"COMBINING AMUSEMENT WITH INSTRUCTION."
(A Sketch at the Collection of Instruments of Torture.)
SCENE—The Maddox Street Galleries. A large and appropriately lighted room. Upon walls of a sombre crimson, various Implements of Torture are arranged with considerable taste, and an eye for decorative effect, the central space being reserved for more elaborate contrivances in wood and iron. Visitors discovered inspecting the Exhibition by the aid of the excellent Catalogues, with the subdued appreciation of persons conscious that they are spending a very pleasant and profitable afternoon.
Mr. Charnelhouse Goole (as he enters, to Mrs. C.G.). Now, my dear, the first thing I want to see is that Iron Maiden there's so much talk about. I wonder whereabouts it is!
Mrs. C.G. I think that must be it, up at the other end of the room. But don't you think, dear, it would be nicer to see the other things first, and keep that for the last?
Mr. C.G. (struck by the refinement of this suggestion). Well, upon, my word, AMINA, I almost think it would!
Mr. Frederic Frivell (to his wife, whom he takes a marital pleasure in shocking). What fun those old fellows must have had in those days, mustn't they?
Mrs. Frivell (a serious lady). I don't think fun is at all the right word, FREDERIC. I do wish you wouldn't take these things so lightly. I'm sure it's melancholy enough to look at all these horrid machines, and think—
Mr. F. That Torture is a lost art? Isn't that what you were going to say? But it's not, you know; we've refined it—that's all. Look at the Photographer, and the Interviewer, and the Pathetic Reciter, and the—
[Mrs. F. endeavours to convince him that she didn't mean that at all, and that he is comparing totally different things.
An Aphoristic Uncle (to an irreverent Nephew). No. 89. "A Long-spiked Wooden Roller, known as a 'Spiked Hare.'" You see, TOM, my boy, the victim was—(Describes the process.) "Some of the old writers describe this torture as being most fearful," so the Catalogue tells us.
Tom-my-boy (after inspecting the spikes). Well, do you know, Uncle, I shouldn't be at all surprised if the old Johnnies weren't so far out.
The Aph. Uncle. Another illustration, my boy, of "Man's inhumanity to Man"!
Tom-my-boy. Not bad for you, Uncle—only you cribbed it out of the Catalogue, you know! [The A.U. gives him up.
An Indulgent Parent enters, leading a small boy in a tall hat, and is presently recognised by the A.U.
The A.U. So you've brought your son to see this collection, hey? Well, it's of the greatest educational value to a thoughtful youth—rich in moral and historical instruction!
The I.P. Well, it was like this, you see. I had to take him to the dentist's, and, finding we should have half-an-hour or so to spare before he could attend to him, I thought we'd just drop in here and amuse ourselves—eh, BOBBY? Wonderfully ingenious, you know, in their way, some of these things! Now, here's a thing—"A Spanish mouth-pear, made of iron." You see, BOBBY, they forced it into the mouth and touched a screw, and it sprang open, preventing the victim from screaming.
Bobby. Y-yes, father. Should you think Mr. Fawcepps will have one of those?
The I.P. (annoyed). Now, what is the use of my taking you to a place of this sort to divert your thoughts, if your mind is running on something else all the time? I won't have it, do you hear. Enjoy yourself like a sensible boy!
Bobby. Y-yes, Father, I am. It—it's quite cured my toothache already—really it has!
Mrs. Frivell (reading from Catalogue). "A Penitent's Girdle, made of barbed wire, which, when worn next to the flesh, caused the most unpleasant and uncomfortable irritation." Oh, FREDERIC, just fancy that!
Mr. F. My dear CECILIA, I can quite fancy it!
Mrs. F. But I thought these tortures were only for Malefactors. Why do they call it a Penitent's Girdle?
Mr. F. Can't say,—unless because he generally repented having put it on.
Mrs. F. I don't think that can be the real reason.
Two English House-maids (to a small German Page-Boy who is escorting them). Here, JOHNNIE, what's this mean? (Reads from Catalogue the motto on an Executioner's Sword.) "Di Herrin' sturin dem Unheel ick exequire ir End Urthile." Come, you ought to know!
Johnnie (not unnaturally at a loss). It means—it means—somding I do not understandt.
The Housemaids (disappointed in him). Well, you are a boy! I did think, bein' German yourself, you'd be quite at 'ome 'ere!
Mr. Ernest Stodgely (impressively, to Miss FEATHERHEAD, his fiancée). Just look at this, FLOSSIE. (Reading.) "Executioner's Cloak, very long, of red woollen material; presumably red so as not to show blood-spots or stains." Hideously suggestive that, is it not?
Miss Flossie. I shouldn't call it exactly hideous, ERNEST. Do you know, I was just thinking that, with a high Astrachan collar, you know, and old silver fastenings, it would make rather a nice winter cloak. So deliciously warm! [ERNEST avails himself of a lover's privileges to lecture her severely.
IN FRONT OF THE IRON MAIDEN.
Mr. Ch. Goole. So this is the Iron Maiden! Well, I expected something rather more dreadful-looking. The face has really quite a pleasant expression. [Disappointedly.
Mrs. Ch. G. (with subtler appreciation). Oh, but I think that makes it so much more horrible, don't you?
Mr. Ch. G. Well, I don't know—perhaps. But there ought to be a wax figure inside it. They ought to have wax figures on most of these things—make it much more interesting!
Mr. Frivell (who is close by). I quite agree with you, Sir—indeed, I would go farther. I think there should be competent persons engaged to provide practical illustrations of all the more amusing tortures—say from three to five every afternoon. Draw all London!
Mrs. F. (horrified). FRED, you know you don't mean it! And besides, you would never get people willing to be shut up inside that thing!
Mr. F. My dear, I'm perfectly serious, as I always am. And as to not getting subjects, why—(He beckons to one of the Boy-Messengers in waiting, who advances). Look here, my lad, you seem a bright intelligent youth. Would you mind just stepping inside and allowing us to close the door? We won't detain you an instant.
Mrs. F. What a shame, FRED! Don't think of such a thing, there's a good boy! Say no—and I'll give you sixpence!
The Boy (grinning). Well, Lady, make it a shillin', and I'll stay outside—to oblige you!
Mrs. F. (giving him a shilling). There's a good sensible boy! FREDERIC, have you gone quite mad? You know you wouldn't hurt a fly?
[The GOOLES move away, feeling that they have been trifled with.
Mr. F. A fly? Not for the world!—but this is only a boy. I want to know what they're here for. Now, my lad, you're not engaged to be idle, you know. Just think of the amount of innocent pleasure you would afford by getting into this spiked cradle and letting me rock you. You won't? Well, will you sit on the Spanish Donkey? come! I'll give you a leg up and fasten the weights on your legs for you. You aren't afraid of a donkey?
[Bystanders collect in hope of amusement.
The Boy (sulkily). Not of some Donkeys, Sir, as ain't quite so sharp as that one, whatever they think theirselves!
[Titters. Mr. F.F. feels that he has got rather the worst of it, and collapses, with the dismal completeness of a Funny Man; Mrs. F. remains behind to bribe the boy with another shilling to promise her solemnly never on any account to play with any of the tortures.
Mrs. F. (rejoining her husband). FREDERIC, how can you? You make me feel perfectly faint when you act like this!
Mr. F. (recovering). Faint, CECILIA? Well, I daresay they won't mind if you sit down in one of these spiked chairs for a minute or two.
Mrs. F. (angrily). I shall do no such thing, FREDERIC! And you ought to be ashamed to suggest it!
Mrs. Borrodale (choosing photographs of Nuremberg). Look, JOHN, what a lovely large one of the Sebald's Kirche! I really must have this. Oh, and the Insel Schutt—and this of the Schöne Brunnen—and the view from the Burg—that makes the half-dozen. They will be joys for ever, JOHN! And only three shillings each! Will you pay the boy for them, JOHN, please—it's just eighteen shillings.
John. Can't, my dear. Only half-a-crown in my pocket. Don't you remember, I lent you my last sov. not five minutes ago?
Mrs. B. Oh, so you did. Well, on second thoughts, perhaps this size is rather—I think I'll take five of the sixpenny ones instead—they're every bit as good. You can spare me that half-crown, JOHN!
A Patriot (coming out). Well, it's just the same 'ere as everywhere else. All the things "made in Germany"! Sickenin' I call it!
