Part 40 (1/2)

'But what are these quaint figures?' I asked, pointing to certain drawings of an obese j.a.panese figure, grinning with lazy good-humour above several of the cabinets.

'Hote, the fat G.o.d of enjoyment.'

'A j.a.panese G.o.d?' I asked.

'Yes, nothing artistic is quite right now unless it has a savour of blue mould or j.a.pan. Wonderful people, the j.a.panese, to have discovered the Jolly Hote. And here is Hote's wife, the G.o.ddess-queen Yoka herself--the real masquerader behind that mystic veil which has so enveloped and bemuddled the mind of poor Wilderspin. She is to figure in the first number of _The Caricaturist_.'

He pointed to an object I had only partially observed: a broad-faced burly woman, of about forty-five years of age, in an eccentric dress of j.a.panese silks, standing on the model-throne between two lay figures. 'Good heavens!' I exclaimed, 'why, she's alive.'

'An' kickin', sir,' said a voice that was at once strident and unctuous. Owing to the almond shape of her sparkling black eyes and the flatness of her nose, the bridge of which had been broken (most likely in childhood), she looked absurdly like a j.a.panese woman, save that upon her quaintly-cut mouth, curving slightly upwards horse-shoe fas.h.i.+on, there was that twitter of humorous alertness which is perhaps rarely seen in perfection except among the lower orders, Celtic or Saxon, of London. Her build was that of a Dutch fisher-woman. The set of her head on her muscular neck showed her to be a woman of immense strength. But still more was her great physical power indicated by her hands, the fingers of which seemed to have a grip like that of an eagle's claws.

I then perceived upon an easel a large drawing. 'I have not seen Wilderspin's ”Faith and Love,”' I said; 'but this, I see, must be a caricature of it.'

In it the woman figured as Isis, grinning beneath a veil held over her head by two fantastically-dressed figures--one having the face of Darwin, the other the face of Wilderspin.

'Allow me,' said Cyril, 'to introduce you to the G.o.ddess Yoka, the true Isis or G.o.ddess of bohemianism and universal joke, who, when she had the chance of I making a rational and common-sense universe, preferred amusing herself with flamingoes, dromedaries, ring-taile monkeys, and men.'

'Pardon me,' I said; 'I merely called to see you. Good afternoon.'

'Allow me,' said he, turning to the woman, 'to introduce to your celestial majesty Mr. Henry Aylwin, a kinsman of mine, whose possessions in Little Egypt are as brilliant (judging from the colours of his royal waggon) as are his possessions in Philistia.'

The woman made me a curtsey of much gravity. 'And allow me to introduce _you_,' he said, turning to me, 'to the real original Natura Mystica,--she who for ages upon ages has been trying by her funny goings-on to teach us that ”the _Principium hylarchic.u.m_ of the cosmos” (to use the simple phraseology of a great spiritualistic painter) is the benign principle of joke.'

The woman made me another curtsey. 'You forget your exalted position, Mrs. Gudgeon,' said Cyril; 'when a mystic G.o.ddess-queen is so condescending as to curtsey she should be careful not to bend too low. Man is a creature who can never with safety be treated with too much respect.'

'We's all so modest in Primrose Court, that's the wust on us,'

replied the woman. 'But, Muster Cyril, sir, I don't think you've noticed that the queen's _t'other_ eye's got dry now.'

Cyril gravely poured her out a gla.s.s of foaming ale from a bottle that stood upon a little Indian bamboo-table, and handed it to her carefully over the silks, saying to me,

'Her majesty's elegant way of hinting that she likes to wet both eyes!'

Such foolery as this and at such a time irritated me sorely; but there was no help for it now. Whether I should or should not open to him the subject that had taken me thither, I must, I saw, let him have his humour till the woman was dismissed.

'And now, G.o.ddess,' said he, 'while I am doing justice to the design of your nose--'

'You can't do that, sir,' interjected the creature, 'it's sich a beauty, ha! ha! I allus say that when I do die, I shall die a-larfin'. They calls me ”Jokin' Meg” in Primrose Court. I shall die a-larfin', they say in Primrose Court, and so I shall--unless I die a-cryin',' she added in an utterly different and tragic voice which greatly struck me.

'While I am trying to do justice to that beautiful bridge you must tell my friend about yourself and your daughter, and how you and she first became two s.h.i.+ning lights in the art world of London.'

'You makes me blush,' said the woman, 'an' blow me if blus.h.i.+n' ain't bin an' made _t'other_ eye dry.'

She then took another gla.s.s of ale, grinned, shook herself, as though preparing for an effort, and said,

'Well you must know, sir, as my name's Meg Gudgeon, leaseways that was my name till my darter chrissened me Mrs. Knocker, and I lives in Primrose Court, Great Queen Street, and my reg'lar perfession is a-sellin' coffee ”so airly in the mornin',” and I've got a darter as ain't quite so 'ansom as me, bein' the moral of her father as is over the water a-livin' in the fine 'Straley. And you must know, sir, that one of summer's day there comes a knock at our door as sends my 'eart into my mouth and makes me cry out, ”The coppers, by jabbers!” and when I goes down and opens the door, lo! and behold, there stan's a chap wi' great goggle eyes, dressed all in s.h.i.+ny black, jest like a Quaker.' (Here she made a noise between a laugh and a cough.) 'I allus say that when I do die I shall die a-larfin'--unless I die a-cryin',' she added, in the same altered voice that had struck me before.

'Well, mother,' said Cyril, 'and what did the s.h.i.+ny Quaker say?'

'They calls me ”Jokin' Meg” in Primrose Court. The s.h.i.+ny Quaker, 'e axes if my name is Gudgeon. ”Well,” sez I, ”supposin' as my name _is_ Gudgeon,--I don't say it is,” says I, ”but supposin' as it is,--what then?” sez I. ”But _is_ that your name?” sez 'e. ”Supposin' as it was,” sez I, ”what then?” ”Will you answer my simple kervestion?” sez 'e. ”Is your name Mrs. Gudgeon, or ain't it not?” sez 'e. ”An' will _you_ answer _my_ simple kervestion, Mr. s.h.i.+ny Quaker?” sez I.

”Supposin' my name was Mrs. Gudgeon,--I don't say it _is_, but supposin' it was,--what's that to you?” sez I, for I thought my poor bor Bob what lives in the country had got into trouble agin and had sent for me.'

'Go on, mother,' said Cyril, 'what did the s.h.i.+ny Quaker say then?'