Punch, Or The London Charivari | Page 6

when your mouth was always full of macaroons?
Nora (_shakes her head_). Ah, TORVALD, the mouth of a mother of a
family should have more solemn things in it than macaroons! I see that
now, too late. No, you have wronged me. So did Papa. Both of you
called me a doll, and a squirrel, and a lark! You might have made
something of me--and instead of that, you went and made too much of
me--oh, you _did_!

Helmer. Well, you didn't seem to object to it, and really I don't exactly
see what it is you do want!
Nora. No more do I--that is what I have got to find out. If I had been
properly educated, I should have known better than to date poor Papa's
signature three days after he died. Now I must educate myself. I have to
gain experience, and get clear about religion, and law, and things, and
whether Society is right or I am--and I must go away and never come
back any more till I am educated!
Helmer. Then you may be away some little time? And what's to
become of me and the eggs meanwhile?
Nora. That, TORVALD, is entirely your own affair. I have a higher
duty than that towards you and the eggs. (_Looking solemnly upward._)
I mean my duty towards Myself!
Helmer. And all this because--in a momentary annoyance at finding
myself in the power of a discharged Cashier who calls me "I say
TORVALD," I expressed myself with ultra-Gilbertian frankness! You
talk like a silly child!
Nora. Because my eyes are opened, and I see my position with the eyes
of IBSEN. I must go away at once, and begin to educate myself.
Helmer. May I ask how you are going to set about it?
Nora. Certainly. I shall begin--yes, I shall begin with a course of the
Norwegian theatres. If that doesn't take the frivolity out of me, I don't
really know what _will_! [_She gets her bonnet and ties it tightly._
Helmer. Then you are really going? And you'll never think about me
and the eggs any more! Oh, NORA!
Nora. Indeed, I shall, occasionally--as strangers. (_She puts on a shawl
sadly, and fetches her dressing-bag._) If I ever do come back, the
greatest miracle of all will have to happen. Good-bye! [_She goes out
through the hall; the front-door is heard to bang loudly._

Helmer (_sinking on a chair_). The room empty? Then she must be
gone! Yes, my little lark has flown! (_The dull sound of an unskilled
latchkey is heard trying the lock; presently the door opens, and Nora,
with a somewhat foolish expression, reappears._) What? back already!
Then you are educated?
Nora (_puts down dressing-bag_). No, TORVALD, not yet. Only, you
see, I found I had only threepence-halfpenny in my purse, and the
Norwegian theatres are all closed at this hour--and so I thought I
wouldn't leave the cage till to-morrow--after breakfast.
Helmer (_as if to himself_). The greatest miracle of all has happened.
My little bird is not in the bush just yet!
[_NORA takes down a showily bound dictionary from the shelf and
begins her education_; HELMER _fetches a bag of macaroons, sits
near her, and tenders one humbly. A pause. NORA repulses it, proudly.
He offers it again. She snatches at it suddenly, still without looking at
him, and nibbles it thoughtfully as Curtain falls._
THE END (_with Mr. Punch's apologies to the Master_).
* * * * *
MODERN TYPES.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN TYPE WRITER._)
NO. XXIV.--THE GIVER OF PARTIES.
[Illustration]
It may be that "Party," in the sense of a hospitable entertainment, is an
obsolete word, and that those who speak of "giving a party" prove
themselves, by the mere expression, to be fogeys whom the rushing
stream of London amusements has long since thrown up on the sandy
bank of middle age, there to grow dull and forget that their legs were
ever apt for the waltz, or their digestions able to cope with lobster

mayonnaise at 2 A.M. Yet, though he who thus speaks may not be as
smart as a swell, or as much up to date as a church-parade-goer, the
expression will serve, for it indicates comprehensively enough every
variety of entertainment known to the London Season--the dance, the
dinner, the reception, the music at home, the tea-party, and the
theatre-party, for all these in her benevolence does the Giver of Parties
offer to us, and all these does she find the world of London eager to
accept. Now it would seem, one would imagine, to be the easiest thing
in the world, if only the money be not wanting, to give a party. A
hostess, so someone may say, has but to invite her friends, to light her
rooms, to spread her tables,