men.
7.45. Remember that I have forgotten household linen and Kid's boots, but
determine not to let this spoil my good temper.
8.0. Dine alone with Henry. Do my best to show a forgiving spirit in face
of his egoism. So to bed, conscious of a day well spent.
* * * * *
OUR DAY OF UNREST.
["The great demand of the moment is something fresh to do on Sunday."]
--_Evening Paper._
At the ample shrine of pleasure
You have worshipped well and long
On this day of so-called leisure,
Yet you feel there's something wrong.
_Blase_ is your air and jaded;
Sabbath hours have lost their zest;
Utter ennui has invaded
Every corner of your chest.
Sport is shorn of all its glamour;
Motoring proves no more a lure;
So you come to me and clamour
For a speedy psychic cure.
Well, my friend, if fresh sensation
Is the object of your search,
And you want a consultation,
My advice is, Go to church.
* * * * *
BOLSHEVISM IN THE CIVIL SERVICE.
"Whitley Councils are the latest development in Government offices in
Whitehall. What is aimed at is a system of promotion free and
uninterrupted from top to bottom."
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE.
_Labour._ "PERHAPS IT'S A SIZE TOO BIG FOR ME AT PRESENT."
_Coalition._ "GLAD YOU FEEL LIKE THAT, AS I HAVEN'T QUITE FINISHED WITH
IT."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Soulful Party._ "AH, YES, THE WORLD IS ALWAYS SO--WE NEVER
STREW FLOWERS ON A MAN'S GRAVE UNTIL AFTER HE IS DEAD."]
* * * * *
THE CANDOUR OF KEYNES.
(_Suggested by the perusal of "The Economic Consequences of the Peace."_)
There was a superior young person named KEYNES
Who possessed an extensive equipment of brains,
And, being elected a Fellow of King's,
He taught Economics and similar things.
On the outbreak of war he at once made his mark
As a "tempy," but Principal, Treasury Clerk,
And the Permanent Staff and the CHANCELLOR too
Pronounced him a flier and well worth his screw.
So he went to the Conference, not as a mute,
To act as the CHANCELLOR'S chief substitute,
And in this extremely responsible post
He mingled with those who were ruling the roast.
The Big and redoubtable Three, 'tis confessed,
By his talent and zeal were immensely impressed;
But, conversely, the fact, which is painful, remains
That they failed to impress the redoubtable KEYNES.
So, after five months of progressive disgust,
He shook from his feet the Parisian dust,
Determined to give the chief Delegates beans
And let the plain person behind the Peace scenes.
Though his title is stodgy, yet all must admit
That his pages are seasoned with plenty of wit;
He's alert as a cat-fish; he can't be ignored;
And throughout his recital we never are bored.
For he's not a mere slinger of partisan ink,
But a thinker who gives us profoundly to think;
And his arguments cannot be lightly dismissed
With cries of "Pro-Hun" or of "Pacificist."
And yet there are faults to be found all the same;
For example, I doubt if it's playing the game
For one who is hardly unmuzzled to guy
Representative statesmen who cannot reply.
And while we're amused by his caustic dispraise
Of President WILSON'S Chadbandian ways,
Of the cynical TIGER, laconic and grim,
And our versatile PREMIER, so supple and slim--
Still we feel, as he zealously damns the Allies
For grudging the Germans the means to arise,
That possibly some of the Ultimate Things
May even be hidden from Fellows of King's.
* * * * *
"The ---- Male Voice Choir and St. ----'s Brass Band discorded Xmas
music."--_Local Paper._
We shouldn't wonder.
* * * * *
"Another element in the industrial activity of Japan, which is brought
forcibly home to the Westerner, is the obvious pleasure that the
Japanese people take in doing the work which is allotted to them. It is
no uncommon sight to see men laughing merrily as they drag along their
heavy merchandise, or singing as they swing their anvils in a manner
almost reminiscent of the historic village blacksmith."--_Provincial
Paper._
And "children coming home from school" know better than to "look in at the
open door."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "GRANDFATHER, I SIMPLY LOVE YOUR NICE LONG BEARD. PROMISE ME
YOU'LL NEVER HAVE IT BOBBED."]
* * * * *
THE EGOIST.
On Monday morning Hereward Vale left home in an unsettled state of mind.
That was putting it mildly. He was thoroughly unhappy. Something was up--he
couldn't tell what--or whether it was his own fault or Mary's. Anyhow, it
didn't seem to matter whose fault it was. The thing had happened. That was
the one overwhelming idea that concerned him. The first shadow had fallen;
their record of complete and perfect happiness was broken.
The road to the station was a long and particularly beautiful one. Hereward
had always appreciated every inch of it. But to-day he hated it. He hated
the way the yew-trees drooped, the leafless branches of the hazels, the
faded, crumpled blackberry, the scattered decaying leaves. It was really a
remarkable day for November--clear and frosty, with a bright blue sky and
scudding white clouds. A strong north-east wind tested one's vitality.
Hereward's was low. He buttoned his collar and hurried on.
Mary had never treated him quite like this before. She had always been
tender, sympathetic and understanding with his moods. True, he was trying;
but she had known that before she married him. He was an artist, and an
artist's work, he argued, depended largely on the state of his emotions. He
earned the family bread by the labour of his hands and his hand was the
servant of his mind, and his mind a tempest of moods. Mary had applied
herself to her task with creditable skill. She could always turn his
sullenness to a sort of creative melancholy of which he was rather proud;
his restlessness to energy and his discontent to something like
constructive thinking. How she achieved the miracle he did not know, nor
did he inquire. But he was guided by her as a child by its mother, still
constantly rebelling.
But to-day the machinery had broken down. Mary had been cool, pleasant and
crisply unemotional at breakfast-time. He had woken up cross and with a
headache. He had a muddled feeling and wanted sorting out. But Mary seemed
quite unaware of it. She had a preoccupied manner; she went about just too
cheerfully, chatting just too pleasantly about trivial things. It was
mechanical, Hereward decided, and, anyway, it wasn't at all what he wanted.
His monosyllabic responses were accepted as perfectly right and natural,
when they were nothing of the sort. She did not get up and pass her hand
lovingly and soothingly over his hair and say things appropriate to his
state of mind. She went on with her breakfast and looked after him kindly
enough, but without solicitude.
For instance, she made no comment on the fact that he had hardly touched
his bacon; she merely removed his plate and gave him marmalade and toast as
if he had left no bacon at all. She didn't even notice the lines of
suffering on his face, the dark circles under his eyes. He cast a glance in
the mirror when her back was turned to see if they were obvious. They were.
Why wasn't Mary catching his hump? She always did.
When finally he left the house, a little bent, with no spring in his step,
Mary didn't accompany him to the door. She didn't exchange with him one of
those rapid looks of complete understanding that he had grown so accustomed
to and found so sustaining and helpful. She kissed him firmly and coolly,
almost casually. Just so she might kiss an aunt.
The train journey was cold and lonely. Nobody he knew was travelling up to
town. He bought a daily paper, but the headlines put him off. They were
nearly all about divorce cases. There was one about a man who had lived for
three years in the same house with his wife without speaking to her. Such
things were possible! He gazed out of the window. The wonderful day had no
charm for him. The feeling of autumn only further increased his sense of
the loss of youth, of the decay of romance. He nursed and nourished his
grievance. He desired that Mary should know what a wreck she had made of
his day, possibly of his life.
He was in no mood for work. He went up to his studio in Fitzroy Square and
muddled about with pens and ink. He had what he called a good tidy up, and
firmly and consistently threw away every relic of sentiment he had
foolishly preserved. At one o'clock, through habit and not because he was
hungry, he went out and had a lonely lunch at a small restaurant, sitting
at a marble-topped table which imparted to him something of its chill.
After that he loafed about looking at things till dusk. Dusk was quite
unbearable. He fled back to the studio, made up a stupendous fire, lit a
pipe and mused.
He decided not to go home that night. He felt hurt and ill-used. He would
stay in town and have a thoroughly good time. As the idea struck him he
looked round the studio. The corners were dismal and shadowy. Everything
not in the immediate circle of the fire looked grey and cheerless. His
easel, with a bit of drapery thrown across it, was like a spectre with
outstretched arms. It suggested despair. He could think of no one whom he
wanted to see. There wasn't a soul he knew whom he would not in this crisis
deliberately have avoided.
So he went to the Russian Ballet and was bored. He had been excited about
_Cleopatra_ the first time he had seen it; he now decided that it was a
great mistake to try to repeat emotional experiences.
He left hurriedly before the programme was half over. His feet took him
mechanically to Waterloo Station. He looked up a train. The 9.30 was due
out; he sprinted and caught it. The carriage he managed to get into was
empty and warm. He slept; he slept all the way, and it did him good.