SALUBRITIES ABROAD.
Still at Royat. Hotel Continental.—À propos of Puller "airing his French" Miss Louisa Metterbrun said something delightful to him the other day at dinner. Puller had been instructing us all in some French idioms until Madame Metterbrun set him right in his pronunciation. He owned that he had made a slip. "But," says he, wagging his head and pulling up his wristbands with the air of a man thoroughly well satisfied with himself generally, "but I think you'll allow that I can speak French better than most Englishmen, eh?"
Madame Metterbrun doesn't exactly know what to say, but Miss Louisa comes to the rescue. "O Mr. Puller"—he is frequently at their house in London, and they know him intimately—"I always say to Mamma, when we're abroad, that I do like to hear you talk French"—Puller smirks and thinks to himself that this is a girl of sense and rare appreciation—"because," she goes on quietly, and all at table are listening, "because your speaking French reminds me so of home." Her home is London. I think Puller won't ask Miss Louisa for an opinion on his French accent again in a hurry.
I have just been reading Victor Hugo's Choses Vues. Admirable! Fuite de Louis Philippe! What a pitiful story. Then his account, marvellously told, and the whole point of the narrative given in two lines, of what became of the brain of Talleyrand. Graphically written is his visit to Thiers on behalf of Rochefort. Says Thiers to him, "Cent journaux me traînent tous les matins dans la boue. Mais savez-vous mon procédé? Je ne les lis pas." To which Hugo rejoined, "C'est précisément ce que je fais. Lire les diatribes, c'est respirer les latrines de sa renommée." Most public men, certainly most authors, artists, and actors, would do well to remember this advice, and act upon it.
"Choses Vues," written "Shows Vues" would be a good heading for an all-round-about theatrical and entertainment article in Mr. Punch's pages. Patent this.
Puller has recovered his high spirits. The temperature has changed: the waters are agreeing with him. So is the dinner hour, which M. Hall, our landlord, kindly permits us to have at the exceptional and un-Royat-like hour of 7·30. At dinner he is convivial. Madame Metterbrun and her two daughters are discussing music. Cousin Jane is deeply interested in listening to Madame Metterbrun on Wagner. The young Ladies are thorough Wagnerites. La Contessa is unable to get a word in about Shakspeare and Salvini, and her daughter, who, in a quiet tone and with a most deliberate manner, announces herself as belonging to the "Take-everything-easy Society," is not at this particular moment interested in anything except the menu, which she is lazily scrutinising through her long-handled pince-nez.
Mrs. Dinderlin, having succumbed to the usual first attack of Royat depression, is leaning back in her chair, smelling salts and nodding assent to the Wagnerite theories, with which she entirely agrees. For my own part, I am neutral; but as the Metterbruns are thorough musicians,—the mother being a magnificent pianist, and the eldest daughter a composer,—I am really interested in hearing all they have to say on the subject. Our bias is, temporarily, decidedly Wagnerian, for Cousin Jane, who is really in favour of "tune," and plenty of it,—being specially fond of Bellini and Donizetti,—in scientific musical society has not the courage of her opinions.
From composers the conversation travels to executants, and we name the favourite singers. After we have pretty well exhausted the list, and objected to this one as having a head voice, or to that as using the vibrato, or to the other as dwelling on an upper note ("queer sort of existence," says Puller, gradually coming up, as it were to the surface to open his mouth for breath,—whereat Cousin Jane smiles, and Miss Casanova lazily nods approbation of the joke—while the rest of us ignore Puller, putting him aside as not wanted just now,—when down he goes again), we generally agree that Gayarré is about the best tenor we have had in London for some time; that Santley is still unequalled as a baritone; that there is no one now to play and sing Mephistopheles like Faure; that M. Maurel is about the finest representative of Don Giovanni; that Miss Arnoldson shows great promise; that Albany is unrivalled; that Marie Roze is difficult to beat as Carmen; and that it is a pity that Patti's demands are so exorbitant; and having exhausted the list of operatic artists,—Madame and her daughters holding that certain Germans, with whose names we, unfortunately for us, are not even acquainted, are far superior to any French or Italian singers that can be named—there ensues a pause in the conversation, of which the Countess Casanova takes advantage, and extending her right hand, which movement sharply jingles her bracelets, and so, as it were, sounds a bell to call us to attention, cuts in quickly with an emphatic, "Well, I don't profess to understand music as you do. I know what I like"—("Hear! hear!" sotto voce from Puller, coming up again to the surface, which draws a languidly approving inclination of the head from Miss Casanova, and a smile, deprecating the interruption, from Cousin Jane),—"and I must say," continues the Countess, emphatically, "I would rather have one hour of Salvini in Othello, than a whole month of the best Operas by the best composers,—Wagner included," and down comes her hand on the table, all the bracelets ringing down the curtain on the first act.
We, the non-combatants, feel that the mailed gauntlet has been thrown down by the Countess as a challenge to the Metterbruns.
"O Mother!" faintly remonstrates Miss Casanova, who loves a stall at the Opera. She fears that her mother's energetic declaration means war, and fans herself helplessly.
I am preparing to reconcile music and the drama, and am getting ready a supply of oil for what I foresee will be troubled waters, as the Metterbruns are beginning to rustle their feathers and flap their wings,—when Puller, leaning well forward, and stretching out an explanatory hand, with his elbow planted firmly on the table, ("Very bad manners," says Cousin Jane afterwards to me) says genially, "Well, voyez vous, look here, you may talk of your Wagners and Shakspeares, and Gayarrés, and Pattis, but, for singing and acting, give me Arthur Roberts. Yes," he repeats pleasantly but defiantly, and taking up, as it were, the Countess's gauntlet, "Salvini's not in it with Arthur Roberts."
The Countess's fan spreads out and works furiously. The steam is getting up. The Metterbruns open their eyes, and regard one another in consternation. They don't know who Arthur Roberts is.
"Not know!" exclaims Puller, quite in his element. "Well, when you come to London, you send to me, and I'll take you to hear him."
"He's a Music-Hall singer," says the Countess, fanning herself with an air of contemptuous indifference.
"Music-Hall Ar-tiste!" returns Puller, emphasising the second syllable, which to his mind expresses a great deal, and makes all the difference. "Now, Miladi," he goes on, imitating the manner of one of his own favourite counsel, engaged by Puller & Co., conducting a cross-examination, "Have you ever seen him?"
"Yes," she replies, shrugging her shoulders, "once. And," she adds, making the bracelets jingle again, as with a tragedy queen's action of the right arm she sweeps away into space whole realms of Music Halls and comic singers, "that was quite enough."
"Didn't he make you laugh?" continues Puller, still in the character of a stern cross-examiner.
"Laugh!" almost shrieks the Countess, extending her hands so suddenly that I have only time to throw myself back to avoid a sharp tap on the head from her fan. "Heavens! not a bit! not the least bit in the world! He made me sad! I saw the people in the stalls laughing, and I said,"—here she appeals with both hands to the majority of sensible people at large—still at large—"'Am I stupid? am I dull? Do I not understand?'"
"O Mother!" expostulates her daughter, in her most languid manner, "he was funny!"
"Funny!" ejaculates the Countess, tossing her head.
"I'd rather see Arthur Roberts than Salvini," says Puller, waggishly, but with conviction.
"I think I would, for choice," says Miss Casanova, meditatively, but seeing the Countess's horrified expression of countenance, she takes care to add more languidly than ever, as if taking the smallest part in an argument were really too exhausting, "but then, you know, I really don't understand tragedy, and I love a laugh."
"Prefers Arthur Roberts to Salvini!" exclaims the Countess, and throws up her hands and eyes to the ceiling as if imploring Heaven not to visit on her the awful heresy of her child.
Here I interpose. Salvini, I say, is a great Artiste, no doubt of it, a marvellous Tragedian; and Arthur Roberts is not, in the true dramatic sense of the word, a genuine Comedian; but he is, in another sense a true Comedian, though of the Music-Hall school.
"What a school!" murmurs the Countess, and with a pained expression of countenance as though she were suffering agonies.
The Metterbruns see the difference. Madame remembers a fat comic man in Berlin, at some garden, who used to wear a big hat and carry a large pipe, and make her laugh very much when she was a girl. Certainly, in his way, he was an artist. Is this Arthur Roberts anything like Max Splütterwessel? At this point, as we have finished coffee, and the Countess finds the room hot, I propose adjourning the debate to the Restaurant in the garden, as we are too late for the band at the Casino Samie.
The party is broken up in order to walk down to our rendezvous.
Puller, whose idea of making things pleasant, and, as he expresses it, "sweetening everyone all round," is to order "drinks" for everybody, insists upon the party taking "consommations"—he loves saying this word—at his expense. The Countess at first objects, as also does Madame Metterbrun; but, on Puller's explaining that he belongs to "The Two-with-you Society," they accept this explanation as utterly unintelligible but perfectly satisfactory; and so, accepting Puller's al fresco hospitality, we form a cheerful group round two tables put together for our accommodation. Puller's hospitality has taken the form of grenadines, chartreuses, and "sherry-gobblers,"—he loves this word too,—for us all round, and he has ordered for himself a strange mixture, which perfumes the night air as if some nauseous draught had been brought out of a chemist's shop, and which looks like green stagnant water in a big glass. It is called by Puller, with great glee, an "Absinthe gummy."
Anything nastier to look at or to smell I am not acquainted with in the way of drinks. However, he is our host, and I have a grenadine before me of his ordering, and between my lips an excellent cigar which is his gift. I can only say mildly, "It looks nasty;" and Cousin Jane expresses herself to the same effect, remarking also as she looks significantly towards me, that it is late, and that I am not keeping Royat hours. I promise to come away in ten minutes. Puller is in the highest possible spirits: surrounded by this company, all drinking his drinks, he as it were takes the chair and presides. He knocks on the table, which brings the waiter, to whom he says, holding up a couple of fingers "Two with you,"—whereat the waiter only smiles upon the eccentric Englishman, shakes his head, and wisely retires.
"Ah, Miladi," says Puller, "you must take a course of Roberts. He's a rum 'un." Then he sings, "He's all right when you know him, but you've got to hear him fust."
His guests politely smile, all except the Countess. I preserve a discreet silence. Taking this on the whole for encouragement, Puller commences the song from which he has already quoted the chorus. What the words are I do not catch, but as Puller reproduces to the life the style and manner of a London Music-Hall singer, and cocks his hat on one side, it is no wonder that the French people at the other table turn towards us in amazement.
"For goodness sake, Mr. Puller!" cries the Countess, rising from her chair in consternation. Jane also rises, Miss Casanova is laughing nervously. The Metterbruns look utterly astonished. I feel I must stop this at once.
"My dear fellow," I say, magisterially, "you really mustn't do this sort of thing"—he is breaking out again with "O what a surprise!"—but I get up from my seat to reprove him gravely. "You would not do this if you were in a London Restaurant."
"No," he replies, not in the least offended—"that's the lark of it. I belong to 'The Out-for-a-lark-and-Two-with-you Society.' Don't you mind me," he adds; then turning with a pleasant wink to the ladies, who have been putting on their wraps and mantles, and are preparing to leave, he sings again,—
"I'm all right when you know me—
But——"
We leave him to finish the song by himself.
And to think that my friend Puller, with his hat cocked on one side, a big cigar in his mouth, a tumbler of "absinthe gummy" before him, a rakish expression in his eye, is the same Puller to whom, as partner in the firm of Horler, Puller, Puller (J), Baker and Dayville, Solicitors, I would trust my dearest interests in any matter of property, of character, even of life itself! The strange story of Hyde and Jekyll is no fiction, after all.