In the Earlier Days of Photography
“I tell you it’s not good at all,” vociferated a newly-elected parliamentary representative of some rural locality. “Why my constituency would recognise me in that portrait. It’s detestable!”
“It’s excellent!” replied the exasperated photographer. “There’s not a better photographer than myself in Madrid.”
“I do doubt it; but it’s clear you have not been successful with me.”
“But what’s the matter with it?”
“The matter?... Look at me!... Have I two eyes?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, in the photograph there’s only one.”
“But....”
“Have I two ears?”
“Of course, but....”
“Well, you’ve only given me one too.”
“But you are taken in profile....”
“Tut, tut, tut.... Do you take me for a simple rustic? However much I placed myself in profile, does that prevent my having two eyes and two ears?”
(Aside) “And very long ones....” (Aloud) “But....”
“Again, is my neck black?”
“That is the shade....”
“No imputations, sir! ther nothing shady in me or my political life, and in my district they will tell you who I am; and if, though I am mayor, I never served my two years in the militia, why....”
“But the photograph, the photograph!”
“The photograph is not like me.”
“Then you wo take it?”
“No, sir.”
“Good; then I shall put it in the window, with the inscription, ‘The original of this is a cheat.’”
“You can do it....”
“Everybody who knows you....”
“Who would recognise me?... My electors know perfectly well that I have two eyes and two ears.”
“Then go, sir, in Heave name.”
“And to think that people say photography is so true to life!” growled, as he departed, this father of his country.
“Number 25,” cried the manservant, putting his head in at the door of the waiting-room.
And Number 25, who is not a bad-looking lady, passes through the corridor and enters the studio.
The photographer bows, and the following conversation begins:—
“Sir,” said the lady, “my happiness lies in your hands.”
“I am very pleased, sure; but I do quite understand....”
“I am a single lady, sir, as yet single....”
“Been so long?”
“What?”
“I beg your pardon, I mean... at your service.”
“I must tell you that a gentleman I do not love wants to marry me perforce.... He resides at Havana, and I do not wish to have my husband so far away.”
“I understand.”
“Now, tell me, if a man persisted in marrying you from Havana....”
“The hypothesis is not admissible, mm.”
“Ah, true! well, if a woman....”
“There are matters, madam, in which the person interested can alone....”
“It is true; for this reason, wishing at all costs to break off the projected marriage, I have determined to send my likeness to my suitor.”
“Your looks, mm, will captivate him more than ever.”
“That’s why;... I wish my likeness not to be my likeness: I want to come out ugly, very ugly.”
“That’s impossible, madam; photography always tells the truth.”
“Do you refuse?”
“Decidedly. Even if I tried you would not come out ugly.”
“That’s what my cousin the lieutenant says.”
“And he’s right.”
“But I must carry out my plan, and if you will not do it I shall go to a photographer I saw in the Calle de Francia, where some hideous women are exhibited.”
“As you like, madam.”
The lady withdraws, and the manservant calls out, “Number 26.”
Number 26 is a stalwart country bumpkin in a russet suit, who, after entering the studio, is asked if he desires his photograph on a card or on glass.
“I want those that cost twelve reals by the notice,” says he.
“Good. Sit down in that chair.”
“But it must be exactly like me; I give you warning.”
“You will see, sir.”
“And I must appear in the fancy dress I wear at home in our village for the Carnival.”
“Have you brought it with you?”
“No; ought I to have?”
“Most certainly.”
“Take me now, and the first time I come to Madrid again I’ll bring the dress.”
“Impossible!”
“Well, I am surprised; to think that....”
“Come, come, it’s getting late, and other people are waiting for me.” [Exit bumpkin.
“Number 27.”
“Viaje crítico alrededor de la Puerta del Sol.”
M. Ossorio y Bernard.