Part 13 (1/2)
It's perfect bosh; and, what is more, I look on you, sir, as a bore!”
Says I to Doctor Johnson.
My much-respected friend, alas!
Was only flesh, and flesh is gra.s.s.
At certain times the greatest a.s.s Alive was Doctor Johnson.
I shan't go home until I choose, Let's all lie down and take a snooze.
I always sleep best in my shoes, All right! I'm--Doctor Johnson.
Good as that piece was as done by the Scotch artist, I should not care to hear it again. Nor, indeed, do I want to hear any recitation again, unless it is given in mimicry of some one else. Under those conditions I could listen to anything, so powerful is the attraction of the mimic's art. Possibly part of this fascination may be due to one's own inability to imitate too; be that as it may, no mimic who is at all capable ever bores me, and all fill me with wonder. Of course I am conscious that many of the imitators who throng the stage are nothing but pickpockets: too lazy and too mean to acquire novelties of their own, they annex s.n.a.t.c.hes of the best songs of the moment under the plea of burlesquing the original singers. But even so, I often find myself immorally glad that they figure in the programme.
Not the least remarkable thing about good mimics is their capacity not only to reproduce the tones of a voice but the actual style of conversation. I remember hearing someone thus qualified giving a spontaneous impression of a famous scholar whom he had just met, and the curious part of it was that the imitator, though a man of little education, for the moment, under the influence of the concentration which possessed him, employed words proper to his victim which I am certain he had no knowledge of in cold blood and had never used before.
It was almost as if, for a brief interval, the mimic was the scholar, though always with the drop of ridicule or mischief added. It would be interesting to know if, when anyone is being impersonated as intensely as this, any virtue departs from him--whether he is, for the moment, by so much the less himself.
CLICQUOT WELL WON
My hostess and her daughter met me at the station in the little pony-cart and we set off at a gentle trot, conversing as we went. That is to say, they asked questions about London and the great wicked world, and I endeavoured to answer them.
It was high if premature summer; the sky was blue, the hedges and the gra.s.s were growing almost audibly, the birds sang, the sun blazed, and, to lighten the burden, I walked up two or three hills without the faintest enthusiasm.
Just after the top of the last hill, when I had again resumed my seat (at the risk once more of lifting the pony into the zenith), the ladies simultaneously uttered a shrill cry of dismay.
”Look!” they exclaimed; ”there's Bunty!”
I looked, and beheld in the road before us a small West Highland terrier, as white as a recent ratting foray in a wet ditch would allow.
”Bunty! Bunty! you wicked dog!” they cried; ”how dare you go hunting?”
To this question Bunty made no other reply than to subside under the hedge, where a little shade was to be had, in an att.i.tude of exhaustion tempered by wariness.
”How very naughty!” said my hostess. ”I left her in the house.”
”Yes,” said the daughter, ”and if she's going to go off hunting like this what on earth shall we do? There'll be complaints from every one.
She's never done it before.”
”Come, Bunty!” said my hostess, in the wheedling tones of dog-owners whose dogs notoriously obey their slightest word. But Bunty sat tight.
”If we drive on perhaps she'll follow,” said the daughter, and we drove on a few yards; but Bunty did not move.
We stopped again, while coaxing noises were made, calculated to soften the hearts of rocks; but Bunty refused to stir.
”She'll come on later,” I suggested.
”Oh, no,” said her elderly mistress, ”we couldn't risk leaving her here, when she's never gone off alone before. Bunty! Bunty! don't be so naughty. Come along, there's a dear little Bunty.”
But Bunty merely glittered at us through her white-hair entanglement and remained perfectly still.