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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b0059a5 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63618 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63618) diff --git a/old/63618-0.txt b/old/63618-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 493db82..0000000 --- a/old/63618-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6650 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Little House in War Time, by -Agnes Castle and Egerton Castle - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: A Little House in War Time - -Author: Agnes Castle - Egerton Castle - -Illustrator: Charles Robinson - -Release Date: November 3, 2020 [EBook #63618] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE HOUSE IN WAR TIME *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, Paul Clark and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - -A LITTLE HOUSE IN WAR TIME - - - - - TO THE - REV. ST. GEORGE K. HYLAND, D.D. - “_Guide, philosopher, and friend_” - -_September, 1915_ - -[Illustration: _The Little House_ - -CHARLES ROBINSON] - - - - - A LITTLE HOUSE - IN WAR TIME - - BY - AGNES AND EGERTON CASTLE - - AUTHORS OF - “THE STAR-DREAMER,” “INCOMPARABLE BELLAIRS,” - “OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN,” ETC. - - - “God gave all men all earth to love, - But, since our hearts are small, - Ordained for each one spot should prove - Beloved over all; - That, as He watched Creation’s birth, - So we, in God-like mood, - May of our love create our earth - And see that it is good.” - - RUDYARD KIPLING - - - NEW YORK - E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY - 681 FIFTH AVENUE - 1916 - - - - - PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - A FOREWORD vii - - I. THE VILLINO IS PINCHED 1 - - II. OUR LITTLE BIT 29 - - III. OUR MINISTERING ANGELS 62 - - IV. “CONSIDER THE LILIES” 92 - - V. DEATH IN THE LITTLE GARDEN 119 - - VI. BABIES: CHINESE AND OTHERS 141 - - VII. OUR GARDEN IN JUNE 163 - - VIII. OUR BLUE-COAT BOYS 191 - - IX. IT’S A FAR CRY TO PERSIA 217 - - X. A THREE DAYS’ CHRONICLE 244 - - - - -A FOREWORD - - “... thoughts by England given; - Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; - And laughter learnt of friends; and gentleness, - In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.” - - RUPERT BROOKE. - - -A little chronicle of a great time may have an interest of its own -quite incommensurate from its intrinsic worth. These pages do not -pretend to any merit beyond faithfulness; but they are the true record -of the everyday life of an average family during the first year of -the war of wars; what we have felt, what we have seen; the great -anxieties; the trivial incidents and emotions which have been shared -by thousands of our fellow-countrymen. This home has been so far -exceptional that it has had few hostages to give to fortune, and that -it has mercifully been spared the supreme sacrifice demanded with such -tragic universality, and given with such a glorious resignation: but, -infinitesimal pulse, it has beaten with the great arteries, the whole -mighty heart of the British Empire. - -Annals enough there are, and will be, of the soul-stirring events -of 1914: the proud rise of the nation, its struggles, its failures, -its appalling blunders, and the super-heroism that has saved the -consequences. If Armageddon be not the end of the world; if there be -generations coming after to carry the sheaves of that seed sown with -blood and tears to-day, there will be no dearth of evidence to enable -our children’s children to feed upon the story of England’s glory. They -will be able to read and learn and look back, out of the peace won for -them, to examples almost beyond the conception of idealism. Should, -by some freak of chance, this humble book survive, it may not then be -without an interest of its own. - -This was how the quiet stay-at-home family felt and thought in the days -of the titanic conflict; these were the little things that happened in -a little country house. No great moral lesson certainly, no revelation -of out-of-the-way philosophy; just the way we hoped and feared; the way -we still laughed and talked, gardened and worked, the way we were led -on from day to day and made to find, after all, what seemed unbearable, -bearable, brought to see light where there was apparently no issue. - -Being, as we say--so far--singularly unstricken in the midst of -so much mourning, we have been able to enjoy the lighter side of -existence, the humours, the quaintnesses, which relieve, blessedly for -poor humanity, the most complicated and the most desperate situations. -Perhaps, therefore, these random jottings, turned, many of them, to -the lighter side of life, may, in some stray hour of relaxation, amuse -here and there one actively engaged in the stern actions which the time -demands. Perhaps the breath of the garden may be grateful to a mind -upon which the wind from the trenches has blown so long. - -There is a great deal of laughter about our country, even now. The -troops go singing down the roads in the early dawn, and come tramping -back to camp, with tired feet, but with joking tongues, after the long -days. We know there is much laughter in the fighting-line; innocent, -childish pleasantries, catchwords that run with grins from lip to lip. -There is no laughter so genuine as that which springs from a good -conscience. And so there is laughter in the hospitals also, thank God! - -We trust our pages may add a little mirth more to the gallant spirit -abroad; beguile the fancy of one wounded man, or the oppression of one -anxious heart. Then, indeed, they will not have been written in vain. - -Would only that through them we could convey an impression of the -surroundings in which we write; would we could bring our readers the -atmosphere of these Surrey heights; of the rolling moorland, of the -winds, sweet with heather, aromatic with the pine-woods, charged with -the garden scents that blow about us; then truly would they find -refreshment! Would we could show them our terraced borders where -now the roses are breaking into wonderful bloom, pink, crimson, -cream, fire-carmine, and yellow; where the delphiniums are arrayed, -noble phalanxes in every shade of enamel blue and purple--spires -marshalled together like some fantastic cathedral town, viewed in -impossible moonlight, out of a Doré dream; where the canterbury bells -are beginning to shake out their cups, tinted like the colours in a -child’s paint-box; and the campanulas, with their tones of mountain -wildness--of snow and blue distance--bring coolness into the hotter -tints of the border. - -We look down on this July richness from the small white house with -its green blinds, which, though compact, round-windowed, comfortably -Georgian, has yet an absurd Italian look. - -On the upper terrace wall the ornamental pots, each with its little -golden cypress, begin to foam with lobelia and creeping geranium; -between two clumps of cypress-trees, Verocchio’s little smiling boy -grips his fish against a tangle of blush rambler. And that’s a bit of -Italy for you, even with the ultimate vision of wild moor! - -The terraces run down the hill, tier below tier. On the other side of -the valley the woods rise between the shouldering heather-clad hills, -to the east; the wide, long view spreads to the south-west, where the -hills begin to lift again, and distant pine-woods march across the sky. - -Would we could but give to mere words the sense of altitude, of great -horizons which our high-perched position gives us! - -“You’re in a kind of eyrie,” says one visitor. And another: “Oh, I do -like all this sky! It’s so seldom one really gets the sky about one.” - -“You have,” said an exile--an old Belgian religious--after tottering -solemnly along the terrace walk, “you have here an earthly paradise. A -spot God has wonderfully blessed.” - -Besides the startling contrasts and the fairness of its prospect, the -little place has a special charm of its own, which is not possible to -describe, yet which everyone feels who comes within its precincts. -We quite wait for the phrase now, upon the lips of guests under the -red-tiled roof: “It’s so extraordinarily peaceful.” - -Peace! Peace in the midst of the boom of the war tocsin, echoing all -round! Peace, in spite of the newspapers, the letters, the rumours, the -perpetual coming and going of troops, the distant reverberations of gun -practice, the never-relaxing grip of apprehension! Yes, in spite of all -the world being at war--there is peace in the Villino. - -Some of us believe it wells out from a little chamber, where, before -the golden shrine, the Donatello angels hold up never-extinguished -lamps. Or a visitor may say wonderingly: “I think it must be because -you’re all so united.” Or, perhaps, as the old monk had it, there is an -emanation from the place itself: so beautiful a spot of God’s earth, so -high up, so apart between the moor and the valley! Whatever the reason, -we wish that some of the peace that lingers here may reach out from -these pages, and touch with serenity any unquiet heart or restless -spirit that comes their way. - -And since the soldiers we have written about wanted toys, like sick -children, their mascot to hug--here comes a procession of our little -fur folk walking vividly before your mental eye. - -Here is Loki, the first and oldest of the pets. Loki, growing grey -about the muzzle, elderly already by reason of his six years of life; -with his immense coat, tawny, tufted, plumed, fringed; with his -consequential gait; his “quangley” ways: so easily offended, in his own -strong sense of dignity; with his over-loving heart; his half-human, -half-lion eyes; Loki, with his clockwork regularity of habit; his -disdainful oblivion, except on certain rare occasions, of the smaller -fur fry; Loki, making windmill paws to the Master of the Villino, till -he has succeeded in dragging him away from his pipe and his arm-chair -for a walk on the moors; or yet frantically and mutely imploring the -mystified visitor to go away and cease from boring him. - -And here is Mimosa, the most Chinese of little ladies, hued like a ripe -chestnut, with dark orbs so immense and protuberant as almost to seem -to justify the legend that Pekinese will drop their eyes about if you -don’t take care. Very sleek and sinuous and small is she, a creature -of moods and freaks, fastidious to the point of never accepting a meal -with the other dogs; with all kinds of tricksy, pretty ways of play, -shrilly barking and dancing for bread pills, which she will fling in -the air and catch again, throw over her shoulder and waltz round to -pounce upon, more like a kitten than a little dog. - -And the puppy, Loki’s own contemned daughter, the colour of a -young lion cub--the puppy, with her irrepressible enthusiasms, her -unsnubbable demonstrations, her “pretty paws,” her coal-black muzzle, -her innocent countenance--“Plain Eliza”--whose heart, like her -father’s, is so much too big and tender and faithful, that happening -the other day to see, over the garden hedge, a member of the family in -whose house she was born, she rent the air with such shrieks of ecstasy -that the whole Villino establishment rushed to the spot, thinking she -was being murdered. - -Then there is Arabella, the lavrock setter. “Perverse, precise, -unseasonable Pamela,” cries Mr. B. in Richardson’s celebrated novel, -when having pursued the virtuous damsel to her last refuge, she not -unnaturally misunderstands the purport of his next advance. - -When she does understand she exclaims: “Mr. B. is the noblest of men, -he has offered me marriage.” - -To come back to Arabella. We wish we could find a union of epithets -as telling as that of Mr. B. in the exasperation of his conscious -rectitude. Inane, inert, inconvenient Arabella, fairly well describes -our sentiments towards her. She is a bore and a burden. She feels the -heat and goes out and takes mud-baths, and comes in and shakes herself -in the drawing-room. She cannot understand why she should not lie in -our laps as well as the puppies. She howls mournfully outside the -kitchen door unless she is invited in to assist in the cooking. She has -destroyed three arm-chair covers in the servants’ hall, preferring that -resting-place to her basket. “Fond” is the word that might best be used -to qualify our feelings towards her. We don’t know what to do with her, -but we should not like to be without her. - -Then there is the black Persian, “Bunny,” our kind dead Adam’s cat. You -will meet him circling round the garden. He will raise his huge bushy -tail when he sees you, and fix his inscrutable amber eyes upon you, -questioningly. Then he will pass on with a soundless mew. He is looking -for his master, and you can watch him slink away, superb, stealthy, -pursuing his fruitless quest. - -The fur children come first, being the Villino’s own family, but -there are other kinds with us now. The little Belgians run about the -paths calling to each other with their quaint pattering intonation, -so that long before you hear the words you know by the sound of -the voices coming up the hill that these are the small exiles. -Brown-haired Marthe, with her childish ways and her serious mind, -her ripe southern-tinted face, and Philippe, with his shock of fine -hair, hazel-colour, cut medieval fashion, and his little throat, which -bears his odd picturesque head as a flower-stem its bloom. And sturdy -Viviane, stumping up with her solemn air, precisely naming the flowers -as she comes: - -“Sweet Will-li-yam! Del-phi-ni-um! Canterry bells!” - -Soon Thierry, the schoolboy, will be here too. The garden is full of -Easter holiday memories of him; a little perspiring boy, squaring a -tree-trunk with boxing-gloves five times too large for him, under the -grand-paternal tuition of the Master of the Villino. It would have been -difficult to say who was the more pleased, child or man. And Thierry -can box with a right good will; a very excellent little boy this, with -a bursting patriot’s heart under his shy, reserved ways. No doubt he -fancied he was hitting a German with each of those well-directed blows. - -It is nice to have the children about the Villino; and that they are -exiles adds pathos to the sound of their happy laughter in our ears, -and a tenderness to the pleasure with which our eyes watch their -unconscious gaiety. - -Perhaps, however, if anyone wanted to have a really poetic impression -of our little house, they should see it by moonlight, or--which, of -course, nobody does except by accident--in the summer dawn. Whether -it is because of an unconscious appreciation of the limits of our own -intellect, or whether from some inherent vulgarity, human nature is -prone to depreciate all that is laid out very plainly before it. We -demand mystery in everything if it is to mean beauty to us. - -Some such idea as this Mr. Bernard Shaw expresses--in one of -his uncanny leaps of the spirit out of his own destructive -philosophy--when he makes the Christian martyr retort to the Pagan who -accuses her of not understanding her God: “He wouldn’t be my God if I -could!” - -To pass from the infinite to the atom: when the Villino garden and its -prospects are but imperfectly revealed on a moonlight night the view, -with mystery added to its fairness, becomes wonderful in its loveliness. - -On such a night as this the valley holds mist in its bosom, and the -distant moor ridges in their pine-woods might be the Alps, for the air -of distance they assume, the remote dignity with which they withdraw -themselves, pale and ethereal, into the serene sky. It may be the moon -is rising over the great wooded hill in front of the Villino. The white -radiance pours full upon us. We know all that is revealed, and yet -all is different. Each familiar object has a strange and transfigured -face. The little cypress-trees, rimmed in silver, cast black shadows -on the grass, silver-cobwebbed. The great moors are exquisite ghost -wildernesses, their hollows full of cloudy secrets. And you can hear -the night-jar spinning out its monotonous, mysterious song, a song -which does not break the grand restfulness, but only accompanies it. -We have no running streams--there is nothing perfect here below, it is -a great want! But the song of the night-jar makes up a little for the -voice of water in the night-time. It is the hearing of some such sound, -lost in the turmoil of day, that emphasizes the incomparable silence. - -Our heights in the sunrise show once again a world transfigured; a -sparkling, coloured, other-worldly world. - - “Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day - Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.” - -The saffrons and yellows begin to gather over the moors, and the crests -of the hills and the tree-tops are tipped with light. Each flower has -its shimmering aureole; each has taken a hue never seen in the garish -fulness of the sunshine, enamel, stained-glass-window hues, difficult -to describe. There is a curious look of life about everything. It is -the exquisite hour of the earth, untroubled by man; garden and woods, -hill and valley, unfold their secrets to the sky and hold commune with -the dawn-angels. There is a freshness, a vividness, almost a surprise -about the world, as if all things were made new again. An immense -difference in the scene compared to the night’s grave mysteries. The -latter is a canto from the Divine Comedy as against Fra Angelico’s -dance of Paradise. And to this innocent joy of the waking earth -you have the songs of the birds. Some ecstatic thrush, or liquid -slow-chanting blackbird, will have begun the hymns at the first glimmer -of dawn, and hold the world spell-bound till the lesser chorus spreads -a tangled web of sound from end to end of the valley and the garden -heights, and the moor silence is reached. - -Morning after morning of this glorious summer of the war, the pageant -of sunrise marches, for those who have eyes to see, and night after -night the mystery gathers in the moonlight. All England holds some -such fair visions. Does it not seem a dream that it should be so? The -horror, the devastation, the noise, the fire, the bloodshed, the agony, -the struggle, only a couple of hundred miles away, are they the only -realities in this red year? To us in England’s heart, still mercifully -unwounded, these sometimes seem the dream, the dream of evil, and our -peace the reality. - -Dream, or reality, it is our peace we want to bring to you. - - - - -A LITTLE HOUSE IN WAR TIME - - - - -I - -THE VILLINO IS PINCHED - - “Prepare, prepare the iron helm of war, - Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb; - The Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands, - And casts them out upon the darkened earth! - Prepare, prepare!” - - W. BLAKE. - - -The most usual remark that people make after a visit to our little -house on the hill is this: “How peaceful!” - -Even in the ordinary course of life--those times that now seem -extraordinary to a world already accustomed to the universal -struggle--when everyone in England was in peace, except where their own -unquiet spirits may have marred it, even then this nest of ours seemed -peace within peace. We do not know now whether the contrast is not the -more acute. One of the thousands of homes dedicated to the quiet joys -and innocencies of life, where no one ever wanted to quarrel, because -all found the hours so full of sweet content, we do not flatter -ourselves that we are singular: only typical. The shadow of the great -cloud cast at first a hideous, unnatural darkness over our harmless -ways. - -All during the long golden summer, when we looked out across the moor -basking in the radiance; when our roses bloomed and the garden rioted -in colour, and the valley slowly turned from green to russet; when the -harvest-moon went up like a huge brass platter in silver skies, the -very beauty of it all clutched one’s heart the fiercer. How fares it -with our boys over there in the heat and the stress? How much worse it -must be for them that the sun should blaze upon them, marching, firing, -rushing forward, lying wounded, wanting water!... Oh, dear lads of -England, how we at home agonized with you! - -The little house, bought in a light-hearted hour, furnished with -infinite zest in happy days out of distant Rome, was a sort of toy to -us from the beginning; and kind friends surveyed it with indulgent -and amused, yet admiring, glances, such as one would bestow upon an -ingenious and pretty plaything. We called it the Villino, partly in -memory of the Italian sojourn, and partly because, though it is -bounded by wild moors, it contrives a quaintly Italianate air. It -stands boldly on the lip of the hill, and the garden runs down in -terraces to a deep valley. Across the valley to the east the moors -roll, curve upon curve. South, facing us, the trees begin their march; -and westward the valley spreads, rising into moors again, where again -the fir-trees sentinel the sky. The view from the terrace rather takes -your breath away. It is unexpected and odd, and unlike anything, except -Italy and Scotland mixed: the wildness, and the trim terraced garden -with its calculated groups of cypress, its vases brimming with flowers, -its stone steps, its secret bowery corners. - -“Mount Ecstasy” an artist friend has dubbed it. “Is it possible,” she -asked us in the middle of this radiant October of the war, “that the -wind ever blows here? Do you ever hear it shrieking round the house?” - -We gave her a vivid description of what the wind could do when it -liked; when it came up the valley with the rain on its wings. She -looked incredulous. - -“Is it possible?” she repeated softly. - -She had come straight from the great camp at Lyndhurst, where the 7th -Division, gallant as ill-fated, had gathered in all its lusty strength -before embarking for the bloody struggle in Flanders. She had just -said good-bye to her eldest son; the call of the bugle, the march -of thousands in unison, was in her ears; the vision of the crowded -transport vivid in her mind. Yet here she would not believe that even -the winds could break our peace. - -This was very much what we felt ourselves when the Storm burst; it was -incredible with this placidity all about us. - -One tries to think what it would be had the Villino sprung to life in -Belgian soil, or did the Hun succeed in landing, and come pouring, a -noxious tide, across our country roads, taking the poor little place -on its way. The first refugee from that heroic and devastated land who -found shelter here was very smiling and brave until she came out into -the garden. Then she began to cry. - -“I had such pretty flowers too.” - -All our moors are turning into camps; they grew like mushrooms in a -day, it seems. We hear the soldiers marching by in the dead of the -night, singing, poor boys! to give themselves heart--such nights, too, -as they are this autumn, deluged with rain and blown through with -relentless wind! We stand between two hospitals; and Belgian refugees -overflow in the villages. We read of the bombardment of the coast and -the dropping of bombs, and yet we do not realize. We still feel as in a -nightmare from which we must wake up. - -Yet the effects of war are beginning to stamp themselves, even in the -Villino and in its garden. We are, some of us, naturally inclined -to luxuries. The mistress of the Villino is certainly a spendthrift -where bulbs and tubers and seeds are concerned; and for three out of -the four years since she owned the little property, the spring garden -has justified impenitence. Oh! the crocuses running through the grass -of that third terrace called the Hemicycle! Oh! the scyllas making -miniature skies under the almond-trees! Oh! the tulips swaying jewel -chalices over the mists of blue forget-me-not: glories of the past, -this coming spring, how shall the garden miss you! - -It must be explained that our soil--green-sand--our -position--high-perched--our general tendency--sloping down-hill--make -us charmingly dry and healthy, but disagree with the bulb. It is -impossible to naturalize anything less hardy than the daffodil. The -snowdrop declines to live with us. Therefore our autumn bulb lists -were copious and varied, and the results ephemeral and lovely. This -year there has been no bulb list; who could think of this completely -personal and selfish gratification when it is the flower of our manhood -that is being mown down out yonder? when all that can be spared must be -spared to help! There is so little one can do, and so appallingly much -to be done. - -And inside, too, we are being pinched; not badly, not cruelly, but just -as if the war monster had reached out one of its myriad hands--quite a -small and rather weak one--and had hold of us, enough to nip, not to -strangle. - -It will not surprise any garden owner to learn that this is the year -of all others in which Adam, the Villino gardener, had an “accident” -with the cuttings, and that therefore those bushes of chrysanthemums, -which look so well on our grey and orange landings, have not been -forthcoming. Another year it would not have mattered. We should have -gaily replenished the Italian pots from the local nursery, where -chrysanthemums are a speciality. But as it is--we go without. - -In a hundred other items the nipping fingers produce the same -paralyzing result. The footman, who, we regret to say, gibbered at -the thought of enlisting, and avowed to a horrified kitchen circle -that he might perhaps be able to help to carry a wounded man, but face -a bullet--“Never, never!”--found his post untenable in a household -chiefly composed of the fair and patriotic sex. We conceived that the -times demanded of us to bring the garden-boy into the house, thus -reducing our establishment without inflicting hardship. - -Such, however, was not the opinion of Juvenal, our eccentric butler. -This strange being, from certain aspects of his character, might -have been, as the Italian prelate said of a distinguished Jesuit -preacher, “born in a volcano.” He is devoted to the dogs, and has a -genius for settling flowers; and he has become altogether so much a -part of the establishment--the _famiglia_--that the Villino would -lose half its charm without him. Nevertheless, he is volcanic! And -though at first he took the substitution of four-foot in buttons for -six-foot in livery with an angelic resignation, Vesuvius broke forth -with unparalleled vigour and frequency after a couple of weeks of the -regimen. Unfortunately, Juvenal is not sustained by patriotic ardour. -He deliberately avoids afflicting himself with thoughts about the war. -“I never could bear, miss, to see anything that was hurt! And as for -anything dying, miss, even if it was only a little animal--why, there, -I couldn’t as much as look at my poor old father!” Here is his point of -view as expressed tersely to the Signorina of the Villino. - -This being the case, he succeeds so thoroughly in blocking his mind -against all facts connected with war time (except the entertaining -of “a nice young fellow from the camp”) that he has found himself -injured to the core by our attempts at economy. And when it came to -our unexpectedly inviting a refugee lady into his dining-room, and his -having to lay three extra places for her and her children, the lava -overflowed into the upper regions. We with difficulty extricated “Miss -Marie” from the burning flood. - -We are all slightly overwrought these days, and instead of pretending -not to notice, which is the only possible way where Juvenal is -concerned, we suggested that he should look for another situation. -It would be difficult to say whether outraged feeling or amazement -predominated in him. Of course, we all deeply repented our hasty -action, and then ensued four uncomfortable weeks of cross purposes in -which neither side would “give in.” Finally the poor volcano departed -in floods of tears, with twenty-four bird-cages and a Highland terrier. - -“Don’t you take on, Mr. Juvenal,” said Mrs. MacComfort, the cook; -“you’ll be back in no time!” - -There ensued a dreadful interlude with an anæmic young butler unfit -for military service, who promptly developed toothache and a bilious -attack, and whom all the servants regarded as a spy for the convincing -reasons that he sat and rolled his eyes and said nothing. - -He was, however, non-volcanic, and placidly accepted Jimmy, the -promoted garden-boy. This was not reciprocal, for Jimmy, who displayed -a degree of conscientiousness, peculiar indeed in the light of -after-events, could not reconcile himself to the change. - -He would canter heavily, smothered to the chin in six-foot’s pantry -apron, into the drawing-room to announce with a burst of tears to the -young housekeeper: - -“Please, miss, ’e won’t suit! ’E won’t do nuthin’ I tell him! Oh, -please, miss, he’s putting the cups--the mistress’s own cup--in the -wrong cupboard, and”--with a howl--“he ain’t washed it, miss! And when -I tell him, ’e says it doesn’t matter!” - -We didn’t think he would suit, ourselves. We had all said so often that -Juvenal was perfectly dreadful, and couldn’t be endured another minute, -and every member of the _famiglia_ had so frequently declared with -tears that if Mr. Juvenal remained she could not possibly stay; she had -borne it as long as she could, not to make unpleasantness, but---- - -We were unanimous now in regrets. - -“God be with poor Juvenal!” said Mrs. MacComfort, the dear, soft-spoken -Irish cook; and added darkly: She wouldn’t like to be saying what she -thought of the new butler. - -However, _à quelque chose malheur est bon_, for had the following -incident taken place under Juvenal’s dog-loving eye, as Juvenal himself -subsequently remarked, there would certainly have been murder done. We -ourselves had been inclined to consider Jimmy an agreeable member of -the domestic circle. Nobody minded telling him to take out the dogs, no -matter how bad the weather was, and Jimmy always responded with that -smile of cheerful alacrity that so endeared him. - -The tale which is here narrated may seem irrelevant to the share which -the Villino has had to take in the universal and terrible cataclysm, -but nevertheless the incidents therein set forth directly issued from -it; and, in spite of a dash of comedy, they were tragic enough for -those chiefly concerned, namely, the youngest “fur-child” and Jimmy -himself. If we had not taken Jimmy into the house, Jimmy would not have -been told to walk the dogs; and if Jimmy had not walked the dogs, the -singular drama of the phantom dog-stealers and the baby Pekinese would -never have occurred. - -There were then three fur-children: Arabella, the Lavroch -setter--lovely, dull, early Victorian, worthy creature; Loki, -the beloved, chief of all the little dumb family, first in our -affections--a quaint, saturnine, very Chinese little gentleman, with -crusty and disconcerting ways, and almost a human heart; and Mimi, the -heroine of this adventure--Mimosa on solemn occasions--really a beauty, -with all the engaging Pekinese oddities and that individuality of -character which each one seems to possess; spoilt, imperious, vivid! - -It was a very wet day, and Jimmy had been ordered to don his master’s -mackintosh cape and take the fur-children up the moor. The first -peculiar incident was that Mimi ran three times headlong from his -guardianship. As fast as she was coaxed down one stairs she was up the -other, with her tail between her legs. It might have made us pause, -but it didn’t. We said: “Poor Mimi doesn’t like getting her feet wet.” -Anyone who had heard the boy cooing to his charges in tones of the most -dulcet affection would have been as dense as we were. - -That evening the dark adventure took place. Jimmy came running into the -kitchen, more incredibly mud-encrusted than any living creature outside -an alligator is ever likely to be again; and, bursting into loud wails, -declared that he had been set upon by two men and robbed of Mimi. - -“Run, run,” cried Mrs. MacComfort, “and tell the master!” - -Jimmy ran, working himself up as he went, so that it was what our -Irish nurse used to call “roaring and bawling” that he rushed into the -library and poured out his dreadful news. The master dashed in pursuit -of the miscreants, led by the hero, who cantered him uphill a good -half-mile. He was followed by the cook and her Cinderella, valiantly -brandishing sticks. Having reached the post-office, the chase was given -up, and the master of the Villino was returning dejectedly when a -yapping behind the hedge that skirted the road was recognized by Mrs. -MacComfort as unmistakably Mimi’s voice. - -Mimi was extracted, none the worse for her emotions, but with the -remnants of a torn pocket-handkerchief tied round her neck. - -Whether it was the abnormal layers of mud on Jimmy’s countenance; or -the curious fact that, in spite of the horrible treatment which he -vowed had been inflicted upon him in a hand-to-hand struggle with -two men, under the mud there was not a scratch upon his ingenious -countenance; or whether it was that, although the conflict was supposed -to have taken place within our own courtyard, no sound reached anyone -in the house--there and then Jimmy’s master came to this conclusion: “I -believe he’s made it all up.” But he didn’t say so. The boy was only -cross-examined. - -“Why didn’t you shout?” asked Mrs. MacComfort. - -“I couldn’t. They stuffed something soft into my throat--a handkerchief, -I think it was.” - -“Where did you get all that mud?” asked the gardener next morning. “You -never picked that up in here. You couldn’t, not if you’d scraped the -ground.” - -It was then that Jimmy discovered that the assault had taken place -outside the gates. - -Jimmy’s mistress questioned him next, and she instantly saw that he was -lying. To point the moral and adorn the tale she sent for the policeman. - -“Why didn’t you ’oller?” said the policeman. - -Jimmy’s knees shook together. - -“I couldn’t ’oller,” he maintained doggedly. “They’d stuffed something -down me throat.” - -“Oh, indeed!” said the policeman. “Maybe it was this ’ankercher, was -it?” - -He produced a dreadful rag that had been picked up on the road. It -fitted neatly with the other rag that had been round Mimi’s neck: awful -_pièces de conviction_! - -“I say it’s your ankercher. Don’t go for to deny it. I say it’s your -ankercher; I ’appen to know it’s your ankercher. I say you did it all -yerself!” - -When a six-foot, black-moustached policeman, with boring eye, rolls out -such an accusation in tremendous crescendo, what can a little criminal -do but collapse? Jimmy collapsed. It was his ankercher. He ’ad done it. -There never ’ad been no men. He never ’ad been knocked down. He ’ad -rolled in the mud on purpose, in the ditch where it was thickest. He -’ad tried to ’urt Mimi. - -“Why?--why?--why?” - -Even our local Sherlock Holmes couldn’t extract anything like a -plausible reason. Loki’s mistress had to piece one together for herself. - -Jimmy hadn’t liked taking the dogs out on a wet day. He had therefore -planned to strangle Mimi and throw her over the hedge, believing that -if he showed himself unable to protect the dogs he would not be sent -out with them any more. - -The two immediate results of this event, extraordinary indeed in the -annals of the Villino, where a St. Francis-like love of our little fur -and feather brothers and sisters dominates, was the prompt restoration -of Jimmy to the arms of Mrs. Mutton, his washerwoman mamma, and the -summoning of Juvenal to the telephone. He was staying with his brother, -a postmaster. We communicated the awful attempt. Juvenal averred, on -the other side of the wire, that you could have knocked him down with -a feather. Having thus re-established communications, we wrote, and, -tactfully cloaking our own undignified yearnings with the innocence of -the fur-children, we told him that the dogs missed him very much. He -was swift to seize the “paw of friendship,” and, following our artful -lead, responded by return of post that Betty had been “that fretted,” -he did not know what to do with her--“_wine_ she did from morning till -night!” - -It was obvious that anyone with a grain of decent feeling must -instantly remedy such a state of affairs. Juvenal returned with the -twenty-four bird-cages and Betty the terrier. - -We have compounded with an assistant parlourmaid; it is by no means -an economy, but four-foot in buttons is in such demand that Jimmy is -irreplaceable. - -After all, so little has that war-pinch nipped us, that, if it was -not to laugh at them, one would be ashamed to set these infinitesimal -bruises down at all. And, thank God! now one can laugh a little again; -the days are gone by when it seemed as if every small natural joy had -been squeezed out of life, that existence itself was one long nightmare -of apprehension. - -We do not yet know what the future may have in store for us; but, pray -heaven, those mornings may never dawn again when one could scarcely -open the paper for the beating of one’s heart. - -It is not, we hope, that we are accustomed to agony, though no doubt -there is something of habit that takes the edge off suspense and grief. -We are also better prepared; we have got, as it were, into our second -wind, and we are, after our English fashion, perhaps even a little more -determined than we were to start with. When it all began, with what -seemed merely an insensate crime in a half-civilized country, no one -would have thought that England, much less our little house, would be -affected. Though, indeed, personally, the murder of the Archduchess -touched the mistress of the Villino a little more nearly than most, -for as children they had played together. It was, and is, a very vivid -memory. - -She and her sisters had been brought to Brussels for their education, -and Sophie was one of the youngest, if not the last, in the nursery -of the Austro-Hungarian Legation in that city. The Chotek family used -to come to the _parc_; a tribe of quaint, fair-haired children. They -wore short black velvet coats and caps, and plaid skirts, rather long. -The Signora can see little Sophie before her now; a Botticelli angel, -with an aureole of fair curls, silver-gold, standing out all round her -small, pale, delicate face; a serious child, with lustrous eyes and -immense black lashes, and a fine, curling mouth. She thought her lovely -and longed to cuddle her, with the maternal instinct early developed. - -“Have you much sister?” said the tiny Austrian, addressing her English -friend upon their introduction with great solemnity. - -Who could have thought what a destiny lay before her, and in what a -supreme act of self-devotion the soul, already luminous in that frail, -exquisite little envelope, was to pass away? We have been told on some -excellent authority that she was not popular in her anomalous position, -at least in her own class. But her singular romance nevertheless was -crowned by so true a married happiness that it can leave one in no -doubt that she was worthy of the sacrifice made for her by the Imperial -heir. He was--it is no uncharity to mention so well-known a fact--a -man of bad life; she was his mother’s lady-in-waiting, appointed to -that post because of destitution, no longer in the first freshness -of her youth, supposed to be a person of small significance--one of -those colourless shadows that haunt the chairs of the great. But she -captivated the most important Prince in her country, barring the -Emperor; and, what is more, her spell never lost its power. To that -last breath, which, greatly favoured in their awful tragedy, they drew -together, they adored each other. She made of him a model husband, a -model father, a man of rectitude and earnestness. They had children, -and these were all their joy. It was one of the reproaches cast upon -her by the indignant royalties of the Vienna Court that the Duchess of -Hohenberg was so economical she would go down to her kitchen and see -the things given out. If she wanted to save money, it was for those -children, cut off from their natural inheritance by the cast-iron laws -that debarred their mother from a share in her husband’s rank. - -An invited guest at the wedding of the present young hereditary -Archduke to the Princess Zita has given us a description of an incident -which well illustrates the treatment which the non-royal wife of the -Heir Apparent received at the hands of her royal relatives. When the -Duchess of Hohenberg entered, her long, narrow train caught in some -projecting obstacle as she swept up the little chapel. The place was -full of Archdukes and Archduchesses, in their wedding attire. Not one -of these high-born beings budged. Each looked straight at the altar, -absorbed in pious prayer. The ostracized lady had to disengage herself -as best she could, and advance, blushing hotly, to her appointed -place, unescorted. A few minutes after a belated Archduchess, entering -swiftly, met with the same mishap. Instantly she was surrounded with -politely assisting Hoheiten. - -The friend to whom we owe the anecdote remarked that it had been “a -dreadful moment,” and that one could not help feeling sorry for the -poor Duchess. But it is to be remarked that she herself--delightful, -cultivated, large-minded creature though she was--had been among the -stony ones, and there had even been a glint of pleasure in her eyes -under the compassion as she told the story. - -Sophie was of those who are hated; but, after all, what did it matter? -Was she not loved? - -Our daughter’s Hungarian godmother--a most fairy and entrancing lady, -with all the spirit of her race under the appearance of a French -Marquise--like most Magyars, championed the cause of one whom they -intended to make their future Queen. She gave us a pretty account of -the great pleasure it was to the common people in Vienna to watch their -Archduke and his wife at the theatre. They sat in the royal box, not -formally, one at each end, as is the etiquette, but close, so close -that everyone knew they were holding each other’s hands. They would -look into each other’s faces with smiles, to share the interest and joy -of what they beheld and heard. So the lesser folk were fond of her, -though the fine Court circle could not forgive. - -When she went to Berlin, the astute William received her with a -tremendous parade of honour, which made him very popular with the -Archduke, as well as with the multitude that espoused his cause. -But it was only a hollow show of recognition after all--a banquet -elaborately arranged with little round tables, so as to avoid any -question of precedence under the cloak of the most friendly intimacy. -Our simpler-minded court had to decline her visit at the Coronation on -account of this same difficulty of precedence. Whatever might be done -in Austria, this was insulting from England. “But she is of better -family than many of your royalties,” said a Bohemian magnate to us -across the table at a dinner-party, his blue eyes blazing. “She is of -very good family. She is”--tapping his capacious shirt-front with a -magnificent gesture--“she is related to me!” - -The petty malice of those whose prerogatives had been infringed pursued -her to her bloodstained and heroic grave. To the last she was denied -all those dignities which appertained to her husband’s rank. Her -morganatic dust could not be allowed to commingle with that of royalty -in the Imperial vault. The two who had loved beyond etiquette were -given a huddled and secret midnight funeral; and beside the Archduke’s -coffin, covered with the insignia of his state, that of his wife was -marked only by a pair of white kid gloves and a fan. - -Such a pitiful triumph of tyranny over the majestic dead! Horrible -juxtaposition of the ineptitude of pomposity and the most royal of -consummations! Sophie and her mate must have smiled upon it from their -enfranchisement. - -Perhaps if the doomed pair had not yielded themselves to those Berlin -blandishments their fate might have been less tragic. There are -sinister rumours as to whose hand really fired the revolver. We in -England to-day may well have come to believe that those whom the -Kaiser most smiles upon are his chosen victims. The laborious grin of -the crocodile to the little fishes is nothing to it; but England is -rather a big mouthful. - -Already one is able to say that any death has been merciful which has -spared an Austrian the sight of his country’s dissolution. We are glad -that our fairy godmother has not lived to have her heart torn between -England, her adopted country, and her passionately loved Hungary. - -The cloud no bigger than a man’s hand in the clear sky--shadow of -the mailed fist--we looked at it from over here with that stirring -of surface emotions that is scarcely unpleasant! How horrible! we -said. How wicked, how cruel! The little bloodstained cloud! it hung -in horizons too far off to menace our island shores. We were very -sorry for the old Emperor, pursued to the last, it seemed, by the -inexplicable, unremitting curse. “I have been spared nothing,” he is -reported to have said when the news of the Archduke’s murder was broken -to him. Was he then in his own heart sheltering the deadly spark that -was to kindle the whole world? We thought of the playmate of Brussels -days with a romantic regret, and envied her a little. Since one must -die, what a good way it was to go with one’s only beloved! And then, in -the full summer peace, the clouds suddenly massed themselves, darkened, -and spread. - -“Austrian Ultimatum to Servia! World’s Peace Threatened!” so read the -newspaper headlines, like the mutter of thunder running from pole to -pole. We saw without conviction. It seemed too inconceivable that such -a crime could be committed in our century; and the folly of it too -manifest in face of the Slav menace. And next came the crack and the -lightning glare--hideous illumination over undreamt-of chasms! - -Will any of us ever forget that Saturday to Monday? War was declared -on Russia; war on France. Luxemburg territory was violated, and rumour -raced from one end of England to the other: “We are going to stand -aside; the peace party is too strong!... We are not bound by deed to -France, only by an understanding. England means to let her honour go -down on a quibble....” - -We had guests in the house--a brother, retired after hard service in -the army; a slow-spoken, gentle-eyed man of law, who hid the fiercest -fire of British pugnacity under this deliberately meek exterior. They -were both pessimistic, the soldier angrily so in his anxiety. “I’ll -never lift my head again in England!--I’ll never go into a foreign -country again! I’d be ashamed!--Upon my word, I’ll emigrate!” - -And the other gloomily: “From my experience of this Government, it’s -sure to do the worst possible thing. I haven’t the least hope.” - -In our own hearts we had resolved, with the soldier, that we would give -up home and country. Our thoughts turned to Canada. - -The relief was proportionate to the hideousness of the doubt. What -though the cloud had spread and spread till it reached right across the -sky, there was brilliant sunshine over England--the light of honour. - -Two ardent young patriots had visited us unexpectedly in their car that -Sunday night. They brought small items of consolation. They had been -to Portsmouth. It was ready for war. Fixed bayonets gleamed at every -corner; the port was closed. Both these youths were full of martial -plans. One was hurrying to the London Scottish, the other northwards -to put all affairs in order before joining too. The London Scottish boy -obligingly kept us _au courant_ of the turn of events by telephone. -During the length of Sir Edward Grey’s speech perverted extracts -reached us and plunged us into ever deeper gloom: “We are only to -intervene if French ports are bombarded....” - -Then at midnight on Monday the bell rang. “Belgian neutrality had been -violated; general mobilization was ordered.” It was war. And we slept -on the tidings with a strange peace. - -Perhaps the universal feeling was most impressively voiced by a -Franciscan monk, who said to us later (during the agonizing suspense -between Mons and the Marne): “Nothing can be so bad as those days when -we did not know what the Government would do. Whatever happens now, -nothing can compare to that. Shall I ever forget how we prayed?” - -Little Brothers of Peace and Poverty, humble, self-despoiled servants -of the rule most rigid in its tenderness, clamouring at the throne -of God for a thing of pride, a priceless possession--their country’s -honour! Paradox can scarcely go further, it would seem. Yet, even -before Mr. Chesterton pointed it out, most of us had long ago accepted -the fact that the deeper the truth the more breathless the paradox. Is -there an Englishman among us who would lift his voice to-day against -the sacred precept: _He that loses his life shall save it_? - - - - -II - -OUR LITTLE BIT - - “‘J’entends des paroles amies - Que je ne comprends pas. - Je me sens loin, bien loin, de la patrie.... - D’où vient que ces voix me semblent familières?’ - ‘Mon père, nous sommes en Angleterre.’” - - CAMMAERTS. - - -It is frequently said in letters from the front, by the officer -praising his men, or _vice versa_: “A dozen things are being done every -day that deserve the Victoria Cross.” But if you speak to one of these -heroes of their own deeds, you will invariably get the same answer: “I -just did my little bit.” - -How immense a satisfaction it must be to feel you’ve done your little -bit! And how out of it are the stay-at-homes! Yet we also have our part -to play--infinitesimal in comparison, but still, we hope, of use--the -minute fragment that may be wanted in the fitting together of the great -jigsaw puzzle. - -Our first little bit at the Villino when we woke to activity after -the stunning of the blow, was obviously to house refugees. We wrote -to a friend prominent among the receiving committee, and offered, -as a beginning, to undertake twelve peasants out of the thousands of -unfortunates flying from the face of the Hun. From that charming but -harassed lady we received a grateful acceptance, announcing the arrival -of our families that afternoon--hour to be fixed by telegram. We -feverishly prepared for their reception. We were ready to shelter five; -kind neighbours proposed to take in the other seven. We had a fleet -of motor-cars in readiness, and Mrs. MacComfort, our cook, concocted -large jars of coffee and other articles of food likely to be relished -of the Belgian palate. No telegram arrived; but to make up for it, our -telephone rang ceaselessly with anxious inquiries from the assisting -neighbours--inquiries which very naturally became rather irate as the -hours went by, while we took upon ourselves the apologies of the guilty. - -Next day we ventured to address an inquiry to the harassed lady. That -was Saturday. On Monday we received a distraught telegram: “Will wire -hour of train.” It reminded us of the overdriven shop-assistant in the -middle of a seething Christmas crowd: “Will attend to you in a minute, -madam.” We felt the desire to oblige; but it left us just where we were -before. - -On Wednesday an unknown Reverend Mother telegraphed from an unknown -convent: “Are you prepared to receive two Belgian families five o’clock -to-day?” - -This message was supplemented by another from an equally unknown Canon -of Westminster Cathedral: “Sending twelve Belgians to-day. Please meet -four-twenty train.” - -We had scarcely time to clutch our hair, for it was already past three -when a third despatch reached us, unsigned, from Hammersmith: “Two -Belgian ladies seven children arriving this afternoon five-five train. -Please attend station.” - -The question was, were we to expect twelve or thirty-six? - -We rang up the devoted neighbours. We increased our preparations -for refreshment. We spread out all the excellent cast-off garments -collected for the poor destitutes; and we “attended” at the first train. - -Before proceeding any further with the narration of our thrilling -experiences, we may mention that eighteen Belgians appeared in all, -whom we succeeded in housing after singular developments; the most -unexpected people showing a truly Christian charity, while others, -ostentatiously devoted to good works, bolted their doors and hearts -upon the most frivolous excuse. - -A neighbour of ours, in precarious health, with a large family, a son -lost in Germany, a son-in-law at the front, and an infant grandchild -in the nursery, would, we think, have given every room and bed in her -house to the exiles. - -“Only, please, do let me have a poor woman with a baby,” she said. “I’d -love to have something to play with our little Delia.” - -Another, a widow lady, with a large house and staff of servants to -match, and unlimited means, was horrified at the idea of admitting -peasants anywhere within her precincts; and as to a small child--“I -might be having the visit of a grand-nephew, and he might catch -something,” she declared down the telephone, in the tone of one who -considers her reason beyond dispute. - - * * * * * - -About five-thirty the Villino opened its portals to its first refugees. -The two ladies with the seven children were fed, and half the party -conveyed farther on, we undertaking a mother and three children, -under three, and a sprightly little _bonne_. The Villino is a small -house, and we had prepared for peasant women. A bachelor’s room and -a gay, double-bedded attic--it has a paper sprawling with roses and -big windows looking across the valley--were what we had permanently -destined for the sufferers. Matters were not facilitated by discovering -that our guests belonged to what is called in their own land the -high-burgherdom; and that they, on their side, had been told to expect -in us the keepers of a “family pension.” - -We do not know whether the unknown Church dignitary, the mysterious -Lady Abbess, or the nameless wirer from Hammersmith were responsible -for the mistake. We do not think it can have been our high-minded but -harassed friend of the Aldwych, as some six weeks later we received -a secretarial document from that centre of activity, asking whether -it was true that we had offered to receive Belgians, and if so: what -number and what class would we prefer to attend to? By that time, we -may mention, we had been instrumental in establishing about sixty of -every variety in the environs. - -However, we had reason not to regret the misunderstanding which brought -Madame Koelen under our roof. - -It was “Miss Marie,” the Villino’s Signorina, who went down to meet -her, accompanied by those kindly neighbours. Madame Koelen descended -from the railway-carriage in tears. - -“Poor young thing,” we said, “it is only natural she must be -heart-broken--flying from her home with her poor little children!” - -The first bombardment of Antwerp had been the signal for a great exodus -from that doomed city. - -“We were living in cellars, _n’est-ce pas?_ and it was not good for the -children, _vous savez_, so my husband said: ‘You must go, _vite, vite_; -the last boats are departing.’ We had not half an hour to pack up.” - -It was a piteous enough spectacle. She had a little girl not three, -another not two, and a three-months-old baby which she was nursing. -We thought of the poor distracted husband and father; and the forlorn -struggle on the crowded boat; and the dreadful landing on unknown -soil, herded together as they were, poor creatures! like a huddled -flock of sheep; and our hearts bled. - -Towards evening, however, when calm settled down again on the -astonished Villino, and Madame Koelen, having left her children asleep, -was able to enjoy Mrs. MacComfort’s choice little dinner, she became -confidential to the young daughter of the house. She began by telling -us that we must not imagine that because a name had a German sound that -her husband’s family had the remotest connection with the land of the -Bosch. On the contrary, he was of Italian extraction; descended, in -fact, from no less a race than the Colonnas! Having thus established -her credentials, she embarked on long rambling tales of the flight, -copiously interlaced with the name of an Italian gentleman; “a friend -of my husband”; a certain Monsieur Mérino. - -“When my husband was putting us on the _remorqueur_ at Flushing, we saw -him standing on the quay, _vous savez_, and then he said, _n’est-ce -pas_: ‘Ah, Mérino, are you going to England? Then look after my wife!’” - -And Monsieur Mérino had been so good, and Monsieur Mérino had amused -the children, and Monsieur Mérino was so anxious to know how they were -established, and Monsieur Mérino would probably come down to see for -himself, and Monsieur Mérino was so droll! - -We are very innocent people, and we accepted Monsieur Mérino in all -good faith. We announced ourselves as happy to receive him; we were -touched by his solicitude. Madame Koelen had surprisingly cheered, but -there was yet a cloud upon her brow. - -“Still,” she said, “I do not think it was right of my cousin to have -accepted to dine alone with Monsieur Mérino, and to have passed the -night in London in the same hotel with only her little brother to -chaperon her--a child of eight, _n’est-ce pas?_--and she only eighteen, -_vous savez_, and expected in Brighton.” - -We quite concurred. Monsieur Mérino’s halo grew slightly paler in our -eyes. Monsieur Mérino ought not to have asked her, we said, with great -propriety. - -Madame Koelen exploded. - -“Ah, if you had seen the way she went on with him on the boat! She was -all the time trying to have a flirt with him. Poor Monsieur Mérino! -and God knows what _blague_ she has told him, for he was never at the -station to see us off, and he had promised to be there, _n’est-ce pas?_ -Oh, I was so angry! _Cette Jeanne_, she prevented him! I cried all the -way down in the train.” - -Certainly she had been crying when we first beheld her; and we who had -thought!---- - -Madame Koelen was a handsome, sturdy creature, who would have made the -most splendid model for anyone wishing to depict a _belle laitière_. -Short, deep-chested, and broad-hipped, her strong, round neck supported -a defiant head with masses of blue-black hair; she had a kind of frank -coarse beauty--something the air of a young heifer, only that heifers -have soft eyes, and her eyes, bright brown, were hard and opaque; -something the air of a curious child, with a wide smile that displayed -faultless teeth, and was full of the joy of life; the kind of joy the -milkmaid would appreciate! We could quite understand that Monsieur -Mérino should find her attractive. - -Before the next day had elapsed we began to understand her view of -the situation also. Like so many other Belgian women whom we have -known, she had been married practically from the convent, only to pass -from one discipline to another. The husband in high-burgherdom, as -well as in the more exalted class, likes to pick out his wife on the -very threshold of the world, so that he can have the moulding of her -unformed nature; so that no possible chance can be afforded her of -drawing her own conclusions on any subject. The horizon of the Belgian -_nouvelle-mariée_ is rigidly bound by her home, and the sole luminary -in her sky is her husband. She must bask on his smiles, or not at all. -And if the weather be cloudy, she must resign herself and believe -that rain is good for the garden of her soul. Presently the lesser -luminaries appear in the nursery, and then her cup of happiness is -indeed full; the fuller the happier! - -“_Il ne me lâche pas d’une semelle!_” said an exasperated little lady -to us one day, referring to the devoted companionship of a typical -husband. - -No wonder, when Monsieur Mérino flashed across the widening horizon of -Madame Koelen with comet-like brilliancy, that the poor little woman -should be thrilled and dazzled. - -When, on the morning after her arrival, the papers announced an -intermittent bombardment of Antwerp, she screamed: “Ah, _par exemple_, -it is I who am glad not to be there!” without the smallest show of -anxiety on the score of the abandoned Koelen. We realized that, to -quote again our frank and charming friend: “_Ce n’était pas l’amour de -son mari qui l’étouffait!_” And when she next proceeded to hang on to -the telephone, and with many cackles and gurgles to hold an animated -conversation with the dashing Mérino, we began to hope that that -gentleman might not make his appearance at the Villino. - -He did, however, next day; and, under pretence of visiting houses, -carried away the emancipated Madame Koelen for a prolonged motor -drive, leaving the three-months-old baby to scream itself into fits in -the attic room upstairs; she was tied into her crib while the little -_bonne_ promenaded the other two in the garden. - -The Villino is a tender-hearted place, and the members of the -_famiglia_ vied with each other in endeavouring to assuage the agonies -of the youngest Miss Koelen, but nobody could provide the consolation -she required. - -Madame Koelen and her _cavaliere servente_ returned for a late tea, no -whit abashed; indeed, extremely pleased with themselves. He had a great -deal to say in an assured and airy manner, and she hung on his words -with her broad smile and many arch looks from those brilliant opaque -red-brown orbs. - -Monsieur Mérino was tall, quite good-looking; with a smooth olive face, -fair hair, and eyes startlingly blue, in contrast to the darkness of -his skin. He gave us a great deal of curious information. Summoned from -Antwerp, where he had a vague business, he was on his way to join the -Italian colours, but, calling on the Italian Ambassador in London, the -latter had given him leave to defer his departure for another ten days. -He was, therefore, able to devote his entire attention to the interests -of Madame Koelen, which he felt would be most reassuring to her husband. - -We rather wondered why the Italian Ambassador to the Court of St. -James’s should occupy himself with the movements of a casual Italian -merchant _en route_ from Antwerp; or by what curious intermingling -of international diplomatic arrangements he should be able to give -military leave to a reservist; but we were too polite to ask questions. - -Monsieur Mérino departed with many bows and scrapes and hand-shakes; -and Madame Koelen evidently found that existence by comet light was -worth having. - -In the course of the evening she was very communicative on the subject -of this gentleman, and several anecdotes of his drollery on board ship -were imparted to us. She had found out that he was married--that was a -funny thing, _n’est-ce pas?_ She had always heard of him about Antwerp -as a bachelor. - -“We thought he was a friend of your husband’s,” we faltered. - -“Oh, a friend--a coffee-house acquaintance, _tout au plus_!... - -“It was very droll. It came about this way. He was playing with little -Maddy, and I said to him: ‘Oh! the good Papa that you will make when -you marry.’ Judge of my astonishment when he looks at me and says: ‘I -am married already! Yes,’ he said, ‘I am married, and my wife lives -at Sorrento; I see her once in six weeks when I make my voyage of -business. _J’ai des idées sur le mariage,’ il dit, comme ça._” - -These ideas she next began to develop. - -“‘I do not think one ought to be bound,’ he says. ‘Do you not agree -with me, Madame, a man ought to be free?’ Oh, he was comic!” - -“But,” we said, “we do not think that is at all nice.” The Villino is -very moral. Its shocked atmosphere instantly made itself felt on Madame -Koelen. Her bright eye became evasive. - -“Of course I made him _la leçon_ at once. Ah! I very well made him -understand I do not approve of these _façons_. My husband teases me; I -am so serious, so rigid!” - -Before we separated that evening she told us in a disengaged voice that -she would spend the next day in London. Monsieur Mérino could not rest, -it transpired, knowing her in such dangerous surroundings; so far from -a station, in a place so likely, from its isolated inland position, to -be the objective of the first German raid. He was, therefore, going -to occupy himself about another home for her; and at the same time he -would take the opportunity of conducting her to the Consul, for “it -seems,” she said, “that I shall have to pay a _grosse amende_ if I do -not go immediately in person to register myself in London.” - -“But the baby,” we faltered. - -“Oh, the baby!”--she flicked the objection from her--“the baby will get -on very well with Justine. Justine knows how to manage her.” - -Justine was the minute _bonne_ who had tied the infant into the cot. - -Then there was Monsieur Mérino. The more we thought of it, the less we -felt that Monsieur Mérino was to be trusted. Luridly our imagination -worked; we saw ourselves left with three small Koelens in perpetuity; -we pictured that baby screaming itself into convulsions. We thought -it quite probable that we might never hear of its Mama again. And -poor Papa Koelen, the brave Anversois Garde Civique, dodging bombs in -ignorance of the horrible happening! - -The Master of the Villino was prevailed upon to speak; in fact, to -put his foot down. Next morning he spoke, and crushed the incipient -elopement with a firm metaphorical tread. - -“Madame, this plan seems to be rash in the extreme. I cannot permit -it to take place from under my roof. I feel, justly or unjustly, a -mediocre confidence in Monsieur Mérino. You will, if you please, wire -to him that you are prevented from meeting him.” - -Madame Koelen became very white, and though her opaque eyes flashed -fury, she gave in instantly; being a young Belgian wife, she was -accustomed to yield to masculine authority. - -Again she hung on the telephone. We were too discreet to listen, but -radiance returned to her countenance. - -After lunch she explained the cause. Next morning she and her whole -family would depart. Monsieur Mérino would himself convey them to -Brighton. - -The mistress of the Villino is occasionally troubled with an -inconvenient attack of conscience--sometimes she wonders if it is only -the spirit of combativeness. In this instance, however, she felt it her -duty to warn Madame Koelen. - -It was a brief but thrilling conversation. Madame Koelen, her eldest -little daughter on her knee, occasionally burying her handsome -countenance in the child’s soft hair, was as cool and determined, as -silky and evasive as a lusty young snake. She had a parry for every -statement; that she ate up her own words and manifestly lied from -beginning to end did not affect her equanimity in the least. It was the -Signora who was nonplussed. There is nothing before which the average -honest mind remains more helpless than the deliberate liar. - -Monsieur Mérino was her husband’s oldest friend. He was intimate with -her whole family. She herself had known him for years. She was under -his charge by her husband’s wishes. She had probably been aware of -his marriage, but it had merely slipped her memory--not having his -wife with him in Antwerp made one forget it. He was perfectly right to -invite her young cousin to dine with him, since she had her brother to -chaperon her. Certainly the brother was grown up and able to chaperon -her! How extraordinary of us to imagine anything different! - -“You are young, and you do not know life, my dear,” said the Signora at -last, succeeding in keeping her temper, though with difficulty. - -Madame Koelen bit into Maddy’s curls. It was quite evident she meant -to know life. She had got her chance at last, and would not let it -escape. - -“I do not think,” said the unhappy hostess, firing her final shot, -“that your husband would approve.” - -The wife wheeled with a sudden savage movement, not unlike that of a -snake about to strike. - -“_Ah, voilà qui m’est bien égal!_ That is my own affair!” - -There was nothing more to be said. We wondered whether the Garde -Civique had ever had such a glimpse of the real Geneviève Koelen as had -just been revealed to us. Even to us it was startling. - -An extraordinary hot afternoon it turned out. The sun was too blazing -for us to venture beyond the shadow of the house. We sat on the -terrace, and Madame Koelen wandered restlessly up and down, biting at a -rose. The master of the Villino suddenly appeared among us, all smiles. - -“A telegram for you, Madame. I have just taken it down on the -telephone. It is from your husband. He is coming here to-day.” - -He was very glad; it was the burden of responsibility lifted. Not so, -however, Madame Koelen. - -“From my husband? How droll!” - -She snapped the sheet of paper and walked away, conning it over. - -We sat and watched her. - -The garden was humming with heat. The close-packed heliotrope beds in -the Dutch garden under the library window were sending up gushes of -fragrance. In the rose-beds opposite, the roses--“General MacArthur,” -“Grüss aus Teplitz,” “Ulrich Brunner,” “Barbarossa” (we hope these -friendly aliens will soon be completely degermanized), crimson carmine, -velvet scarlet, glorious purple--seemed to be rimmed with gold in the -sun-blaze. It was a faultless sky that arched our world, and the moor, -already turning from silver amethyst to the ardent copper of the burnt -heather, rolled up towards it, like a sleeping giant wrapped in robes -of state. - -On such a day the inhabitants of the Villino would, in normal times, -have found life very well worth living indeed; basking in the sun and -just breathing in sweetness, warmth, colour--aspiring beauty, if this -can be called living! But in war time the subconsciousness of calamity -is ever present. Inchoate apprehension of bad news from the front is -massed at the back of one’s soul’s horizon, so that one lives, as it -were, under the perpetual menace of the storm. - -The wonderful summer was being rent, laid waste, somewhere not so -very far away; and the sun was shining, even as it was shining on -these roses, on blood outpoured--the best blood of England! In the -hot Antwerp streets, we pictured to ourselves some tired man going -to and fro; the weight of the gun on his shoulder, the weight of his -heavy heart in his breast; thinking of his wife and little children, -hunted exiles in a strange country, while duty kept him, their natural -protector, at his post in the fated city. - -To have seen what we read on that young wife’s face would have been -horrible at any time: it was peculiarly at variance with the peace of -the golden afternoon, and the lovely harmony of the garden. But in view -of her country’s desolation and her husband’s share in its splendid and -hopeless defence, it was hideous. We do not even think she had the -dignity of a _grande passion_ for the fascinating Mérino; it was mere -vanity, the greed of a pleasure-loving nature free to indulge itself at -last. She was only bent on amusing herself, and the unexpected arrival -of her husband interfered with the little plan. Therefore she stood -looking at his message with a countenance of ugly wrath. - -“_Ah, ça, qu’il est ennuyeux!_... What has taken him to follow me like -this?” - -The thoughts were printed on her face. - -“Is it not delightful?” said the guileless master of the Villino, who -never can see evil anywhere. - -“Ah, yes, indeed,” said she; “delightful!” - -She could no more put loyalty into her tone than into her features. - -“Heaven help Koelen!” thought the Signora, and was heartily sorry for -the unknown, but how glad, how indescribably thankful, that the planned -expedition had been prevented! - -Dramatically soon after his telegram Monsieur Koelen arrived--an -exhausted, pathetic creature. He had stood twelve hours in the steamer -because it was so packed with exiled humanity that there was not room -to sit down. He had exactly two hours in which to see his wife, having -to catch the night boat again from Harwich. He had given his word of -honour to return to Antwerp within forty-eight hours. - -We did not, of course, witness the meeting, but it was a very, very -_piano_ Madame Koelen who brought Koelen down to tea; and it was a -cold, steely look which his tired eyes fixed upon her between their -reddened eyelids. Whether he really came to put his valuables in the -bank, whether he was driven by some secret knowledge or suspicion of -his wife’s character, we shall never know. We naturally refrained -from mentioning the name of Monsieur Mérino. The host deemed his -responsibility sufficiently met by a single word of advice: - -“Madame is very young; we hope you will place her with people you know.” - -Monsieur Mérino was mentioned, however, by the husband himself. It -transpired Madame owed him money. She wished to see him again to pay -him. - -“I will pay him,” said Monsieur Koelen icily; “I will call at his hotel -on my way.” - -Madame’s head drooped. - -“_Bien, mon chéri_,” she murmured, in a faint voice. - -In a turn of the hand, as they would have said themselves, her affairs -were arranged. She was to go to Eastbourne, under the care of some -elderly aunts, Monsieur Koelen presently announced. - -We had thought he looked like a hunted hare. He had that expression -of mortal agony stamped on his face, which is often seen--more shame -for us!--on some poor dumb creature in terror for its life; but he had -still enough spirit in him to reduce Madame Koelen to abject submission. - -We could see he was oppressed with melancholy: that his heart was -bursting over the children. We understood that this parting was perhaps -worse for him than those first rushed farewells. - -He seemed scarcely to have arrived before he was gone again. The young -wife must have had some spark of feeling left--perhaps, after all, -under the almost savage desire for a fling she had a stratum of natural -affection, common loyalty--for she wept bitterly after his departure, -and, that night, for the first time, came into the little chapel and -prayed. - -We met the nurse with the children in the garden, just as the father -was being driven away: a small, upright creature this, with flax-blue -eyes and corn-coloured hair, which she wore in plaits tightly wound -round her head. She did not look a day more than sixteen, but she had -the self-possession of forty; and possessed resource also, as was -demonstrated by her dealings with Baby. - -“Monsieur is so sad. Madame is so sad, because of Antwerp, _n’est-ce -pas?_” she said to us, and by the sly look in those blue eyes we saw -that she was in her mistress’s confidence. - -It was true that he was sad for Antwerp; if the word “sad” can be used -to describe that bleak despair which we have noticed in so many Belgian -men who have found shelter in this country. - -“It is impossible that Antwerp should hold out,” he said to us; “the -spies and traitors have done their work too well. The spies are waiting -for them inside our walls. They know every nook in every fort, every -weak spot better than we do ourselves.” - -That was mid September, and we put his opinion down to a very natural -pessimism. No one knew then of the concrete platform under the gay -little villa outside the walls, built by the amiable German family who -was so well known and respected at Antwerp; and we have since heard, -too, of the shells supplied by Krupp and filled with sand; and the last -Krupp guns made of soft iron, which crumpled up after the first shot. - -Alas, he was justified in his gloomy prophecy! But we do not think -that it was as much the sense of national calamity that overwhelmed -him as the acute family anxiety. Yet, honest, good, severe, ugly -little man--worth a hundred plausible, handsome, lying scamps such as -Mérino--he was a patriot before all else! He would have had a very -good excuse, we think, for delaying another twelve hours to place his -volatile spouse in safety with the elderly relations at Eastbourne--but -he had given his word. Had he arrived at the Villino only to find that -she had tripped off to London, with that chance acquaintance of cafés, -Monsieur Mérino (to whose care he had in a distraught moment committed -her); had he thereafter been assailed by the most hideous doubts; -had he believed, as we did, that she meant to abandon husband and -babes at this moment of all others; or had he--scarcely less agonizing -surmise!--trembled for her, innocent and lost in London, the prey of a -villain, we yet believe that he would have kept his word. - -“_J’ai donné ma parole d’honneur!_” - -What a horrible, tragic story it might have been, fit for the pen of a -Maupassant! We shall never cease to be thankful that it did not happen. -That is why we are glad to have received Madame Koelen at the Villino. - - * * * * * - -Our next refugees came to us quite by accident, and then only for a -meal. A home had already been prepared for them in the village, but the -excellent Westminster Canon, who seemed to be the channel through which -the stream of refugees was pouring to us, announced five, and casually -added a sixth at the last minute, with the result that the party were -not recognized at the station. The name of the Villino having become -unaccountably associated with every refugee that arrives in this part -of the world, the Van Heysts landed _en masse_ at our doors, demanded -to have their cab paid, and walked in. - -We all happened to be out, and Juvenal, our eccentric butler, -acquiesced. Standing on one leg afterwards, he explained that, being -aware of our ways, he didn’t know, he was sure, but what we might have -meant to put them somewhere. - -Weary, tragic creatures, we weren’t sorry, after all, to speed -them on their road! The three fair-haired children were fed with -bread-and-butter, and the young mother talked plaintively in broken -French, while the old grandfather nodded his head corroboratively. -But the father: he was like a creature cast in bronze--would neither -eat nor speak. He sat staring, his chin on his hand, absorbed in the -contemplation of outrage and disaster. - -They were from Malines. - -“And then, mademoiselle, it was all on fire, and the cannon were -sending great bombs; and we fled as quick as we could, _n’est-ce pas?_ -I with the littlest one in my arms, and the other two running beside -me. For five hours we walked. Yes, mademoiselle, the two little girls, -they went the whole way on foot, and that one there always crying, -‘_Plus vite, maman! plus vite, maman!_’ and pulling at my apron.” - -The young husband sat staring. Was he for ever beholding his little -house in flames, or what other vision of irredeemable misery? He -remains inconsolable. Poor fellow! he has heart disease; he thinks he -will never see his native land again. And there is yet another little -one expected. Alas! alas! - - * * * * * - -Of quite another calibre are the Van Sonderdoncks; a very lively, -cheery family this! There are, of course, a grandpapa, a maiden aunt, -a couple of cousins, as well as the bustling materfamilias, the quaint -wizened papa, the well-brought-up Jeanne, who can embroider so nicely, -and the four little pasty boys with red hair and eyes like black beads. -They are comfortably established in a very charming house lent by a -benevolent lady, who also feeds them. - -On the Signorina’s first visit she found Madame Van Sonderdonck in a -violent state of excitement. She had received such extraordinary things -in the way of provisions “_de cette dame_.” If mademoiselle would -permit it, she would like to show her something--but something--she -could not describe it; it was _trop singulier_. “One moment, -mademoiselle.” - -She fled out of the room and returned with--a vegetable marrow! - -She was rather disappointed to find that mademoiselle was intimately -acquainted with this freak of nature, which she surveyed from every -angle with intense suspicion and curiosity. Politeness kept her from -expressing her real feelings when she was assured of its excellence -cooked with cheese and onion and a little tomato in a flat dish, but -her countenance expressed very plainly that she was not going to risk -herself or her family. - -Having failed to impress with the marrow, she repeated the effect with -sago. She had eaten it raw. Naturally, having thus become aware of its -real taste, she could not be expected to believe it would be palatable -in any guise. Nevertheless, she was indulgent to our eccentricities. If -anyone remembers the kind of amused, condescending interest that London -society took in the pigmies, when those unfortunate little creatures -were on show at parties a few years ago, they can form some idea of -Madame Van Sonderdonck’s attitude of mind towards England. - -Good humour reigned in the family as we found it. - -Though papa Sonderdonck had a bayonet thrust through his neck--he had -been in the Garde Civique--and they had already had a battle-royal with -the Belgian family who shared the house, they seemed to view the whole -situation as a joke. As they had routed their fellow refugees--the -latter only spoke Flemish, Madame Van Sonderdonck only French, and an -interpreter had to be found to convey mutual abuse--and furthermore -obtained in their place the sister-in-law and the two cousins, -unaccountably left out of the batch, they had some substantial reasons -for satisfaction. - - * * * * * - -Monsieur and Madame Deens are once more of the heart-rending order. -She, a pathetic creature always balanced between tears and smiles, with -pale blue eyes under her braided soft brown hair, looks extraordinarily -young to be the mother of two strapping children. He is the typical -Belgian husband, devoted but grinding. - -Our first visit there was painful. Madame Deens was like a bewildered -child, and the husband, a stalwart handsome fellow, who had been chief -engineer on the railway at Malines, was torn between a very natural -indignation at finding himself beggared after years of honest hard -work, and bitter anxiety about his wife, who was in the same condition -as Madame Van Heyst. - -He beckoned us outside the cottage to tell us in a tragic whisper that -he had good reason to believe that “all, all the family of my wife,” -her father, mother, and the invalid sister, had been murdered by the -Germans; and their farm burned. - -“How can I tell her, and she as she is? It will kill her too! And she -keeps asking me and asking me! I shall have to tell her!” - -The tears rolled down his cheeks. Yet he was a hard man; it galled -him to the quick to be employed as a common labourer and receive only -seventeen shillings a week. - -They had been given a gardener’s house: the most charming, quaint -abode. It had an enormous kitchen, with a raftered ceiling, and one -long window running the whole length of the room, opening delightfully -on the orchard. The walls were all snowy white. He might have made -himself very happy in such surroundings for the months of exile, with -the consciousness of friends about him, the knowledge of safety and -care for the wife in her coming trial, and the splendid healthy air for -the children. But Deens was not satisfied. - -“I had just passed my examinations, _n’est-ce pas?_ monsieur, madame, -and had received my advancement, and we had just got into the little -house I had built with my savings. Now it is burnt--burnt to the -ground. And these wages, for a man like me, mademoiselle, it is -something I cannot bring myself to. _Je ne puis pas m’y faire, savez -vous._” - -“But Madame Deens is so well here, and we will look after her,” said -Mademoiselle. - -“Ah, but I could earn more money elsewhere! I might have something to -bring back to my own country.” - -Of course he has had his way. A bustling lady got him into a motor -factory, and he dragged his weeping but resistless spouse to a townlet, -where they are lodged in one room; where the only person we could -think of to interest in their favour was the old parish priest, who -turned out to be queer in his head, but where Deens is in receipt of -thirty-two shillings a week. We are sure that what can be saved is -being saved for the _retour au pays_, and meanwhile the poor little -woman’s hour of trouble is approaching, and she must get through it as -best she can, unbefriended. We feel anxious. - -Before she left, with many tears, she gave the Signorina, who had -sympathized with her, the only gift she could contrive out of her -destitution. It was the youngest child’s little pair of wooden shoes! - - - - -III - -OUR MINISTERING ANGELS - - “Chi poco sa, presto lo dice!” - - _Wisdom of Nations._ - - -Of course we are not behindhand in our village in the Red Cross -movement. - -Nearly every woman, whatever her views, fancies herself nowadays -in the rôle of ministering angel. It may be doubted whether an -existence devoted to the Tango and its concomitants has been a useful -preparation for a task which demands the extreme of self-devotion; -and we have heard odd little tales of how a whole body of charming -and distinguished amateurs rushed into the cellars at the whiz of a -shell, abandoning their helpless patients; and how the fair chief of a -volunteer ambulance staff fainted at the sight of the first wounded man. - -Yet there may be many, even among what is odiously called “the smart -set,” who only find their true vocation at such a moment as this, when -unsuspected qualities, heroic capacities spring into life at the -test. It is not enough to say that times of great calamity sift the -good from the bad, the strong from the futile: they give the wasters -in every class of life their chance of self-redemption--in numberless -instances not in vain. While freely admitting, however, that there may -be a good proportion of society women who are drawn to work among the -wounded by a genuine desire to help, and have therefore taken care to -qualify themselves for the task, who can deny that with others nursing -is merely a new form of excitement, the last fashionable craze? It was -the same in the South African War. Indeed, the episode of the wounded -soldier who put up a little placard with the inscription, “Much too ill -to be nursed to-day,” has, we see, been revived in connection with the -present conflict. It may be taken as the classic expression of Tommy’s -feelings towards this particular form of attention. We do not suppose, -however, that the case of the tender-hearted but unenlightened lady who -went about Johannesburg feeding the enteric patients with buns will -be allowed to repeat itself at Boulogne or Calais. We well remember -reading her letter to the papers, in which she innocently vaunted her -fatal ministrations, inveighing against the monstrous fashion in which -“our poor sick soldiers” were being starved. We believe eleven victims -of her charity died. - -A late distinguished general had a genial little anecdote anent the -energies of a batch of fair nurses who landed in Egypt during the last -campaign. Happening to go round the hospital one morning shortly after -their arrival, he saw one of these enchanting beings, clad in the most -coquettish of nursing garbs, bending over a patient. - -“Wouldn’t it refresh you if I were to sponge your face and hands, my -man?” she inquired, in dulcet tones. - -The patient, who was pretty bad, rolled a resigned but exhausted glance -at her. - -“If you like, mum. It’s the tenth time it’s been done this morning!” - -Perhaps, like the war itself, everything is on too tremendous a scale -now to permit of such light-hearted playing with the dread sequels of -combat. We can no more afford to make a game of nursing than a game of -fighting in this world struggle. It is possible that only such of our -_mondaines_ as have the necessary knowledge and devotion are permitted -to have charge of those precious lives, and that the others confine -themselves to post-cards and coffee-stalls, and dashing little raids -into the firing-lines with chocolates and socks. We trust it may be so. -We confess that what we ourselves beheld of the local amateur Red Cross -fills us with some misgiving. - -Of course, as has been said, being a very enlightened community, we -were not going to be left behind. A special series of lectures was -announced almost within a week of the declaration of war. The daughter -of the household determined to join. - -On her arrival, a little late, at the village hall, she was met by -the secretary of the undertaking; a charming and capable young lady, -looking, however, at this particular moment distraught to the verge of -collapse. - -“Oh, _do_ you know anything about home nursing? _Do_ you think you -could teach a little class how to take temperatures? You could easily -pick up what you want to learn afterwards, couldn’t you? There are such -a lot of them, and they’re all so, so----” She substituted “difficult -to teach” for the word trembling on her lips. “Nurse Blacker doesn’t -know which way to turn.” - -“Oh, I can certainly teach them to take temperatures,” said the -Signorina. Nurses, like poets, are born, not made; and she is of those -who have the instinct how to help. Besides this she has had experience. - -She was disappointed, however. She had come to learn, not to teach. It -seemed to her, moreover, almost inconceivable that any female who had -arrived at years of discretion and was of normal intellect should not -be able to take a temperature; but she swallowed her feelings, after -the example of the secretary, and went briskly in to begin her task. - -She was provided with a jug of warm water, several thermometers, and -a row of various women, ranging from the spinster of past sixty to -the red-cheeked sixteen-year old daughter of the local vet--who ought -to have known how to take a temperature, if it was only a dog’s! -There were also two fluttering beribboned summer visitors from the -neighbouring hotel; these were doing the simple life, with long motor -veils and short skirts and a general condescending enthusiasm towards -our wild moorland scenery, which they were fond of qualifying as “too -sweet!” - -“Perhaps,” said the secretary to the Signorina as she hurried away, -“you could teach them to take a pulse also. They can practise on each -other. It would be _such_ a help.” - -The Signorina felt a little shy. It did seem somewhat presuming for -anything so young as she was to be instructing people who were all, -with the exception of the vet’s daughter, considerably older, and, -therefore, obviously considerably richer in experience than herself. -It added to her embarrassment that the summer visitors should fix two -pairs of rapt eyes upon her with the expression of devotees listening -to their favourite preacher. - -However, she summoned her wits and her courage, and gave a brief -exposition of the mysteries of thermometer and pulse, patiently -repeating herself, while the students took copious notes. Certainly -there was something touching in this humble ardour for useful -knowledge. Then the thrilling moment of practice began. - -The spinster first monopolized the instructress’s attention. Her white -hairs and her years entitled her to precedence. - -“Of course,” she remarked, with the air of one whose scientific -education has not been altogether neglected, as she balanced her -thermometer over the jug, “the water won’t really make it go up, will -it, no matter how hot it is?” - -The Signorina did not think she could have understood. - -“I mean,” said the maiden lady, waving the little tube, “it’s not heat -that will ever make the thermometer go up. It’s fever, isn’t it?” - -“But fever is heat,” mildly asserted the “home-nurse.” - -“Oh no, I don’t mean _that_” said the spinster loftily. “Of course, I -know you’re hot with fever; but it’s something _in_ you, isn’t it, that -affects the thermometer? It wouldn’t go up, even if I put it on the -stove, would it?” - -“Put it into the jug and try,” said the Signorina, who did not believe -that language would be much use here. - -“Oh, I think,” interpolated a summer guest who was much impressed by -the spinster’s grasp of the situation, “I’d rather try my thermometer -on my cousin, please! I think one would learn better. It would be more -like hospital practice, wouldn’t it?” - -The spinster turned from the jug with alacrity. - -“I’m sure you are right,” she cried. Then wheeling on her neighbour: -“Oh, would you mind?” she pleaded. - -The neighbour, a tailor-made lady with a walking-stick, who looked -on with a twisted smile--we suspect she was a suffragette, pandering -to the weakness of a world distracted from the real business of -life--submitted to be made useful. Her smile became accentuated. - -“Shouldn’t mind if it was a cigarette,” she remarked in a deep bass, -and thereafter was silent, while the spinster laboriously prepared to -take two minutes on her watch. - -“Please, dear child,” cried one of the motor-veiled ladies in her -impassioned tone of interest, “will you explain to me again, what is -normal? _I’d better take it out, dear! There’s no use doing it wrong, -is there?_ You said something about a little red line--or is that for -fever? How silly I am--red would be for fever, wouldn’t it? No? _Red -is normal, darling. Oh, I do hope you’re normal!_ What did you say, -ninety-eight, point four? I never could do arithmetic and I’m so -stupid. My husband always says--_doesn’t he, Angela?_--‘You won’t do -much adding up, Birdie’--he calls me ‘Birdie,’--‘but I can trust you to -subtract all right,’ dear, naughty fellow! He loves me to spend, you -know, _doesn’t he, Angela?_ Oh dear, it hasn’t moved at all! Is that -very bad? _Angela, darling!_” - -“But you didn’t leave it in two minutes,” said the persevering teacher. -“Supposing you were to put it in your mouth now, and your cousin were -to take you?” - -“Will you, Angela?” The summer visitor’s eyes became pathetic. “I’m -sure I’ve been feeling quite dreadful with all this anxiety.” - -“Your temperature,” said the spinster triumphantly to the suffragette, -“is a hundred and twenty-eight.” - -The Signorina started. - -“But that’s quite impossible! Look here, let me show you. It won’t mark -over a hundred and ten.” - -For the first time the spinster was flustered. - -“Oh, perhaps I read it wrong! Let me look again.” - -After much fumbling and peering she became apologetic. - -“I see I did make a mistake. It’s twenty-six.” - -“Perhaps,” said the little lecturer hopelessly, “if I just went over -the readings of the thermometer with you all once more----” - -But she was interrupted. - -“Would you mind”--the harassed secretary seized her by the elbow--“would -you mind coming to superintend the bed-making? I’ve got to take the -bandage class, and Nurse Blacker can’t really manage more than twenty -with the compresses.” - -The whole room was full of the clapper of excited female tongues. -The Signorina was not sorry to leave the jug of warm water and the -extraordinary fluctuating temperatures. She was followed by the summer -visitors, motor veils and ribbons flying. - -As she left, a cheerful, red-faced lady was heard to announce casually, -as she dropped the fat wrist of the veterinary’s daughter, that there -was no use her trying to take that pulse, as the girl hadn’t got any. - -The clamorous group surrounded the camp-bed, upon which was stretched -a sardonic boy-scout, fully clothed, down to his clumping boots. He -was aged about twelve, and assisted in the education of the “lidies” -by commenting from time to time on their efforts in hoarse tones of -cynicism. After one impulsive neophyte had seemed to be practising -tossing him in a blanket, he remarked into space: “Nurses are not -suppowsed to move the pytient.” - -And to another who jerked his heels up: “Down’t you forget, miss, I’m a -bad caise!” - -The Signorina had never been taught how to make beds in the true -hospital fashion before, and was painstakingly absorbed in the -intricacies of rolling sheets without churning the “bad caise,” when -she was seized upon by one of the flutterers from the hotel. - -“We’re going now; it’s been _so_ interesting, we _have_ enjoyed it. I -shan’t forget all you told me about temperatures. I feel quite able to -look after our dear fellows already. Oh! I _must_ tell you. You’ve got -such a sympathetic face. I’m sure you will understand. I had a most -_wonderful_ revelation the other day, in church--in London, you know. -I had such an extraordinary feeling--just as if something came over -me--and I thought the church was full of dead soldiers; and a voice -seemed to say to me: ‘Pray.’ I felt quite uplifted. And then in a -minute it was all gone. Wasn’t it wonderful? That kind of thing makes -one feel so _strong_, doesn’t it? Oh, I knew you would understand. -The last news is _very_ disquieting, isn’t it? What a darling little -fellow!” - -The “bad caise” scowled at her horribly; but the sweetness of her smile -was quite unimpaired, as she fluttered out of the hall. - - * * * * * - -“It is very important,” said Nurse Blacker to the compress class, “that -the nurse should wash her hands before touching the patient’s wounds.” - -“Now, tell me, Sister,” interposed a meek voice, “is that precaution -for the nurse’s sake or for the patient’s? I mean, I suppose it’s in -case the nurse should incur any infection from the wound?” - -This point of view--that of the White Queen in “Alice Through the -Looking-Glass”--had not apparently struck Nurse Blacker before. - -It all seems too ridiculous to be true, but yet the facts are here set -down as they actually occurred. - -We think there are a good many women about the world of the type of the -spinster and her sisters, and we are also convinced that it would be -quite impossible to succeed in impressing upon such minds even the most -rudimentary notions of nursing; yet it is likely enough they may all -have been granted certificates eventually. Professionals are dreadfully -bored in dealing with amateurs, and are often glad to take the shortest -road to deliverance. - -We were once witness, in pre-war days, of the examination of a Red -Cross class in the north of England. There was a weary doctor on the -platform with a bag of bones; and a retired hospital nurse, very -anxious to be on good terms with the delightful family who were the -chief organizers of the movement, had charge of the “show.” - -The doctor gave a brief address upon dislocation. It ran somewhat in -this fashion. - -“Dislocation is the misplacement of a joint. It is indicated by the -symptoms of swelling, redness, pain, and inability to move the limb. -There is no crepitation as in a fracture. As to treatment: my advice to -you, ladies, when you meet a case of this kind, is--ahem--to leave it -severely alone and to send for a medical man.” - -The class took copious notes. The doctor dropped the two bones with -which he had been demonstrating into the bag again, leant back in his -chair and closed his eyes. His part of the transaction was concluded. -It had been most illuminating, the ladies agreed, and the Signorina’s -chauffeur, who has a yearning towards general self-improvement, -remarked to her on the way home: - -“Ow”--like the boy scout, he has a theatrically cockney accent--“I -am glad to know what to do for discollation. I’d never studied that, -loike, before.” - -While the doctor leant back and rested, the hospital nurse examined -each student privately on the subject of the previous instructions. The -Signorina happened to be quite close to a little old lady with bonnet -and strings, and a small, eager, withered, agitated face under bands -of frizzled grey hair--the kind of little old lady who is always ready -to respond to the call of duty, and who is in the van of knitters for -“our dear, brave soldiers” or “our gallant tars.” - -“What,” said the hospital nurse tenderly, “would you do for a bed-sore?” - -The little old lady began to twitter and flutter: - -“I would first wash the place with warm water, and--oh, dear me, dear -me, I _did_ know, I knew quite well a minute ago--with, with something -to disinfect.” - -“It is something to disinfect, quite right,” approved the nurse. - -“A salt, I think--I’m sure it was. I could get it at the chemist----” - -“Certainly,” said the nurse, as if she were speaking to a child of two -years old, “the chemist would be sure to keep it. It’s quite a simple -thing. But you would have to know what to ask for, wouldn’t you?” - -“Oh, dear me, yes. P--p-- or did it begin with an I?” - -“Perchloride of mercury,” said the nurse, smothering a yawn. - -“Oh yes,” cried the little old lady, delighted, “that’s it.” - -“Well, now you know it, don’t you,” said the nurse brightly, wrote -“Passed” in her notebook, and turned to the next. - -“How much liquid nourishment would you give a typhoid patient at a -time?” - -This to a village girl, who looked blank, not to say terrified, and -wrung her hands in her lap. - -“I mean,” helped the questioner, “if the patient were put on milk--a -milk diet, very usual in typhoid cases--how much milk would you give at -a time?” - -The girl’s face lit up. - -“Two quarts, miss,” she said with alacrity. - -“Not at a time, I think,” corrected the examiner, quite unruffled. “Two -quarts, perhaps, in the twenty-four hours, if you could get the patient -to take it--that would be splendid. Typhoid is a very weakening malady. -It’s a good thing to keep the strength up--if you _can_, you know.” - -The Signorina heard this optimist make her report a little later to the -charming daughter of the charming family, who had herself studied to -good purpose, but was too modest to undertake the instructions. - -“They’ve all answered beautifully. Look at my notebook----” - -It was “Passed,” “Passed,” to every name. - -“That _is_ good,” said the gratified organizer. “We _have_ done well -to-day.” - - * * * * * - -No doubt one occasionally comes across odd specimens even among -professionals. Certainly, during a long illness with which the Signora -was afflicted a couple of years ago, three of the five nurses who -succeeded each other in attendance upon her cannot be said to have -lightened the burthen. - -The first, sent for at eleven o’clock at night, distinguished herself -by instantly upsetting a basin of hot water into the patient’s bed. -As she repeated the process next night, and greeted the accident with -shrieks of laughter, it could scarcely be regarded as the exceptional -breach which proves the rule of excellence. - -The Signora, who was not supposed to be moved at all, has, fortunately, -the sense of humour which helps one along the troublesome way of -life, in sickness as in health. She laughed too. The nurse, who was -an Irishwoman, immediately thought herself rather a wag. She was a -little, vivacious creature, ugly, but bright-eyed. She was extremely -talkative, and perhaps the most callous person the Signora has ever -come across. It is our experience that all nurses are talkative. If the -patient wants to make life endurable at all, the talk must be guided -into the least disagreeable channels. - -The Signora’s dread is the tale of operations--“of practice in the -theatre,” which one of the nurses of her youth told her she considered -“an agreeable little change.”--This particular Dorcas’s favourite topic -was deathbeds. The patient was quite aware that the supreme experience -was a not at all impossible event for herself in the near future, -so she had a certain personal interest in the matter. Anyhow, she -permitted the discourse. - -She heard at full length the narration of Nurse MacDermott’s first -deathbed in private nursing. It was a horrible anecdote, which might -have formed a chapter in a realistic novel. “A gentleman at Wimbledon -it was,” evidently of the well-to-do merchant class, and he seemed, -poor man! to have been the unhappy father of a family as cold-blooded -and heartless as the wife in Tolstoi’s painful story of death. But -here there was no one to care, not even a poor servant lad--not even -the nurse whose vocation it was to help him through the final agony. -She arrived at ten o’clock, and at eleven the doctor warned the family -that the patient would not pass the night. Thereupon everyone--the -wife, two daughters, and a son--retired to bed, and left the dying -man in charge of the newly arrived attendant, who sat down to watch, -reading a novel. About two o’clock the moribund began to make painful -efforts to speak. - -“Charlie, Charlie,” he kept saying. - -“Ah, the poor fellow!” said the little nurse, as she recounted -the story, “he had a son who was a scapegrace, it seems, off away -somewhere, and he wanted to send him a message. I ran and called the -wife out of her bed--what do you think? She’d put her hair in crimpers! -Upon my word, she had; they were bristling all round the head of her. -Well, I didn’t want to have him die on me while I was out of the room, -so I rushed back. And he made signs to me. The power of speech was -gone from him. He wanted to write. I had a bit of pencil, but there -wasn’t a scrap of paper that I could see, so there was nothing I could -give him but the fly-leaf of the book I was reading; and ah! the poor -fellow, it was only scrawls he could make after all. And sure, he was -dead before his wife came in. And she just gave one look at him, and, -‘I’m going back to bed,’ says she, and back to bed she went. But it was -the hair-curlers that did for me. I never can forget them.” - -She was sitting at the end of the Signora’s bed, and doubled herself up -with laughter as she spoke. We have no doubt but that she went back to -her novel, scrawled with the dying father’s last futile effort. - -We never knew anyone quite so frankly unmoved by the awful scenes it -was her trade to witness. She found vast amusement in the wanderings -of delirious patients. Whenever she wanted to cheer the other nurses -up, she informed us, in the Home where they dwelt together, she could -always make them laugh with little anecdotes from the typhoid ward; and -the “wanderings” from the different beds. - -She tried to cheer the Signora up on these lines; and the Signora, -on wakeful nights, has to force her mind away from the “humorous” -memories. She infinitely preferred the story of Nurse McDermott’s -love affairs. Like many ugly people, the young woman believed herself -irresistible, and paid a great deal of attention to the conservation -of her charms. Once, having settled her patient for the night, she -reappeared unexpectedly _en robe de chambre_. - -“I have just come to tell you how many creams I have put on myself,” -she cried to the bewildered lady. “I know it will amuse you! There’s -the pomade for my hair, and Valaze for my face, and the lanoline for my -neck. I do hate the mark of the collar--for evening dress, you know--it -gives one away so! And there’s the salve for my lips, and the cold -cream for my hands, and the polish for my nails----” - -She went away in a hurry to a bad case at Liphurst, jubilating because -we were paying her journey, and she would get it out of the other lady -also, and the doctor had offered to send her in his car. - -Of quite another type was Nurse Vischet. No one could say that she was -unaffected by her patient’s symptoms. They had the power of flinging -her into frenzy. Capable enough when things were going fairly well with -her charge, the first shadow of a change for the worse produced in her -what can only be described as fury. Her face would become convulsed, -her eyes would flame, she would knock the furniture about as she moved, -and could barely restrain herself from insulting the sufferer. - -At first the Signora, who was very ill and weaker than it is possible -to describe, could not at all understand these outbursts. “What can -have annoyed Nurse?” she would wonder feebly to herself. But presently -she understood. It was really a mixed terror of, and repulsion from, -the sight of suffering. Why such a woman should have become a nurse, -and how she could continue in the service of the sick, feeling as she -did, remains a mystery. The key to her extraordinary behaviour was -given one day by a little dog, who happened to be seized with a very -common or garden fit of choking through the nose; such as affects -little dogs with slight colds in their heads. Nurse Vischet started -screaming. - -“He’s all right,” said the Signora. “He only wants his nose rubbed. -Carry him over to me if you won’t do it yourself.” - -“Ugh!” shrieked Nurse Vischet. “I think it’s dying. I wouldn’t touch it -for the world!” - -One of the symptoms of the human patient’s illness were agonizing -headaches, during which she could scarcely bear a ray of light in -the room. In spite of frequent requests, Nurse Vischet always seized -the occasion to turn the ceiling electric light full on the bed, and -when at last forbidden to do so, she declined to enter a room in -which she could not see her way. The Signora gave her the name of -her “ministering devil.” She was a rabid Socialist, and had peculiar -theories, one of which we remember was that condemned criminals should -be handed over to the laboratories for vivisection. - -She had also to an acute degree the hospital nurse’s capacity for -upsetting the household. Our butler, a hot-tempered man, happened to -drop a stray “damn” in the hearing of the under-housemaid, and Vischet, -hanging on the landing over the kitchen regions, as she was fond of -doing, overheard the dread word. The whole establishment was turned -upside down. Maggie was told that she “owed it to her womanhood” not to -allow foul language in her presence. Maggie gave notice, but being, -after all, an Irish girl with a sense of humour, was as easily soothed -down as she had been worked up. Certainly, however, if we had kept -Nurse Vischet, we should have lost, one by one, our excellent staff of -servants. Besides playing on their feelings against each other, she had -a horrible trick of telling them they were at the last gasp upon the -smallest ailment. She did not like her patient to have symptoms; but -she encouraged the domestics to fly to her with theirs. - -Irish Maggie had an indigestion. Vischet declared her condition to be -of extreme gravity. She rushed to the Signora with her tale. Maggie was -ordered to bed. Vischet produced an immense tin of antiphlogistine with -which to arrest “the mischief.” - -The daughter of the house went up to visit the sick girl, and came down -laughing to console her mother. - -“You needn’t worry about Maggie,” she said, and gave a pleasant little -description of the scene and the invalid’s remarks. - -“Ah, sure I’m all right, miss. It’s all along of a bit of green apple. -Sure, Mrs. MacComfort has just given me a drop of ginger, and it’s -done me a lot of good already. Do you see what Nurse is after bringing -me? God bless us all, wouldn’t I rather die itself than be spreading -that putty on me! I’ll be up for tea, miss.” - -“She looks as rosy as possible,” went on the comforter, “and ever so -nice with her hair in a great thick plait tied with ribbons, grass -green, for Ireland.” - -Through one recollection Vischet will always remain endeared to the -mind of her victim; and that was for her singular pronunciation. There -was a story to which the Signora was fond of leading up relating to -por-poises, (pronounced to rhyme with noises), and another connected -with a tor-toise, which happened to be the pet of a recent “case.” -There was also a little tale of a dog: “I was out walking on the -embankment,” said Vischet, “and I saw a man coming along leading -two dogs--one was a great bulldog, and the other was one of those -queer creatures you call a dashun” (the Signora prides herself on -her intelligence for instantly discovering that the narrator meant a -dachshund). “And there was running about loose the queerest animal ever -I saw,” went on the nurse; “it had the head of a bulldog and the legs -of a dashun.” - -The third nurse was very different. The daughter of an officer, who was -seeking the most genteel way to make her living, she frankly handed -over the chief of the attendance to the Signora’s own devoted maid; -which, on the Signora becoming aware of her incapacity, she was on the -whole glad that she should do. Nurse Fraser was a tall, handsome girl, -who was fond of sitting on the sofa at the foot of the patient’s bed, -her hands clasped round her knees, staring into space. She was by no -means unamiable, but she was bored; and the Signora, who rather liked -her, was not averse to screening her deficiencies. When the doctor -inquired after the temperature that had never been taken, she herself -would declare it had been normal; and she was amused when Nurse Fraser -would next vouch for a “splendid breakfast.” She not having appeared in -her patient’s room till noon. - -She made no attempt to conceal her complete inefficiency in the -treatment of the case. - -“Oh, _do_ tell me what I’m to do,” she had cried on arrival to the -district nurse who had come in as a stopgap. “I’m sure if I ever knew -anything about the illness I’ve quite forgotten.” - -One day--she, too, was garrulous--she informed her patient that her -mother had shares in Kentish Mines. “If ever they work out, we may get -a lot of money, and then,” she cried, quite unconscious of offence, “no -more beastly sick people for me!” - -She left us in tears. She had enjoyed herself very much. - -It would seem as if our experience had been unfortunate, and yet it is -not so; for surely to have known two perfect nurses one after another -is sufficient to re-establish the balance. Chief of these, first and -dearest, was Nurse Dove. She was the district nurse, called in, as we -have said, in a moment of emergency. How Miss Nightingale would have -loved her! Blessed little creature, it was enough to restore anybody’s -heart to see her come into the sick-room, quiet, capable, tender, her -eyes shining with compassion for the sufferer and eagerness to relieve. -She was as gentle as she was skilful: to anyone who did not know her -it would be impossible to convey the extent of the virtue contained -in this phrase. The Signora would have placed herself, or, what -means a great deal more, her nearest and dearest, with the completest -confidence in her hands alone, in any dangerous illness. - -Among the poor she was an apostle. It seemed to have been her fate -that, during her brief stay in our village, several young mothers found -themselves in mortal extremity. She never lost a life. We think now -with longing of what she would have been among the wounded. Alas! we -were not destined to keep such perfection with us. It was Cupid, not -death, that robbed us of this treasure--if Cupid, indeed, it can be -called, the dingy, doubtful imp that took her away from her wonderful -work among us. Alas! charming, devoted, exquisite being as she was, she -had a very human side. We fear there was a touch of “pike,” as the old -gardener had it, in the business, but in spite of all our efforts a -“coloured gentleman,” an invalid to boot, a shifty elderly fellow with -an Oriental glibness of tongue, carried her off away with him back to -India. She has since written to us describing her palatial abode on the -borders of a lake with a horde of servants and a private steam-launch, -but we strongly suspect that if the pen was the pen of Nurse Dove, the -words were the words of the coloured gentleman. - -The individual was a Baboo, a clerk in the Madras Post Office, and had -already been invalided out of the service before he left England. We -cannot believe that the pension of an underling in the Indian Civil -Service runs to these Rajah-like splendours. Moreover, there was a -tragic little postcard, sent to a humble friend, which did not at all -correspond with the highflown letter above-mentioned: “The world is a -very sad place; we must all be prepared for disappointments.” - -There is one thing quite certain--wherever she goes she will be doing -good. - -Curiously enough, the second perfect nurse resembled her in dark pallor -of skin, splendour of raven tresses, and thoughtful brilliance of brown -eyes; but she was younger and more timid. She will want a few more -years of experience and self-reliance before she can develop into a -Nurse Dove. - -But nevertheless, resembling her in countenance, she had the same -deep womanly heart for her patients. Suffering in their sufferings, -she would spare no pains to relieve them. And she had the touch of -imaginative genius and the courage to act on her own responsibility -which made her presence in a house of sickness a comfort and a -strength. In fact, the life was to her a vocation. She nursed to help -others, not herself. She had not grown callous through the sight of -agonies, only more urgent to be of use. - -God send many such to our men in their need to-day! - - - - -IV - -“CONSIDER THE LILIES” - - “For the first time the Lamb shall be dyed red....” - - _Brother Johannes’ Prophecy._ - - -“Consider the lilies, how they grow....” - -The sad thing is that with us they decline to grow. When we bought the -small, high-perched house and grounds on the Surrey hills there is -no doubt that the thought of lilies in those terraced gardens was no -unimportant part of the programme. Oddly, the little house had from the -first an Italian look, which we have not been slow to cultivate. - -Now we were haunted by a picture of an Italian garden: a -pergola--vine-covered, it was--with two serried ranks of Madonna -lilies growing inside the arches; flagged as to pathway, with probably -fragrant tufts of mint and thyme between the stones. In the land of its -conception this vision of shadowy green and exquisite white, cool yet -shining, as if snow-fashioned, must have given upon some stretch of -quivering, heat-baked country. - -Without being able to provide such an antithesis, the -garden-plotter--she means the dreadful quip--otherwise the mistress of -the English Villino, with a vivid and charming picture in her mind’s -eye, fondly imaged a very effective outlook upon the great shouldering -moors that rise startlingly across the narrow valley at the bottom of -her garden. But the lilies refused to grow. - -She tried them in border after border. She set clumps of Auratums under -the dining-room between the heliotrope and the Nicotianas, which swing -such gushes of fragrance into the little house all the hot summer days. -She got monster bulbs of Madonnas from the first specialist in the -kingdom, and put them singly between the red and white roses against -the upper terrace wall. She ran amok upon luscious spotted darlings; -Pardelinum and Monadelphum, Polyphyllum and Parryi, and had them placed -in a cool, shady walk against a background of delphiniums. She thrust -Harrisi under the drawing-room bow; and the glorious scarlet-trumpeted -Thunbergianum where they would flame in the middle distance. They -showed many varied forms of disapproval, but were unanimous in -declining to remain with us. Some were a little more polite than -the others. The great trumpets blew fiercely for one season, almost -as with a sound of glorious brass, in their dim nook; and a single -exquisite, perfect stem of Krameri rose intact amid a dying sisterhood, -and swayed, delicately proud, faintly flushed, a very princess among -flowers, one long, golden September fortnight. But such meteors only -make our persistent gloom, where lilies are concerned, the more signal. - -The pergola had to go the way of so many cherished dreams. Yet there is -an exception. With just an occasional threat of disease, there is one -border favoured by the tiger-lily. She is not a very choice creature, -of course; she has neither the fragrance nor the mystic grace of her -cousins; but such as she is, she is welcome in our midst. On our third -terrace there is a stretch of turf, curved outwards like a half-moon, -against a new yew hedge: we call it the Hemicycle. In spring it is a -jocund pleasaunce for crocus and scylla and flowering trees--almond, -_Pyrus floribunda_, and peach; in summer the weeping standards hold -the field, set between the pots of climbing geraniums. That is on the -outward curve. A rough wall, overhung with Dorothy Perkins, clothed -from the base with Rêve d’Or, runs straightly on the inner side. It is -in the border underneath this wall that the tiger-ladies condescend to -us. - -Last year, by a somewhat accidental development of seeds, we had a -marvellous post-impressionist effect along the line, for all the stocks -there planted, between the Tigrinum, turned out to be purple and mauve. -They grew tall, with immense heads of bloom: drawn up by the wall, we -think. Over the orange and violet row the Dorothy Perkins showered -masses of vivid pink. A narrow ribbon of bright pale yellow violas ran -between the border and the turf. To connect this mass of startling -colour, an intermediate regiment of lavender-bushes and the cream hues -of the Rêve d’Or roses against their grey-green foliage acted very -successfully. It is not a scheme that one would perhaps have tried -deliberately, but we could not regret it. It does one good sometimes to -steep the senses in such a fine tangle of elementary colour. The shock -is bracing, as of a sea wave; like the march of a military band, we -could enjoy it, in the open air and sunshine, just where it was placed; -away from the house, with its distant background of fir-trees and moors. - -Yet it is a mistake to use the word “post-impressionist” in connection -with our border; for that movement, with all its pretended revival of -the old pagan spirit of joy, was only an effort to conceal fundamental -misery. The tango is no dance of gods and nymphs, but a dreadful -merry-go-round of lost souls. The post-impressionist painting is not -a flag of radiant defiance--youth challenging the unbelieved gloom of -life--but a kind of outbreak as of disease: something spotty, fungoid, -shaped like germs under the microscope. - -Let us come back to the lilies. Come out of the fever-room into the -garden. - -We once tried to make a field of lilies. Our lowest garden has a -different kind of soil fortunately from the greensand which makes the -upper terrace beds such rapacious devourers of manure and fertilizers, -and all the other necessary and unfragrant riches. The Signora took -thought with herself and made a kind of nursery plantation at one end -of the vegetable garden, to the meek despair of our gardener, who, -like all other gardeners, cherishes a cabbage-patch with a passionate -preference. She invested in a good three thousand bulbs, among others, -hundreds of Candidums. Was it a punishment for her extravagance? Many -years of life and experience have taught her that where we sin we are -punished, by as inevitable a law as that of cause and effect. Or was it -just the cursed spite of those wandering devils who, Indian and Irish -folk alike believe, are always hovering ready to pounce upon success? -Whether justice or malice, it is immaterial; the result was disaster. -They had sent up straight spikes of vivid green, untouched by a trace -of the horrible bilious complexion that bespeaks the prevalent disease, -when the May frost came and laid them flat and seared. - -After all, they would hardly have been much use in that especial spot, -as far as garden perspective is concerned; and except for the hall and -staircase lilies are not indoor flowers. The Signora loves the warm -fragrance to gush up diffused through the house, but in any room it -becomes overwhelming, almost gross. She does not even care for them -pictorially at close quarters, meaning here the larger kind, including -Candidum. They are essentially open-air flowers; they need the sun and -the wind about them, background and space. It seems almost blasphemous -to say so, but on the nearer sight their appearance becomes like their -scent, a little coarse. - -On an altar, once again, they assume their proper proportions; and, -carved in stone, they are decorative and satisfying. But the Arum -lily, which is not a lily at all, long-stemmed, in a vase, with its -own gorgeous leaves about it, is something to sit and gaze at with -ever-increasing content! - -The nearest thing to a field of lilies the Signora ever saw was a whole -gardenful at the back of a little house in Brussels. She was only a -child at the time, a weary, bored, depressed small person at that, in -the uncongenial surroundings of a detested private school. But one -Sunday morning, for some unremembered reason, she was taken after Mass -by the second mistress (an ugly, angry woman, inappropriately baptized -Estelle), and brought out of the dust of the scorching street into -this, to all appearance trivial, not to say sordid, little house. - -“Would Mademoiselle like to look at my garden?” said its owner. - -She was old and wizened and yellow-faced; but she had kind eyes, and it -was certainly a kindly thought. - -The whole of that garden, some forty by twenty feet, was filled with -Madonna lilies, growing like grass in a field, with only a narrow path -whereby to walk round them. - -“Consider the lilies how they grow.... Not Solomon in all his glory was -arrayed as one of these!” - -The child that saw them was too unyeared and ignorant to apply these -wonderful words if she had ever heard them. She could not feel her -pleasure sharpened by the exquisite sensation of having the vision -phrased in language as beautiful as itself. But she has carried away -the memory, as sacredly as Wordsworth that of his daffodils-- - - “I gazed--and gazed--but little thought - What wealth the show to me had brought: - - “For oft, when on my couch I lie - In vacant or in pensive mood, - They flash upon that inward eye - Which is the bliss of solitude, - And then my heart with pleasure fills - And dances with the Daffodils.” - -Wordsworth, notably among poets, has the gift of expressing the -inexpressible, of clothing in language some fleeting sensation which -seems, of its exquisiteness and illusiveness, undefinable. There are -lines of his that follow one like a phrase of music. - - “The sounding cataract haunted me like a passion.” - - “The light that never was on sea or land.” - - “... Old, unhappy, far-off things, - And battles long ago.” - -The first effect of any sight of surpassing beauty, indeed of any -strong emotion of admiration, is an instant desire of expression; then -comes the pain of inarticulateness to most of us--there is a swelling -of the soul and no outlet! That is why, when someone else may have -perfectly said what for us is inexpressible, there is a double joy in -discoveries. - -To wander from our lilies to flowers of speech and description: the -perfect phrase has in itself a delight that almost equals that of the -perfect thought. - -For those who, like ourselves, work in words, however humbly--poor -stone-breakers compared to such as make the marble live--the mere -art in the setting of the words themselves has a fascination of its -own. It is not only the idea--it is sometimes not even the idea that -enchants. There is a magic of cadence alone. Sometimes, indeed, just a -conjunction of two words seems to make a chord. - -To go further, a single word may ring out like a note upon the mind. -The Italian _Amore_, for instance--who can deny that it echoes richly -and nobly? It is a sound of gravity and passion mixed. It is like -the first vibrating stroke of a master-hand on the ’cello. Did not -the resonance of the word itself go as far as the meaning to inspire -Jacopone with his ecstatic hymn wherein he plays upon it like a -musician upon a note which calls, insists, repeats itself, for ever -dominates or haunts the theme?-- - - “Amore, amore, che si m’hai ferito - Altro che amore non posso gridare: - Amore, amore, teco so unito....” - -You could not take the word “love” and ring the changes in this way, -not even upon the kindred-sounding _Amour_, losing in its “ou” exactly -the tone of solemnity that makes the Italian equivalent so royal. - -In a delightful series of musical sketches recently published, the -author remarks, speaking of Tschaikowski’s “Symphonie Pathétique”: - -“For those who have the score there is an added joy in the titles, -‘Incalzando,’ ‘feroce,’ ‘affretando,’ ‘saltando,’ ‘con dolcezza e -flebile,’ ‘con tenerezza e devozione’; it makes most interesting -reading. But the most splendid title of all is that of the last -movement, ‘Adagio Lamentoso’--can’t you hear it? What a lot our -language misses by the clipped and oxytone ‘lament’! Even ‘lamentation’ -is a mere shadow beside the full roll of the Latin tongues, the -ineffable melody that sounds in ‘lamentabile regnum.’” - -We do not, however, agree with this pleasant writer on the subject of -“clipped and oxytone lament.” To us the English word is infinitely -keener reaching than any added vowel could make it! “Lamentable” we -grant to be pompous and middle Victorian. It is eloquent of the -conventional mourning of the funeral mute, while _lamentoso_ has to our -ear a horrible wobble like the howl of a lonely dog. - -We defy the most poetical and profound scholar to render in any other -tongue the _guai_ of Dante. Who could give the value of the hopeless -cry of sorrow culminating in that line of which _guai_ is the central -wail! - - “Cosi vid’ io venir, traendo guai - Ombre portate della detta briga.” - -This is not to insist on the obvious that Italian is a musical language -and Dante a star apart. Every language that has served literature -will be found to hold its own words of magic. It is not the moment to -quote German, but we think _Trauer_ tolls across the senses like the -passing-bell, while the French _Glas_ falls upon the soul with a frozen -misery indescribable outside itself. - -Those fortunate scholars who have mastered as much of the secrets of -Greek as the modern can master, tell us that it is impossible to convey -in any other tongue the richness, the value, the wide meaning and -exquisite shades of the ancient Greek language. We know that they had -words in each of which a whole picture could be set before the mind. -To read Gilbert Murray’s fascinating “Ancient Greek Literature” is, -however, to find a revelation which severer and more extensive writings -fail to convey. A poet, he alone has caught and interpreted the echo of -those lyres still ringing across the ages. And he, too, computes his -impressions in terms of music. “Many lovers of Pindar,” he says, “agree -that the things which stay in one’s mind, stay not as thoughts but as -music.” - -Of course, the Greeks wedded words and music after a fashion unknown to -us, who merely set words to be sung to music in our operas and songs. -It is a lost art. - -But it seems conceivable that there may be an actual music hidden in -language itself, something that the senses of the mind apprehend, -quite apart from the idea incorporated. The late Sir Henry Irving, -just before his famous production of Macbeth, discussing his intention -of introducing music at the moments of crisis, defended this much -criticized point by saying: “I mean to do it, because music carries the -soul beyond words, even beyond thought.” - -We are not sure that he was right, except in so far as the appeal -to the gallery was concerned, which, after all, every actor-manager, -however artistic and perceptive, is bound to consider first of all. In -fact, we are quite certain that he was wrong. The music of Shakespeare -should not have been overlaid by any sound of violin or trumpet. - -We can conceive no sorrow of muted strings which could intensify the -poignancy of Macduff’s cry: “All my pretty ones, did you say all?” A -cry, too, so spontaneous in its truth and simplicity that, according to -a current phrase in the theatrical profession, the part of Macduff acts -itself. - -Who would want to add more melody to the following - - “That strain again--it had a dying fall: - O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet south - That breathes upon a bank of violets, - Stealing, and giving odour....” - -Will anyone deny that there is music in these lines, that the singular -impression produced by them is due not only to the perfection of a -thought perfectly expressed, to the scent of violets exquisitely and -instantly evoked by the cunning of genius, but to the actual words? -The phrase rises and falls. Read or heard, it is the same, a strain of -melody. - -To one of the writers the two words, “Scarlet Verbena,” have always -produced the impression as of a trumpet blast. Hoffmann used to say -that he never smelt a red carnation without hearing the winding of a -horn. - -No doubt the senses are indefinably intermixed. - - “Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, - Rings Eden thro’ the budded quicks, - O tell me where the senses mix, - O tell me where the passions meet”-- - -cries Tennyson to the nightingale. - -Nevertheless, must one not believe that there are distinct senses of -the soul and mind which are called into action by the spoken or written -word? It is trite to say there are moments when one is gripped by the -throat by a mere phrase, not, mind you, because of its dramatic force, -but rather from some inherent spell of beauty or sorrow. There are -others when one seems to lay hold of a set of words; as it were, to be -able to touch and feel them as though they had been modelled. - -And again, who has not felt an actual pain, as of a delicate blade -being thrust into the heart, by some phrase of scarcely analyzable -pathos. Heine had that weapon. The art of it, we suppose, is that of -extreme simplicity combined with selection, but the emotion is quite -incommensurate with the importance of the theme, the value of the -expressed idea. - -To use another simile, it is like a wailing air on some primitive -instrument, which by its very artlessness pierces to the marrow of the -consciousness. - - “Ces doux airs du pays, au doux rythme obsesseur, - Dont chaque note est comme une petite sœur,” - -as Rostand has it. - -Think of the effect in “Tristran” of the shepherd’s pipe at the -beginning of the last act. - -It comes to this after all, that however one may study, however perfect -the technique of writing, however one may inspire oneself from the -springs of genius, it is artlessness, not art, that reaches home. It -might be truer to say that it takes a consummate art to touch the right -note of artlessness; yet we all know how curiously we can sometimes be -affected by the words that fall from childish lips. - -A Belgian babe of two, a dimpled, radiant creature, seemingly untouched -by the storm which had flung her from her own luxurious nurseries into -a bare English lodging, was found, two days after her arrival in exile, -kissing and talking to the little crucifix which hung round her neck. -Her mother bent to listen. - -“Dear Jesus,” the child was saying, “poor wounded soldier!” - -The profound and mystic consolation of the link between the human agony -and the Divine had somehow dawned upon the infant mind, and found this -tender expression. - -A little boy we knew said to his mother one evening as she tucked him -up in his cot: - -“Oh, mammie, I die a little every night, I love you so.” Here, with an -exquisite directness, the inevitable pain of a deep tenderness is laid -bare by the lips of innocence. - - * * * * * - -It is this quality of simplicity and directness--yes, we are not afraid -to say it, of innocence--which makes the stories of our soldiers so -infinitely touching. - -“Tell daddie and mammie,” said a dying Irish lad to the comrade who -bent over him to take his last message, “’twas against their will I -’listed; tell them I’m not sorry now I did it.” - -No fine-sounding phrase, no stirring oration, could more piercingly set -forth the triumph of the ultimate sacrifice of patriotism. _Dulce et -decorum est pro patria mori._ - -Our men are like children in their gaiety--pleased with little things -as a child with a toy; joking, making believe, making a game out of -their very danger; unconscious of their own heroism, as the best kind -of boy, who risks his neck for a nest; blindly confident in their -leaders. If it had not been for this complete trust in what their -officers told them, could the retreat from Mons have ended in anything -but disaster? Yet we know that--like children--whole regiments burst -into tears when ordered to give up the positions they had won. - -A war correspondent ends a terrible account of the further withdrawal -from Tournai by a description of a night in a barn where scatterers had -taken refuge. - -“And all night long,” he says, “there were the sobs of a big corporal -of artillery, weeping for his horses.” - -In the throes of the great struggle, this side of humanity--call it the -childish, if you will, we have Divine authority for believing that it -is akin to the spiritual--asserts itself, nay, becomes paramount. To be -more precise, the real man is stripped of his conventions, sophistries, -and pretences. Only the things that matter are the things that count. - -When the Emperor Frederick was dying, his last message was this: “Let -my people return to their faith and simplicity of life.” - -If he had been spared to his own land, it would be a different world -to-day. Under the dreadful test of war the German soldiery as a mass, -indeed the whole people, have sunk below the level of the brute. It is -the English who have come back to faith and simplicity. - -The Rev. W. Forest, Catholic Chaplain of the Expeditionary Force, -writes: “It is true to say that the German Kaiser is fighting a -community of saints--converted, if you like--but with not a mortal sin -scarcely to be found among them.” The special correspondent of the -_Sunday Times_ has a touching testimony in a recent issue to men of all -denominations: “To be at the front,” he declares, “is to breathe the -air of heroes. The Church of England chaplains, in accordance with the -general wish among the men, are giving Early Communion Services. It is -a marvellous sight,” continues the journalist, “to see the throngs of -soldiers kneeling in the dawn, the light on their upturned faces. They -go forth strengthened, ready for anything, feeling that the presence of -Christ is amongst them.” - -With our French Allies, too, the spirit of faith has reawakened. An -English officer writes to the _Evening Standard_: “The French soldiers -go into the trenches, each with his little medal of Our Lady hung round -his neck--they pray aloud in action, not in fear, but with a high -courage and a great trust.” - -“On All Souls’ Day,” he adds, “I saw the village _curé_ come out -and bless the graves of our poor lads. The graves, mark, of rough -Protestant soldiers, decorated with chrysanthemums by the villagers. -These poor dead were blessed, and called the faithful departed, and -wept over and prayed for.” - -“And thine own soul a sword shall pierce, that out of many hearts -thoughts may be revealed.” - -If one may reverently paraphrase Simeon’s prophecy to the mother of the -Man of Sorrows, can one not say that the soul of the world is pierced -to-day, and the thoughts of the nations revealed? - -A neutral diplomat, recently arrived in England from Vienna, via Paris, -has told us of the singular indifference of the Austrian capital to -the tragedy in which her own sons are taking part. “Vienna,” he says, -“has shown only one moment of emotion, and that was when the little -breakfast rolls were condemned. No one cares in Vienna. Life is--how -shall I say?--it is all one ‘Merry Widow.’ It is not that they have any -confidence in their own army. They shrug their shoulders and spread out -their hands, but in Germany--they have the faith of the hypnotized! -Nothing can happen to Germany, therefore Austria is safe.” - -Recently an order was issued to have the cafés closed at one o’clock -in the morning. It was not agreeable to the public, but they have -contrived a substitute for their _petits pains_ which is some slight -compensation. - -“I shall return,” he added pensively--“I shall return with how much -regret to the indecent carnival that is Vienna!” - -His impression of France was very different. He could not sufficiently -express his astonishment at the change that had come over the country. -The dignity of France, the quiet strength of France, the spiritual -confidence of France! In the army was only one apprehension: lest -they should not be upheld by the civilians in their determination to -fight to the very end. The churches were crowded; men and women have -alike returned to the faith of their fathers. There was no unseemly -merrymaking there, no unworthy attempt in café or theatre to forget the -agonizing struggle. - -At a recent entertainment in a very poor quarter a pretty girl dressed -as France appeared arm-in-arm with an actor got up like a British -soldier, and there was immense applause; but when she started the tango -with her companion she was hissed off the stage. - -As for Paris: “Tenez,” said our friend, in conclusion, “I will give you -a little instance. I was walking down the Rue de la Paix, when I heard -a woman laugh out loud. Everyone in the street turned round to look at -her.” - -Of the thoughts of Germany what can be said? They need no pointing -out. They are written in blood and fire from end to end of Belgium, -and in a long stretch of once smiling France; in Servia, carried out -by Hungarians and Austrians, under German orders; in Poland. They are -written in the German Press for all the world to read: blasphemy, -brag, bluster, hysterical hatred, insanity of futile threat, shameless -asseveration of self-evident falsehood. “Do nations go mad?” an -American paper has asked. Germany presents the appalling spectacle of -a nation run to evil. It is not only the war party, the soldiery, the -press, the learned professors. It is the very population itself. The -soul of Germany is revealing its thoughts. - - * * * * * - -The lily-garden in the little Brussels by-street on the way to the Bois -de la Cambre, if it is still in existence, must have ceased blooming -before the Germans entered Brussels. Otherwise it is not likely that -it should have escaped the fury of destruction which seizes them at the -sight of anything pure and noble and beautiful. - -“Consider the lilies.” - -We know how the Uhlan officers deliberately rode backwards and forwards -over the blooming flower-beds in the great _Place_ upon the day of -their entrance march. - -We know how they stabled their horses in the world-famous conservatories -of the Palace of Laecken--a custom they have practised at nearly -every château in the country; how in that orgy which will for ever -disgrace the name of the Duke of Brunswick the portrait of the young -Queen of the Belgians, that royal flower of courage and devotion, was -unspeakably insulted. - -We know how whole regiments have trampled over straggling children in -the village streets--these little flower blossoms, as the Japanese call -them. - -And those humble lilies of the cloister that have fallen into -sacrilegious grasp, we know how they have been considered; how Rheims, -with its hawthorn porch, blossoming in stone flower of all the -Christian shrines of all the world, stately lily of the days of faith, -has fared at the hand of the German. - -“_Ich bin der Geist der stets verneint_,” says the Spirit of Evil in -Goethe’s “Faust.” - -It has always seemed a marvellous definition; the negation of good, the -spirit that ever denies. But the demon of present-day Germany comes -from a deeper pit than Goethe’s intellectual mocking devil. It is the -spirit that forever destroys. - -The struggle has not brutalized but spiritualized our men. Through -the appalling conditions in which they fight they reach out to the -mystic side of things. When they speak of death they call it “going -west.” It is the old, old Celtic thought of the Isle beyond the Sunset. -They “talk of God a great deal,” as the soldiers’ letters tell us. -The Irish Guards fell on their knees at Compiègne before making their -famous attack up the hill. As they charged, “our men crossed the plain, -hurrahing and singing, while many of them had a look of absolute joy -on their faces.” They have their visions. A soldier lying wounded and -helpless on the field and gazing agonized on the breach in our line, -saw the Germans rush and then fall back; and beheld St. George standing -in his armour in the gap; then heard the Lancastrians cry, as they -dashed on: “St. George for England!” - -What yet more august revelation did he have, that dying French -sergeant, who, looking profoundly upon the surgeon who was ministering -to him, replied to his encouragement: - -“Mon Major, je suis déjà avec Dieu,” and instantly expired. - -Every regiment must have its emblem; the minds of the men turn -naturally to the symbolic. - -“I’d like to look at the colours,” said a mortally wounded gunner to -his Captain. - -“Look at the guns, my man, those are the gunners’ colours!” - -And the boy was uplifted to look, till his eye glazed. - -We do not take the colours into action now, but we know what the -Standard means to our Allies. It seems a pity that political revolution -should have displaced the ancient lilies of France. There is something -so grand in tradition. Dignity of noble ancestry is not confined to -man alone. Houses possess it, and lands, and surely nations. Are not -our soldiers to-day the heirs of the yeomen and bowmen of Agincourt? - -“O God of battles, steel my soldiers’ hearts!” is the prayer on the -lips of all of us; and we feel through all, even as Harry the King, -the same proud confidence in the good blood that cannot lie. Shall not -those who stay at home “hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks” -of Mons, or Ypres, or--of those glories yet to come? - -Thus, in a way, it seems to us that if France fights in her body under -the Tricolour, in her soul she is fighting under the Lilies. It is -the old France again, the France of the days of faith. In one of Joan -of Arc’s visions she saw Charlemagne and St. Louis kneeling before -the throne, pleading for the land they had loved and served. She who -carried the Oriflamme may now form the third in that shining company -and look down, perhaps, considering the lilies growing out of the -field of blood. Perhaps she may say: “Not Solomon in all his glory was -arrayed as one of these.” - - - - -V - -DEATH IN THE LITTLE GARDEN - - “O Saul, it shall be - A face like my face that receives thee, a man like to me - Thou shalt love and be loved by for ever! A hand like this hand - Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ - stand.” - - ROBERT BROWNING. - - -_March._--We bought the small place on the Surrey highlands and -furnished it out of Rome; and set statues and cypresses and vases -overflowing with flowers about the quaint terraces that run down to -the valley; and we have a bit of Italy between pine-woods and wild -moorland. We have called it the Villino. - -The idea started as a week-end cottage. Gradually, however, we came to -pay the flying visits to the London house and spend the most of our -time in the country. Since the war began we have settled altogether on -the span of earth which has become so endeared to us. Never was any -home established in such a spirit of lightheartedness. - -The new property has been our toy; something to laugh at while we enjoy -it. It is absurd and apart and beloved and attractive; and though the -great shadow that rose in August overcast the brightness of the Villino -garden and all its prospects, we could yet look out upon the peace -and the fairness and take comfort therefrom; turn with relief to the -growing things and all the innocent interests that surround and centre -in a country life. - -It never dawned upon us that the garden itself could become a point -of tragedy; that every pushing spike of bulb and every well-pruned -rose-tree would have their special pang for our hearts, yet so it is. -Never again shall we be able to look with the eyes of pure enjoyment on -terrace and border, rose-arch and woodland. - -Adam, the kindly gardener of our special plot of earth, has been struck -down; hurled, by an inscrutable decree of Providence in the zenith of -his activities, from life to death. - -He was as much a part of the Villino as we ourselves; a just and kindly -man, not yet forty; one of the handsomest of God’s creatures, and the -most gentle-hearted. We cannot see the meaning of such a blow; we can -only bow the head. - -“Doesn’t it seem hard,” cried the daughter of the Villino, “that in -these days there should be one unnecessary widow!” - -The last time the Signora saw him alive was about a week before the -tragedy. He had come into the funny little Roman drawing-room--all -faint gay tints and flamboyant Italian gilt carved wood--carrying a -large pot of arum lilies. He scarcely looked like an Englishman with -his dark, rich colouring and raven hair prematurely grey; though he was -so all-English, of England’s best, in his heart and mind. - -A little Belgian child, on a visit to us, rushed up to him, chattering -incomprehensibly. She is just three and very friendly; something in -Adam’s appearance must have attracted her, for she left everything she -had been playing with to run to him the moment he appeared. - -This is how the Signora will always remember him, standing, big and -gentle, looking down at the child with those kind, kind eyes. - -There was never anyone so good to little animals. We used to say he was -a true if unconscious brother of St. Francis, and loved all God’s small -folk. Never was a sick cat or dog but Adam would have the nursing of it. - -One would see him walking about the garden wheeling his barrow, with a -great black Persian coiled round his neck like a boa. Nearly two years -ago a little daughter was born to him here, to his great joy. She was -always in her father’s arms during the free hours of the day; and not -the least piteous incident of the tragedy was the way this baby, just -beginning to babble a few words, kept calling for “Daddy, daddy,” while -he lay next door in the tiny sitting-room he had taken such pleasure -in, like a marble effigy, smiling, beautiful, awful, for ever deaf to -her appeal. - -He had been slightly ailing since an attack of influenza; but on the -morning of his death he said to his wife that he felt as if he could -do the work of six men that day. The kind of cruel light-heartedness -which the Scotch call “being fey” was upon him. Like Romeo before -the great catastrophe, “his bosom’s lord sat lightly on his throne.” -Strange freaks of presentiment never to be explained on this side of -the grave! There are those who feel the shadow of approaching fatality -cloud their spirits--we have heard a hundred instances of certain -forebodings of death during the present war--but this mysterious gaiety -of the doomed is rarer and more awful. Yet Adam must have had his -secret sad warnings too, for his poor wife found, to her astonishment, -his insurance cards, his accounts made up to the end of the week on the -Thursday of which he died, the ambulance badge he had been so proud -of--all laid ready to her hand. He had set his house in order before -the summons came. We have every reason to think that in a deeper, -graver sense he was equally prepared. - -“‘Whatever time my Saviour calls me, I shall be ready to go....’ Often -and often,” Mrs. Adam told us, as her tears fell, “he has said those -words to me.” - -Like many another active, hard-working man, the thought of failing -health, debility, old age, was abhorrent to him. - -“He never could have borne a long illness.” Thus the widow tries to -console herself--pitiful scraps of self-administered comfort with which -poor humanity always attempts to parry the horror of an unmitigated -tragedy! - -There are strange secrets between the soul and God. Among the many -wonders of the City of Light will be the simple solving of the riddles -that have been so dark and tormenting to our earthly minds. From the -very beginning of the war this honest Englishman had wanted to go -out and serve his country. He was over age. His wife and two children -depended on his labours, yet the longing never left him. - -“I doubt but I’ll have to go yet,” was a phrase constantly on his lips. - -He had joined the Ambulance Corps and, indeed, was on his way to that -errand of mercy when he was stricken. Did he in those inner communes -of the soul with God breathe forth his desire to give his life for his -country, and was it somehow mystically accomplished? For death smote -him and he fell and lay in his blood, as a soldier might. Who knows -that the sacrifice was not accepted? - -It was terrible for us--it seemed an unbelievable addition to her -burthen of sorrow for the woman who loved him--but for him it may have -been the glory and the crown. - -When all human aid is unavailing, when everything that science can do -to assist or relieve has been accomplished and fellow-creatures must -stand aside and watch the relentless law of nature accomplish itself, -then the value of religion is felt, as perhaps never before, even by -the most devout. - -Had poor Adam but belonged to the Old Faith the call for the priest -would have been more urgent yet than the call for the doctor; we would -have had the consolation of hearing the last Absolution pronounced -over the unconscious form. The soul would have taken flight from the -anointed body, strengthened by the ultimate rites; the child of the -Church would have gone forth from the arms of the Church--from the arms -of the earthly mother, to the mercy and justice of the heavenly Father. - -We did what we could, his own clergyman being away. Never were we more -impressed with the value of the Sacrament of Extreme Unction. It is -all very well to say that we must live so as to be ready to die; that -as the tree grows so shall it fall. Here are trite axioms that will -not stand a moment before the facts of life and the needs of humanity. -They make no account of the mercy of the Creator on one side nor of the -weakness of the failing spirit on the other. They forget the penitent -thief on the cross, bidden to enter into Paradise upon the merit of -a single cry. If the Church of our ancestors watches anxiously over -the whole existence of her children; if she hovers about the cradle, -how does she not hang over the deathbed to catch the faintest sigh of -repentance; nay, how does she not “prevent” the least effort, pouring -forth graces and supplications, anointing, absolving, pursuing the -departing spirit beyond the very confines of the world, sublimely -audacious, to the throne of God itself! - -She has caught the precious soul, for whom the Lord died, before the -infant mind was even aware of its own existence. She is not going to be -robbed of her treasure at the end, if she can help it. - -But our poor, dying Adam was not of this fold, and could have no such -aid and sanctification for his passing. Even his afflicted wife quailed -from the fruitless agony of witnessing his last moments. “Since I -couldn’t do anything, ma’am, it’s more than I can bear.” - -She went down to her cottage at the bottom of the garden to prepare a -fit resting-place for the body, while in the garage the soul of her -dearest accomplished its final and supreme act on earth. - -We read the great prayers to ourselves--those wonderful prayers -commensurate in dignity and grandeur to the awful moment. We cried -upon the Angels and Archangels, upon the Thrones, the Cherubim and -Seraphim; we bade the Patriarchs and the Prophets, the Doctors and -Evangelists, the Confessors and Martyrs, the Holy Virgins and all the -Saints of God to rush to his assistance. We supplicated that his place -this day should be in peace and his abode in Holy Sion; we cast his -sins upon the multitudes of the Divine mercies, and strong through -the merits of Christ our appeal rose into triumph. With confidence we -summoned the noble company of the Angels to meet him, the court of the -Apostles to receive him, the army of glorious Martyrs to conduct him, -the joyful Confessors to encompass him, the choir of blessed Virgins to -go before him. We conjured Christ, his Saviour, to appear to him with -a mild and cheerful countenance. And, with this great name upon our -lips, we “compassed him about with angels, so that the infernal spirits -should tremble and retire into the horrid confusion of eternal night.” - -All the household, except the very young servants, knelt round him -praying silently, since we did not dare obtrude our own tenets about -the deathbed of another faith. The Master stood with his hand on his -dying servant’s head; and so the end came very peacefully. - -A belated curate appeared at the cottage as the daughter of the house -went down to tell Mrs. Adam that all was over; but he fled before the -sad burthen was carried in. - -We had often noticed it before, but never so forcibly, this shying -away of some excellent religious people from any contemplation of the -immediate experience of the soul after death. Beyond sentences of -comfort as stereotyped as they are vague, which place the departed -“safe in the arms of Jesus,” one would almost believe that the average -man had no very vivid sense of the future life at all. How otherwise -explain the remarks, so frequently heard, that a sudden death is such a -desirable end; that it was “such a comfort so-and-so didn’t know he was -going”; how explain the attitude at the sick-bed, where the sufferer to -the last is deluded with false hopes that he may be spared--what? the -knowledge that he is summoned to the house of God, the last opportunity -of preparation. - -Even when Mrs. Adam’s clergyman came to see her, chief among his -consolations was the remark, made in all sincerity: “That’s the kind of -death I should prefer to die.” - -Good Adam was ready to go, we know that; but can any man with a true -sense of his own soul bring himself to wish to be taken in like manner? -It is, after all, to wish for one’s self the death one would want for -one’s dog. Without even belonging to a Church where the last stage is -hallowed and made a culminating act of precious resignation and the -highest virtue, it seems to us that the instinctive nobility of man -should rebel against the craven doctrine that death is a thing to be -huddled through, a step to be taken drugged and blindfolded, that the -consciousness is to be chloroformed against the anguish of dissolution. -It is to rob humanity of its supremest quality--the triumph of the -spirit over the flesh, the noble acceptance of our lot, the dignity of -the last renunciation. - -Browning, the most virile of our poets, cries: - - “I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, - The best and the last! - I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forebore, - And bade me creep past. - No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, - The heroes of old.” - -Yet this curious evasion of the inevitable is only the natural outcome -of a looseness of theology which, while it admits the dogma of right -and wrong, of free will and human responsibility, hurls the perfect and -the imperfect, the saint and the sinner alike, into the same heaven -without an instant’s transition. As very few now believe in hell, it -is no unfair conclusion to draw that the mere fact of death seems, in -the eyes of most people, to qualify the soul for eternal bliss. It is -idle to ask what becomes of the generally accepted doctrine of moral -responsibility, why, if all are alike and certain to be saved, anyone -should put himself to the disagreeable task of resisting temptation, -much less strive after perfection here below; but failure to provide -help for the dying is the direct consequence of the denial of future -expiation. - -“What man is there among you who, if his son shall ask bread, will he -reach him a stone?” - -The Viaticum, the bread of life, is denied to the passing soul, and the -draught of comfort of devout prayer withheld from the beloved in the -fires of expiation; but the tombstone will be considered with loving -thought, and erected over the insensible dust. - -The Old Faith shows a profound knowledge of and tenderness for the -mere human side in its hour of anguish, even while providing for the -paramount needs of the soul. There is one, one only comfort for the -bereaved--to be able to help still, and of that they are deprived. - -“It isn’t as if I could do any good,” said poor Mrs. Adam, when she -turned away from her husband’s deathbed. - -She had the power to do such infinite good if she had only known it. -What prayer could be so far-reaching as that of the cry of the wife for -the chosen one, from whom God alone reserved Himself the right to part -her? What act of resignation could be so meritorious as that of her who -was making the sacrifice of her all? - -“I sent down to tell them to ring the passing-bell,” said the widow. -She was eager to accomplish every detail of respectful ceremony that -had been left to her. - -The passing-bell! Touching institution of the ages of belief, the call -for prayers for the soul in its last struggle, the summons to friend -and stranger, kindly neighbour and stray passer-by, the cry of the -mother for the last alms for her child! - -“Oh,” exclaimed our daughter that night, reflecting on these things, -“my heart burns when I think how the poor have been robbed of their -faith!” - -And the mighty lesson which the ancient Church taught by her attitude -to the dying is that by calmly turning the eyes of the faithful towards -the need for preparation, the duty of warning the sick in time, the -immeasurable gain of the last Sacraments as compared to the loss of -an unfounded earthly hope, she is giving the only possible comfort -alike to the living and the dying; she is placing within reach of the -mourners just the one factor that makes their grief bearable--the power -of being of use. - -Mrs. MacComfort, our Irish cook, who is as near a saint herself as one -can ever hope to meet, said to us, the tears brimming in her soft eyes: -“Oh, doesn’t it make us feel ashamed of ourselves when we see what our -holy religion is, and how little we live up to it!” - -And, indeed, that our poor fellow-countrymen are so good without these -helps is at once a wonder and a rebuke to us. Mrs. Adam made her -sacrifice with a most touching submission: “God must know best.” - -“When they came down and told me there’d been an accident, my hands -were in the washtub, miss,” she told one of us later, “and as I ran up -the garden drying them in my apron, I was praying God all the while -that he would give me strength to bear what I might have to see.” - -God never refuses such a prayer as that. Adam was an example. It is -astonishing the effect the death of this simple gardener has made in -the district, and the testimonies of his worth keep coming in. It shows -how wide the influence one good man can exercise in any class of life-- - - “The very ashes of the just - Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.” - -In a narrower sense we shall ourselves always feel that something of -him has gone into the soil of our little garden, for which he worked so -faithfully. Some of the fragrance of that humble soul will rise up from -the violet beds and hang about the roses. - - * * * * * - -We have been the more disposed to draw these parallels between the Old -Faith and its substitute because, by a curious coincidence, Adam’s was -the second death to fling sadness over the Villino. - -The first was not a personal loss, like that of a servant in the house. -It concerned, indeed, a being whom only one of us had seen. It happened -far away in the bloody swamps of the Yser; yet, none the less, the -tidings filled the little household with mourning. - -Among the many exiles flying to our shores from the horror of the -advancing Hun were two young mothers with their children--two charming, -delicately nurtured, high-born, high-minded women, whose husbands were, -one, an officer in the Belgian army, the other, a volunteer working -in the ambulance at Calais. The soldier’s wife, the niece of an old -friend of ours, a gay, courageous creature, who twice had gone into -the line of fire to see her husband, was never tired of speaking to us -of “Charley.” He seemed in the end to have become almost a familiar -among us. We knew by his photographs that he was handsome, and, by the -portions of his letters which she read to us, that he was tender and -deep-feeling and strong of courage. - -Some weeks ago Charley’s wife left to live with her sister; her cousin -still remained with us. It was the latter who was sent for to the -telephone that evening when the shadow of death rolled up suddenly and -hung over the little house. - -An unforgettable moment when she turned from the instrument, crying in -accents that pierced one: “_Charley tué! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, Charley -tué!_” - -It was when we afterwards learnt the details of the tragedy, which were -piteous in the extreme as far as it affected the wife, that the noble -consolations of our religion emerged in all their beauty. - -The officer had announced an approaching leave, and the joyful -anticipation of his little family was commensurate to the love they -bore him. As one instance of that love, let it be noted here that his -small son, only six years old, could never hear the name of his absent -father without tears. - -The wife was alone in the garden, resting from the fatigues of a -morning spent in preparing for that visit, when a telegram arrived, -badly transcribed, in French. She could at first only make out her -husband’s name, her brother’s signature, and the words, “Shall be at -Calais to-day.” - -She danced into the house in ecstasy, crying to the children: “Papa is -coming; papa and Uncle Robert are coming.” - -And it was only on the stairs that a second glance at the sheet in her -hand revealed the fatal word “_tué_.” - -A cousin--another young exiled wife and mother--who lived in close -proximity, was summoned by the distracted maid, and writes in simple -language of the scene of agony: “As soon as I got into the little -house,” she says, “I heard her dreadful sobs; I ran to her. ‘Charley is -killed, Charley is killed!’ she cried to me. I have never seen anyone -in such a state. She was almost in convulsions. I put my arms about -her. ‘Make your sacrifice; offer it up for the good of his soul,’ I -said to her. ‘No, no! I cannot,’ she said. At first she could not, but -I held her close, and after a little I said to her: ‘Say the words -after me: “O my God, I accept your will for the good of his soul.”’ And -once she had said it she did not go back on it. From that moment she -was calm.” - -So calm, indeed, that the unhappy young creature had the strength of -mind to go in to her children, terrified at the sound of her weeping, -and smilingly reassure them, talk and play with them, till their -bedtime. She meant to start that night for Calais, and did not wish her -little ones to know of their loss till her return. - -All her energies were strained to the single purpose--to see him once -again before he was laid to rest. She had her desire. The journey was -an odyssey of physical and mental pain, but by sheer determination she -won through, and found her brother, who had obtained leave of absence -from his regiment to meet her. By him she was conveyed to a little -village at the back of the Belgian line, where, in a chapel belonging -to a convent, the dead man lay. - -It had been his last day in the trenches. The next was to begin his -brief holiday. He had been posted in that celebrated Maison du Passeur, -among the slimy waters, destined to be the scene of one more tragedy. -There was an alarm that certain enemy snipers were lurking about, and a -small patrol had been ordered to take stock of them. - -“I will not,” said the young officer, “allow my men to go into danger -without me.” - -It was not his duty--it was scarcely even advisable--but he took up a -soldier’s carbine and went forth with it. He was actually taking aim -when the sergeant beside him saw him fail and slowly collapse. There -was, perhaps, a noise of cannon to confuse the man’s senses, for he -heard no shot. There was certainly no start or shock apparent. He -called out: “_Mon lieutenant, qu’avez vous?_” believing it was a sudden -attack of weakness. When he went to his lieutenant he found that he was -dead. He had been struck by a bullet under the eye, so well and truly -aimed that it had instantly ended the young, vigorous life, as far as -this world is concerned. The only mark on his calm face, when his wife -saw it, was that small purple spot, where the wound had closed again. - - “’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as - A church-door; but ’tis enough, ’twill serve.” - -We have seen a snapshot taken of him as he lay wrapped in his country’s -flag. It is a noble, chiselled countenance, looking younger than the -thirty-two years of his life, set in a great serenity, with yet that -stamp of austere renunciation, of supreme sacrifice, measured and -accepted, which we sometimes behold in the face of the dead. - -The whole regiment congregated in the little chapel the afternoon -of the day which brought the widow to her calvary. The building was -decorated with groups of flags, and about the bier were heaped the -wreaths of his brother officers, dedicated nearly all in the same words: - - “To the comrade fallen on the field of honour,” - - “To the comrade who has given his life for his country.” - -In the midst of a profound silence the Colonel read _L’Ordre du Jour_, -which, by King Albert’s command, conferred upon the fallen _Guide_ -the Order of Leopold--for valour--and the bereaved wife was given -the decoration to pin over the cold heart that had been so warmly -hers. There was a muffled roll of drum, and all present sang the -“Brabançonne.” So much for the comfort which the world could still give. - -Next morning the funeral Mass was said at the altar. The bier lay at -the foot of the step, so close that each time the priest turned round -to say _Dominus vobiscum_, his hands were uplifted over the dead. And -the widow and all the officers of the regiment kneeling round received -Holy Communion for, and in memory of, the slain. - -It is not possible--although we know her grief to be as ardent as was -her attachment to him--that this widow can mourn as those who have no -hope. - -The chaplain of the regiment told her that her husband had been to -Confession and Holy Communion the morning he had entered into the -trenches, three days before. “Have no fear, my child,” said the priest, -“he made his Confession as he did everything, with all his heart.” - -Blessed religion, which across the deathbed shows us the heavens -opening for the departed soul, and bids the holy angel guard even the -grave where rests the body, hallowed for the resurrection! - - - - -VI - -BABIES: CHINESE AND OTHERS - - “In how several ways do we speak to our dogs, and they answer - us!”--MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE. - - -The war-baby was very dear and downy when we first saw her. - -She is the daughter of a Chinaman (an important member of the -household), and a neighbouring lady. The Chinaman was, in fact, so -important that the usual matrimonial procedure was reversed in his -case; and the family of the lady made unabashed and persevering -advances for his favour before he could be induced to condescend to the -alliance. - -Anyone familiar with Oriental calm will not be surprised to learn that -the potentate received with imperturbability the announcement that his -lady wife was likely to present him with a family. It was, however, -perhaps pushing Eastern reserve a little too far to walk away from his -infants with every appearance of disgust, and to threaten to bite those -officious friends who sought to extract some show of parental feeling -from him by turning him round once more to confront the seething -cradle-full. - -The cradle was a flat basket, in which the babies maintained a -ceaseless movement, crawling one over the other, with a total disregard -of such sensitive portions of the anatomy as eyes and noses. They were -extraordinarily ill matched as to size--we do not know if this is usual -with triplets--looking more like a job lot of Teddy-bears than anything -else. There was one as large as the other two put together; there was -a very lively medium one; and a very small third, who lay and feebly -squirmed under the others vigorous toes. They all had beautiful black -noses and little cream-coloured tails tightly curled over their backs. -The intelligent reader will by this time have perceived that we are -not referring to mere humanity. The war-babies belong to the race of -Pekinese, being, in fact, the offspring of the celebrated and priceless -Loki, master of the Villino of that name, who fame has already spread -far and wide. - -His consort was Maud, a chestnut-haired lady, who, we regret to say, -had already contracted a _mésalliance_ with a highlander, to the -despair of her family. We are convinced that the union is regarded by -Loki as a mere matter of politics, but what Western would ever dare to -penetrate the barrier of relentless reserve which the Manchu raises -between his domestic affairs and the foreign devil? We fear, by his -expression and the looks of reproach with which he has since regarded -us, that we have already gravely infringed his ideas of decorum by -bringing his daughter to dwell in his house. - -She is the only daughter of the trio, the two extremes having run to -the masculine gender. We chose her on account of her perkiness and her -engaging manner of waving her paws in supplication or allurement. - -These little dogs have all of them more or less the gift of -gesticulation. It is not necessary to teach them either to beg or pray. -The puppy--Plain Eliza--will dance half the length of the room on her -hind-legs, frantically imploring with her front paws the while, with a -persistency and passion that would melt a heart of stone. - -The other day, when the butler walked on the paw of Mimosa, the Peky -nearest to her in age, who rent the air with her yells, Plain Eliza -instantly rose on her hind-legs and added her lamentations. One can -truly say that at the same time she wrung her paws in distress over her -playmate’s suffering. She has a very feeling heart. - -These two adore each other, which is a very good thing, because Mimosa -is really a little Tartar. She is the first fur-child to bring discord -into the happy family at Villino Loki, and to break the Garden of Eden -spell by which cats and dogs of all sizes and tempers dwell together -in the most complete amity and sympathy. A small, imperious person of -a vivid chestnut hue, with devouring dark eyes and the most approved -of snub noses, we flatter ourselves that Mimosa will become a beauty -when she gets her full coat. But she will not stand cats, still less a -kitten, anywhere within the kitchen premises, and Mrs. MacComfort, the -queen of those regions, has actually banished the beloved Kitty and -her offspring to the greengrocer’s shop in order to pander to Mimosa, -who regarded them much as the honest Briton the alien Hun--something -darkly suspicious, to be eliminated from the community at all costs. -Mimosa, indeed, has taken matters into her own paws, as the man in the -street has done, and Mrs. MacComfort has acted like the Government. -Discovering the youngest kitten completely flattened under Mimosa--the -latter, her mane bristling, endeavouring to tear off all her victim’s -fur--it was decided to remove the alien element for its own benefit. - -Harmony is now restored to kitchen dominions. The other morning -the young lady of the Villino found the two little dogs solemnly -seated each side of the hearth, their eyes fixed on an infinitesimal -earthenware pan which was simmering on a carefully prepared fire. - -“They’re just watching me cooking their breakfast, miss,” said Mrs. -MacComfort in her soft voice. “They’re very partial to chicken liver.” - -It was sizzling appetizingly in its lilliputian dish. - -From the moment of Plain Eliza’s entrance upon the scene, squirming in -a basket, Mimosa showed a profound and affectionate interest in her. We -were, if truth be told, a little afraid to trust these demonstrations, -fearing they might be of a crocodile nature, but never was suspicion -more unjust. The elder puppy has completely adopted the younger one, -and is full of anxiety and distress if she is not in her company. She -will come bustling into the room, talking in her Peky way, saying as -plainly as ever a little dog did: “Has anyone seen Baby? It’s really -not safe to let the child go about by herself like that.” - -When she discovers her, the two small things kiss and embrace; after -which Mimosa abdicates her grown-up airs, and romping becomes the order -of the day. - -The name of Plain Eliza is the one which has stuck most distinctively -to the great Mo-Loki’s daughter. It seemed appropriate to her, in the -opinion of the mistress of the Villino, and arose out of a reminiscence -of her Irish youth. There happened to be in Dublin society in those -far-back days a young lady of guileless disposition, not too brilliant -intellect, and what Americans would call “homely” appearance. -Presenting herself at a reception at a house which boasted of a very -pompous butler, and having announced her name as Eliza Dunn, he -forthwith attempted to qualify her with a title. - -“Lady Eliza Dunn?” - -“No, no,” quoth she. “Plain Eliza.” - -Rumour would have it that he thereupon announced in stentorian tones: -“Plain Eliza.” - -It is not so much the uncomeliness of the Baby’s countenance as the -guileless trustfulness with which she turns it upon the world which -seems to make the name appropriate. Anyhow, it has come to stay. - -The little children that run about Villino Loki these days--war-exiles, -most of them--have scarcely crossed the threshold before their voices -are uplifted, calling: - -“Plain! Plain! Where is Plain Eliza?” And when the favourite is found -there is much cooing and fond objurgations of: “Darling Plain! My sweet -little Plain! Dear, darling, Plain Eliza!” - -She is the only one of the Pekies that can be allowed with perfect -safety in the hands of the children. Mimosa is uncertain, and may turn -at any moment with a face of fury, her whole body bristling. She is -secretly very jealous of the children. And Loki is not uncertain at -all. He has never hidden his dislike of them, and his lip begins to -curl the instant a small hand is outstretched towards him. But Plain -Eliza, if bored, remains patient and gentle; and however “homely” she -may seem to her attached family, she is all beauty and charm in the -eyes of their little visitors. - -Recently a most attractive child was for ten days, with her charming -young mother and baby brother, the guest of the Villino. To console her -on departure she was promised another Plain Eliza, should such a one -ever be vouchsafed the world. Her mother writes: “She prays and makes -me pray for the new Plain Eliza every day, and I think fully expects to -see her come shooting down from Heaven.” - -A very dear child this, with a heart and mind almost too sensitive for -her four years. Many delicately pretty sayings are treasured of her. -She must have been about three when her first religious instruction was -given her. It made a profound impression. For months afterwards she -would date her experiences from the day of this enlightenment. - -“You know, mammy, that was before Jesus was born to me!” - -Her father is at the front. He has not yet seen his little son, the -arrival of whom was so much desired. This baby, an out-of-the-way -handsome, healthy child, is a prey to the terrors which it will be -yet mercifully many years before he can understand. He cannot bear to -be left alone a moment, and wakes from a profound sleep in spasms of -unconscious apprehension. Then nothing can soothe him but being clasped -very close, the mother’s hand upon the little head, pressing it to -her cheek. “He is nothing,” said the doctor, “to some of the babies I -have seen this year.” It is not astonishing; but how pathetic! These -little creatures, carried so long under an anguished heart, come into -the world bearing the print of the universal mystery already stamped on -their infant souls. - -When will the dawn arise over a world no longer agonized and -disrupted? When will the wholesome joys and the natural sorrows -resume their preponderance in our existence? Surely every man’s own -span holds enough of trouble to make him realize that here is not our -abiding-place, and long for the security of the heavenly home. Perhaps -it was not so. Perhaps we had all fallen away too much from faith and -simplicity, and we needed this appalling experience of what humanity -can inflict upon humanity, when Christ and His cross are left out of -the reckoning. - -“The world has become profoundly corrupt. There will surely come some -great scourge. It will be necessary to have a generation brought up by -mourning mothers and in a discipline of tears,” said a man of God in -what seemed words of unbearable severity, a year before the war broke -out. - -So it may be that we are not only fighting for our children, to deliver -them from the intolerable yoke of the Hun, but that we are also -suffering for our children, to deliver them from the punishment of our -own sins. - - * * * * * - -We meant to call this chapter “War-babies,” only for the newspaper -discussion which has made even innocence itself the subject of -passionate and unpleasant discussion. - -There have been a good many war-babies in the neighbourhood as well as -Plain Eliza. The Signorina of the Villino has already acted godmother -several times to infant exiles. These little ones, we thank Heaven, -have arrived surprisingly jolly and unimpressed. Yet the poor mothers -had, most of them, fled from the sound of the cannon and the menace -of the shells, happy if they saw nothing worse than the flames which -were consuming their homes and all that those homes held and meant for -them. The Signorina is very particular that the girls should be called -Elizabeth and the boys Albert, with due loyalty to a sovereignty truly -royal in misfortune. - -“Mademoiselle,” writes one young woman, “I have the happiness to -announce to you that I have the honour to have become the mother of a -beautiful little daughter.” - -She meant what she said--marvellous as it may seem not to regard the -event in such circumstances as an added anguish! - -We have heard of the birth of a child to a widow of eighteen--a peasant -girl in Brussels--who was forced by the invaders not only to watch her -father and husband and both brothers struck down under her eyes, but to -assist in burying them while they were still breathing. - -“It is a very ugly little baby,” writes the kind lady who is its -godmother, “and the poor mother is very ill. When she gets better it -will be a comfort to her.” - -In these days, when the lid of hell has been taken off--as Mr. -Elbert Hubbard, one of the victims of the _Lusitania_, graphically -declared--when legions of devils have been let loose upon an -unsuspecting world, the case of the eighteen-year-old peasant woman in -the Brussels _asile_ is by no means the most to be pitied. Her child -will be a comfort to her. Not so will it be with the many unfortunate -Belgian village mothers--to whom children are being, we hear, born -maimed in awful testimony of the mutilations which the wives have been -forced to witness deliberately inflicted on their husbands. War-babies, -indeed! Stricken before birth, destined to bear through a necessarily -bitter existence the terrible mark of the barbarian foe. - -Let us get back to the fur children. It is such a comfort to be able -to turn one’s eyes upon something that can never understand the horror -about one. - -Plain Eliza’s only trick is to put her front paws together, palm to -palm, in an attitude of prayer, and wave them. This is called in the -family “making pretty paws.” When the children plunge for her and clasp -her close, the first cry is always: “Plain Eliza, make pretty paws! -Dear Plain Eliza, make pretty paws!” - -She will not do it for them every day. Little dogs know very well that -human puppies have no real authority over them. Perhaps it is because -of the rarity of her condescension in this direction, or perhaps -because of the wonderful emphasis of her supplication when she does -so condescend, that the youngest of the small exiles, three-year-old -Viviane, regards this accomplishment as the very acme of expression. -She is a pious babe, and is fond of paying visits to the little Oratory -in the Villino. One day her governess observed her wringing and waving -her dimpled hands before the altar. When she came out she confided in -tones of devout triumph: “I have been making pretty paws to little -Jesus.” - -Viviane, the most satisfactory type of sturdy childhood it is possible -to imagine, combines a great determination, an understanding as solid -as her own little person, with an extremely tender heart. She quite -realizes the advantages of the good manners which her English governess -inculcates, and she can be heard instructing herself in a deep _sotto -voce_ when she sits at tea with grown-up entertainers. - -“Vivi not speak with her mouth full. Vivi wait. Now Vivi can speak.” - -“Good-bye, my little girl,” said her mother to her the other day, -sending the child home in advance to her early supper. “I hope you will -be good.” - -“Vivi good,” was the prompt response, “good, obedient, nice manners at -table.” - -She walked out of the room with her peculiarly deliberate gait, -murmuring the admonition to herself. - -During the terribly dry weather in the beginning of May we had a great -fire on our moor; whether caused by incendiarism or not remains a moot -point. The first hill that rolls up from our valley is now charred -half-way. Viviane was much concerned. - -“Poor moor burnt! Poor moor burnt!” she lamented. Then, with a -delicious impulse qualified by characteristic caution, “Vivi kiss it -where it is not black; kiss it and make it well!” - -When her cousin and playmate’s father was tragically killed on the -Yser, the little creature, who is devoted to her own father, was deeply -concerned. The latter is heroically devoting himself to ambulance work -at Calais. For many nights after the news of the young officer’s death -was received, Viviane would anxiously inform everyone who came into her -nursery that Papa was quite safe, pointing out his photograph on the -chimney-piece at the same time. - -“Vivi got her Papa quite safe,” in a confused association of ideas. - -Though she has only seen him once for a very short time all these nine -months, the child’s affectionate memory of him remains as distinct as -ever, and returning the other day from a morning walk with a scratched -knee, she declared pathetically she wished it had been a wound, for -then Vivi’s father would have had to come and nurse her. - -The spirit of the Belgian children is one of the most remarkable things -of the war. As soon as they can understand anything at all they seem to -grasp the situation of present valiant endurance and future glory. They -know what sacrifices have been demanded of their parents. There is not -a child that we have seen but measures the cost and its honour. - -Upon the arrival of the _Faire part_ of that same young officer above -mentioned, with its immense black edge and unending list of sorrowing -relatives, Viviane’s eldest brother, a boy of nine, asked to read it. -When he came to the words: _Mort pour la patrie_, he looked up, his -face illuminated. - -“_Oh, Maman, comme c’est beau!_” - -Not the least among the miscalculations of the Germans in Belgium -has been their insane attempt to stifle the courage of the little -country by ferocity. But Germany has never counted with souls, and it -is by the power of the soul that this huge monster of materialism, -with its gross brutality and gross reliance on masses and mechanism, -will be overthrown. There is not a _gamin_ of the Brussels streets -that does not mock the German soldiery, finely conscious that, by the -immortal defiance of the spirit, Prussian brutality itself is already -vanquished. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings!... - -There was humour as well as heroism in the heart of the oppressed -Antwerp Belgian on that afternoon of his King’s birthday, when he sent -the three little girls to walk side by side through the streets dressed -in black, orange, and red. The Hun stood helpless before the passage -of the living flag, not daring to face the ridicule which would fall -upon him all the world over were the babes arrested and taken to the -Commandatur. It was a superb defiance, flung in the face of the despot, -flung by the little ones! The whole history of Belgium’s glory and -Germany’s shame is in it. - - * * * * * - -It is just the feeling that they are blessedly ignorant of the -universal suffering that makes the company of our pets so soothing to -us now. - -“My dog is my one comfort,” cried a friend to us, surveying her Peky -as he sat, fat and prosperous, his lip cocked with the familiar -Chinese smile, triumphant after the feat of having silently bitten his -mistress’s visitor. “He is the only person that hasn’t changed!” - -The bite of a Pekinese does not hurt, it may be mentioned, and the -visitor quite shared his owner’s feelings. - -It may be something of the same sensation that makes the wounded -soldiers in the hospital near us long for the forbidden joy of -something alive for a mascot. They picked up a very newly hatched -pheasant in the grounds the other day, and carried it home to share -their bed and board. It was fed on extraordinary concoctions, and after -three days was discovered to have passed away. There was a strong -suspicion of the matron, who had not approved from the beginning. They -consoled themselves by a military funeral. A very handsome coffin -having been made by an expert, they went in solemn procession to lay -the infant pheasant to rest. Now there is always a wreath on the grave. - -Invited to the Villino this week to see our azaleas, they arrived, a -batch of twenty, at the odd hour of ten o’clock in the morning, to be -regaled with buns and lemonade, no tea-parties being allowed. They -enjoyed themselves very much, but the feature of the entertainment was -Mimosa, the small ruby Pekinese. She passed from embrace to embrace. -She licked them so much that they told the Sister they would not need -to have their faces washed any more. This is the kind of joke that is -really appreciated in hospitals. When Mimi returned to her devoted -Mrs. MacComfort in the kitchen, the latter remarked “she was so above -herself she couldn’t do anything with her.” - -Unfortunately all little dogs are not happy and protected like ours. -Belgian friends who passed through villages and towns after the first -wave of the invader had spread over the country tell us of a horrible -and singular byway of wanton atrocity. The soldiery slaughter the dogs -wholesale, some said to eat them, but that seems hardly credible. -Most probably it was part of the scheme of general terrorism. To burn -the houses and slay the husbands and fathers, to spear and mutilate -and trample down the children, to insult the women, it was all not -enough. The finishing touch must be given by the murder of the humble -companion, the faithful watch-dog, the children’s pet. Piles and piles -of dogs’ heads were at the corners of the streets, our friend told us. - -We know they laid hold of the poor dogs to experiment upon them with -their diabolical gas. But there was at least some reason in the latter -brutality. - -One hears many stories about the dogs of war. - -At the beginning of the conflict the trained ambulance dogs were -reported to have done splendid work in the French trenches. We do not -know if we have any such, but we do know that the men have pets among -them out there, whether mascots brought out from England or strays -picked up from the abandoned farms. The deserted dogs! A French paper -published an article upon these dumb victims, not the least pathetic -of the many side tragedies of this year of anguish. It was a poor -shop-keeper who described what he himself had seen in passing through a -devastated town within the conquered territory. - -“The dogs have remained in the town, from whence the inhabitants have -fled. The dogs have remained where there is not left a stone upon a -stone. How they do not die of hunger I cannot imagine. They must hunt -for themselves far out in the country-side, I suppose, but they come -back as quickly as they can and congregate at the entrance of the -suburb on the highroad. - -“There are two hundred, or three hundred perhaps--spaniels, sheep-dogs, -fox-terriers, even small ridiculous lap-dogs--and they wait, all of -them, with their heads turned in the same direction, with an air of -intense melancholy and passionate interest. What are they waiting for? -Oh, it is very easy to guess. Sometimes one of the old inhabitants -of the town makes up his mind to come back from Holland. The longing -to see his home, to know what is left of his house, to search the -ruins, is stronger than all else--stronger than hatred, stronger than -fear. And sometimes then one of the dogs recognizes him. His dog! If -you could see it. If you could imagine it. All that troop of dogs -who prick their ears at the first sight of a man coming along the -road from Holland, a man who has no helmet, a man not in uniform; -the instantaneous painful agitation of the animals who gaze and gaze -with all their might--dogs have not very good eyes--and who sniff and -sniff from afar, because their scent is better than their sight. And -then the leap, the great leap of one of these dogs who has recognized -his master, his wild race along the devastated road, ploughed with -the furrows by the passage of cannons and heavy traction motors and -dug with trenches; his joyous barks, his wagging tail, his flickering -tongue! His whole body is one quiver of happiness. The dog will not -leave that man any more, he is too much afraid of losing him. He will -follow close to his heels without stopping to eat; one day, two days -if needful; and in the end he goes away with him. - -“But the others? They have remained on the road. And when they see this -dog depart, having found at last what they all are seeking, they lift -up their muzzles despairingly and howl, howl as if they would never -stop, with great cries that fill the air, and re-echo until there is -nothing more to be seen upon the road. Then they are dumb, but they do -not move. They are there; they still hope.” - - - - -VII - -OUR GARDEN IN JUNE - - “Still may Time hold some golden space - Where I’ll unpack that scented store - Of song and flower and sky and face, - And count, and touch, and turn them o’er.” - - RUPERT BROOKE. - - -_June 1._--The garden in early June! Like a great many other things -the idea is very different from the reality. The first of June in the -garden represents to the mind’s eye bowers of roses, exuberance in the -borders, a riot of colour and fragrance. As a matter of fact, with us, -in our late-blooming, high-perched terraces, it means a transition -stage, and is annually very exasperating and disappointing to the -impatient spirit of the Signora. It is the time when the azaleas look -dishevelled, with their delicate blossom hanging depressingly from the -stamens. The forget-me-nots have all been cleared away, and in those -places where bulbs are preserved against the future spring, masses -of yellowing tangled leaf-spikes are an eyesore. The bedding-out -plants still look tiny on the raw borders. All our roses, except those -climbers against the house, are yet in the bud. There are just the -poppies that flaunt in the borders; and even their colour becomes an -exasperation, because they would have done so much better to wait -and join in the grand symphony, instead of blowing isolated trumpet -flourishes, prepared to relapse into sulky silence when the delphiniums -strike up their blue music. - -There is also another frightful drawback to this first week of leafy -June, and that is that it would be easier to separate Pyramus from -Thisbe than the gardener from the vegetables. A constant enervating -struggle goes on between us on the relative values of cabbages and -roses, beans and poppies. We want the roses sprayed, we want the -borders staked, we want sustenance in the shape of liquid manure and -Clay’s fertilizer copiously administered to our darlings; and he wants -to put in “that there other row of scarlet runners and set out them -little lettuces.” And when it comes to watering: he doesn’t know, he’s -sure, how he’s to get them cabbages seen to as they ought to be seen -to; a deal of moisture _they_ want, if they’re to do him any justice. - -Meanwhile our terraces are panting. The climbing roses up the -house--and this year they would have been glorious--are pale and -brittle in petal and foliage, as if they had been actually blasted. - -The master of the Villino, after due representations from the Padrona, -has seen the necessity of sacrifice, and assiduously waters the garden -every evening--and himself! The hose is defective; being war time we -cannot afford a new one. Two jets break out at the wrong angle and take -you in the eye and down the waistcoat at the most unexpected moments; -and though amenable to persuasion, the Padrone’s devotion has its -limits, and he positively declines the remanipulation of the tube which -will bring it--after having done service in the Dutch garden--to the -end of the Lily Walk. So that, as it is two yards short, the deficiency -has to be made up by hand watering, and two obsolete bath-cans are -produced out of the house, which seems, for some unexplained reason, -easier than using the proper garden furniture. These cans are generally -left, forgotten, where they were last used, unless the piercing eye of -the mistress of the Villino happens to dart in that direction. - -Yesterday we had visitors--in eighteenth-century parlance, a General -and his Lady--and of course the two cans stood in the middle of the -path, confidingly, nose to nose. Being war time nobody minded. It is -the blessing and the danger of war time that nobody minds anything. And -the General’s Lady, being tactful, kept her eye on the buddleia. - -Death having come to the little garden and taken Adam away; and greed -of gain having deprived us of Reginald Arthur in favour of the post -office; and patriotism having rendered the local young man as precious -as he is scarce, we were five weeks--five invaluable, irreplaceable -weeks--gardenerless, odd-manless at the Villino. Nothing this year will -ever restore the lost time. No amount of pulling and straining will -draw the gap together. - -Japhet, Adam’s successor, is worn, as the Americans say, very nearly -“to a frazzle.” He is a deeply conscientious man, and peas and beans -and cabbages are to him the very principles upon which all garden -morality is built up. He was much grieved the other day when someone -“passed a remark” on the subject of weeds in the back-garden. - -Weeds! We should think there were! It was so blatantly self-evident -a fact that we wondered that anyone should have thought it worth -while to pass a remark upon it. But Japhet was hurt to his very soul: -considering his vocation, it would perhaps be more in keeping to -say--his marrow. - -Professional pride is a very delicate and easily bruised growth. -When the Padrona was in her teens the whole of her mother’s orderly -establishment was convulsed one June--a hot June it was too--because -the professional pride of the family butler had been wounded by the -footman’s presuming to hand a dish which it was not his business to -touch. His sense of dignity was doubtless sharpened to a very fine edge -by the fact that, the June weather being so hot, an unusual amount of -cooling beer had been found necessary. This may seem a curious mixture -of metaphors, nevertheless the facts are exact. - -Reilly--that was his name--was very deeply and, in the opinion of the -rest of the household, justifiably incensed when Edmund lifted the -entrée dish with the obvious intention of offering it to his mistress; -and though it was regarded as an exaggeration of sensitiveness for -him to knock the footman down immediately after lunch in the seclusion -of the pantry, to kneel upon his chest and endeavour to strangle him -with his white tie; and though the cook deemed it incumbent upon her -to draw the attention of the authorities to the drama by seizing a -broom and brushing it backwards and forwards across the row of bells; -all the sympathies of the establishment remained with Reilly, and “the -mistress” was regarded as extremely hard-hearted for dismissing him -from her service. The footman was a shock-headed, snub-nosed youth, and -we will never forget his appearance when, released from his assailant, -he burst into the dining-room, collarless, his white tie protruding -at an acute angle behind his left ear, with a mixture of triumph, -importance, and suffering upon his scarlet countenance. - -So we were compassionate with Japhet when he waxed plaintive over his -underling’s house duties, and even forbore having the windows cleaned -for several weeks, and endured tortures at the sight of her spattered -panes, out of regard for his difficulties. - -The underling is aptly named Fox. He has red hair and long moustaches -and a furtive eye and a general air of alertness and slyness which -show that if he had ever belonged to the animal kingdom in a previous -state of existence, Vulpus he certainly was. But we did not expect him -to develop garden susceptibilities too. This, however, it seems he has -done. - -“I’ve very bad news for you,” said Japhet sombrely to his master last -week, when he came into the long, book-lined room to receive his -Saturday pay. He has naturally a lugubrious countenance. - -His master’s thoughts flew to Zeppelins, spotted fever, and other -national dangers. - -“Indeed, Japhet. What is it?” - -“Fox, he says, he can’t put up with the couch-grass and the docks in -the lower garden. They seem to have got on his mind, like. He don’t see -how he can go on dealing with them. They _’ave_ got a strong hold,” -concluded Japhet with a sigh, as if he too were overwhelmed by the -enemy. - -Well, it was tragic enough, for the precious Fox had been caught after -long hunting, and had made his own bargain--a foxy one--with every eye -to the main chance. We want to keep him, but have a guilty sensation -too, he being young and strong, and obviously the right stuff for -enlisting; though, indeed, if docks and couch-grass daunt him, how -would he stand shrapnel and gas? - -The daughter of the house, who is extremely tactful, and who is -generally trusted with delicate situations, interviewed him on the -spot. She found him in a condition only to be described as one of -nerve-shock. His long, red moustaches quivered. All he could reply, in -a broken voice, was: - -“It don’t do me no credit. It won’t never do me no credit.” - -Japhet, consulted, gave it as his opinion that it was not a question -of his subordinate’s bettering himself; but said “Fox had always been -a sensitive worker.” Nevertheless, we should not be surprised to hear -that war prices have something to do with it. - - * * * * * - -It is only now, after nearly five years, that we are beginning to -reap some benefit of our constant planting. The Signora wonders if -her irritable mind had allowed her to leave undisturbed those divers -perennials and bushes which she had rooted up after a year’s trial from -beds and borders, how might she not now be gathering the reward of -longanimity. - -The Léonie Lamesche roses, for instance. She hunted them out of the -middle of the Dutch garden; out of the beds before the entrance arches -into the rose-garden; into that corner of the kitchen-garden where the -derelicts gather. And just now the child of the house has brought into -her bunch after bunch of little orange-crimson pompoms, delicious and -quaint to look at, and delicious and quaint to smell, with their faint -tartness, as of apples, mixed with an aromatic herbiness as of myrtles. - -“There’s quantities more,” says the Signorina. Poor little things! -they have been allowed to settle and spread their roots, and one would -not know them for the nipped, disreputable, guttersnipe objects that -hitherto called down the master of the Villino’s scorn. - -We do not regret them in the Dutch garden after all. It is too near the -house not to have its garland for every season; and the forget-me-nots, -hyacinths, and tulips are too precious and beautiful in the spring. -But under the rose-arches now there are gaps; and this year, between -the loss of our poor Adam and war scruples, these gaps have not been -filled. - -If the Signora had left Léonie Lamesche where she was, all those nice -varnished green leaves and all those darling rosettes of bloom with -their odd colour and fragrance would be in their right place, instead -of in the waste ground from which Japhet, with the zeal of the new -broom, is already preparing to sweep them next autumn--not, be it said, -with any special disapprobation for Léonie, but because he declares he -wants to get rid of all that there stuff which hadn’t no right to be in -a vegetable garden at all. - -The moral is--as has been said long ago in the “Sentimental -Garden”--that chief among the many virtues a garden inculcates is -patience. If the Signora had had patience, she would not have turned -all the Standard Soleil d’Or and Conrad Meyers out of the Lily Walk, -because the shadow of the buddleias interfered with their bloom. For -behold! this winter’s snow has cast the great honey-trees sideways, -and the united efforts of Japhet and Fox, who pulled and propped and -strained in vain, have left them sideways, and sideways, in the opinion -of these experts, they will for ever after remain. And the Lily Walk is -in full sunshine. Had we but left the standards, who, of course, will -be sulky in their new positions for a couple of years more! - -_June 15._--The complaint begun in the first week of our transitional -garden has already been reproved by the mid-month’s splendours. In -spite of the drought and the desiccating south-east winds (which by -some inscrutable decree of Providence have been sent to us this year -when so much depends upon field, orchard, and garden), the roses are -magnificent and of unusual promise. - -Our peony beds--the mistress of the garden did know that peonies are -slow ladies and will take their time--are beginning to reward her -forbearance. Such a basketful as came into her bedroom to-day with -the Polyantha roses!--those large, pink, scented beauties which are -so satisfying to settle in big bowls. We have put them in the chapel -against boughs of the service-tree. The effect is all one could wish. - -The service-tree bloomed this year as never it bloomed before. It -looked like the bridal bouquet of a fairy giantess! We trust this -daring hyperbole will enable our readers to represent to themselves -something at once immense and ethereal, misty grey, and delicate -silver-white. It is of huge size and beautiful shape, and grows a -little higher on the slope than the greater of the two beech-trees. For -colour effect we know nothing more soul-filling than the way it stands -between the ardent tawny glories of the Azalea Walk and the young jewel -green of its cousin--the beech above mentioned. Put the shoulder of the -moor at the back in its May mantle of coppery mauve heather not yet in -bud--that is a picture to gaze upon under a blue sky, thanking God for -the loveliness of the earth! - -This last May, which will be ever memorable as one of the most -tragic months of the war, hazard--or that _slithy tove_, the alien -Hun--provided us with a background approximately _macabre_ for the -radiant youthful joy. Our moor has been burnt--five fires started -simultaneously one day of high east wind, and the first great swelling -hill is covered with a garment as of hell. The scattered fir-trees -here and there are of a livid, scorched brown. To look out on the -scene and see them stand in the slaty black, casting mysterious shadows -under the dome of relentless brightness we have had of late, is like -looking upon a circle of Dante’s Inferno, out of one of the cool, -bowery regions of his upper Purgatorio. Our daughter finds a wilder -beauty in our blossom and verdure against the savage gloom beyond; but -not so the Padrona. She laments the tapestry of her peaceful, rolling -heights. Now, past mid-June, bracken is creeping slowly through the -charred roots of the heather, and she does not want a bracken hill. It -is spreading democracy, taking the place of some royal line; the rule -of the irresponsible, the coarse, the mediocre; though she grants there -will be beauty in the autumn when it all turns golden. And perhaps -there’s a lesson to be drawn somewhere, but she will have none of it, -for there is nothing so tiresome as the unpalatable moral. - - * * * * * - -Fox has condescended to remain another week, so we need not feverishly -search garden chronicles for the quite impossible he, who shall be -strong, sturdy, ineligible for the army, and willing to take a place as -under-gardener at something less than the honorarium of an aniline dye -expert! All those who want places are head-gardeners, “under glass”; -except “a young Dutchman speaking languages perfectly” who fills our -souls with doubt. In every district it is the same story; we wish we -could think it was all patriotic ardour, but we are afraid that the -high wages offered by camps and greengrocers are responsible for a good -deal of the shortage of labour in our part of the world. - -One of the Villino quartette--we call ourselves the lucky -clover-leaf--writes from Dorset that they have an aged man of past -seventy-two who comes in to help in the flowery, bowery old garden -of the manor-house where she is staying. In justice to simple rural -Dorset, it may be mentioned parenthetically that there the response -to the country’s need has been extraordinary in its unanimity. So the -superannuated labourers who have grown white and wise over the soil, -instead of sitting by the chimney-corner and enjoying their old-age -pensions, come tottering forth to do their little bit, in the place -of the young stalwartness that has gone out to fight and struggle and -perhaps die for England. - -Our Dorset clover petal writes: “Old Mason is very sad at having to -water the borders. ‘Ye mid water and water for days and days,’ he -declares, ‘and it not have the value of a single night’s rain. There, -miss, as I did say to my darter last night, my Father, I says, he do -water a deal better than I do.’” - -Yesterday there came a box of white pinks from that Dorset garden; -these have been put all together into an immense cut-glass bowl, with -an effect of innocent, white, overflowing freshness that is perfect of -its kind. And the scent of them is admirably fitted to the sweet clean -wonder of their looks. It is a quintessence of all simple fragrance, -a sort of intensified new-mown hay smell. That is another thing the -heavenly Father has done very well--the delicate matching of attributes -in His flower children. A tea-rose looks her scent, just as does her -deep crimson sister. - -“How it must have amused Almighty God,” said our daughter one day last -winter, lifting the cineraria foliage to show the purple bloom of the -lining which exactly matched the note of the starry flower, “how it -must have amused Him to do this.” - -And surely a violet bears in her little modest face the promise of her -insinuating and delicate perfume. - -And if the big pink peonies had had bright green instead of shadowy -grey foliage they might have been vulgar. - -And if you had put lily leaves to an iris instead of their own romantic -sword-blades, how awkward and wrong it would have been; whereas the -lily-stalk, with its conventional layers, is perfection in support of -the queenly head of the Madonna or the Auratum. It is not association, -but recognition of a Great Artist, in all reverence be it said: “He -hath done all things well.” - -To come back to the walled enclosure about the old Dorset manor house. -Here, looking down our wind-swept terraces, we sometimes hanker for the -sunny seclusion of that walled garden, though apparently all is not -perfect even there, for the last message from it says: - -“The strong sun takes all the strength out of the pinks after the -first day or two. It has been very hot in the early afternoon, and as -the garden faces west all the poor little things are drawn in a long -slant towards the setting sun. Some of the long-stemmed ones have got -positive wriggles in their stalks from so much exercise; it is really -bad for their systems.” - -In a previous letter she writes less pessimistically: - -“I can’t tell you the loveliness of the garden. It is like Venus -rising from the sea--Venus and her foam together--roses, pinks, -sweet-williams, everything leaping into bloom and over the walls. I -have given up trying to harmonize colours. There is nothing so wilful -as an old garden. The plants simply walk about, much as our ‘Pekies’ -do. I planted nigella last year, which didn’t do very well; however it -skipped across a path of its own accord this year, and there is a patch -of it in a forbidden corner which shames the sky. One looks on and -laughs helplessly, as one does with ‘Pekies.’” - - * * * * * - -The Penzance briar hedge dividing the new rosary from the reserve -garden promises very well. It is already breaking into many coloured -stars, carmine, pink, amber, and the fashionable khaki. Is this the -musk-rose of the “Midsummer Night’s Dream”? - -To contradict our statement of a page or two back, the Creator has made -here one of the exceptions to His rule of rich and delicate balance, -and it is the unsuspected fragrance of the sweetbriar that adds so -extraordinarily to its attraction in a garden. No one would credit it -with the scent, its evanescent fragile bloom gives no indication of it. -And, like the perfectly saintly, its fragrance has nothing to do with -youth or beauty. You pass an unimportant-looking green bush, and all at -once you are assailed with the breath of Heaven. There is a mystery, -almost a mysticism, about the perfection of this sweetness, this -intangible, invisible beauty. One is reminded of Wordsworth’s lines: - - “quiet as a nun - Breathless with adoration.” - -It is the image of a pure soul exhaling itself before God, in a rapture -of ecstatic contemplation. - -The June scents of the Villino garden are very wonderful, peculiarly -so this year, under the searching brilliancy of the unclouded heavens. -There is the sweetbriar, and there are the pinks, and there is one -long border all of nepeta--against the Dorothy Perkins hedge still -only green--with its pungent, wholesome savour. And there is the gum -cistus, that smells exactly as did the insides of the crimson Venetian -bottles which stood in the great white and blue and gold drawing-room -in the Signora’s Irish home. It was an old custom to put a drop of -attar of roses at the bottom of these favourite ornaments in those -days when the Signora was a little girl, and it was one of her great -joys to be allowed to lift the stopper and sniff. The strange far-off -Eastern incense that hangs about the rather uncomely straggling -shrub--another instance of the Almighty’s exceptions--brings the -mistress of the Villino back with a leap to her childhood; to the late -Georgian drawing-room, with its immense plate-glass windows hung with -curtains of forget-me-not blue brocade which cost a hundred pounds -a pair--people spent solid money then for solid worth; the white -marble chimney-piece, with its copy of a fraction of the Parthenon -frieze--Phaeton driving his wild, tossing horses; the immense cut-glass -chandelier sparkling and quivering with a thousand elfin rainbow -lights; the white and gold panels, the plastered frieze of curling -acanthus leaves; and the smiling face of the adored mother looking down -upon the little creature in the stiff piqué frock, who was the future -Padrona. No child analyzes its mother’s countenance. It is only in -later years that the beauty of that smile was recognized by her. It was -a beauty that endured to the very last of those eighty-five years of a -life that was so well filled. It was a smile of extraordinary sweetness -and, to that end, full of youth. That’s what the gum cistus brings -back; a fragrance of memory, poignant and beloved. Everyone knows that -through the sense of smell the seat of memory is most potently reached. -The merest whiff of a long-forgotten odour will bring back so vividly -some scene of the past that it is almost painful. It is to be wondered -why ghosts do not more often choose this form of return to the world. -The story told by Frederick Myers in his “Human Personality” of the -phantom scent of thyme by which a poor girl haunted the field where -she had been murdered is, we believe, unique; but we know another -record. This was not the struggle of any reproachful shade to bring -itself back to human recollection, but the ghost of a fragrance itself. -The late Bret Harte told the tale to a friend of ours. On a visit to -an old English castle he was lodged in a tower room. Every afternoon -he used to withdraw for literary labours, and at a certain hour the -whole of the old chamber would be filled with the penetrating vapour of -incense. He sought in vain for some explanation of the mystery. There -was nothing within or without, beneath or above, which could produce -such a phenomenon. Then he bethought himself of investigating the past, -and found that his room was exactly over what had once been the chapel -in the days of our ancient Faith, and that it had been the custom to -celebrate Benediction at the hour when the incense--that wraith of a -bygone lovely worship--now seemed to surround him. - -A few steps beyond the gum cistus the buddleia trees this June have -their brief splendour of bloom and their intoxication of perfume. It -is as if all the honey of clover and gorse, with something of a dash -of clove spice, was burning in a pyre of glory to the sunshine. What -wonder that the bees gather there and chant the whole day long! Happy -bees, drunk with bliss in the midst of their labour! - -It is all very well to speak of bees as a frugal, hard-working -community, to hold them up to the perpetual emulation of the young. Few -people seem to remember how extremely dissipated they become when they -come across a good tap of honey. Who has not seen them--so charged with -the luxuriance that they can scarcely stagger out of the calyx--buzz -away, blundering, upon inebriated wing? - -Greatly favoured by Nature, the bees combine the extreme of laudable -activity with the extreme of self-indulgence. Anyone who wants to -hear their pæan of rapture at its height, let him provide them with -_Buddleia globosa_. - -We have by no means exhausted the list of scents in the June garden. -There are the irises! All Florence is in the sweetness that flows -from them: a sweetness, by the way, not adapted to rooms, where, -to be unpoetical, it assumes something faintly catty. The way the -perfume of irises rolls over Florence in May is something not to be -described to anyone who has not breathed it. We were once the guests -of a kindly literary couple, who dwelt in one of those charming, -quaint, transmogrified farmhouses outside the city that makes us--even -we who own the Villino Loki--hanker. It was called Villa Benedetto. -One drove out from Florence along a road now only vaguely remembered. -It skirted the river, and there were wild slopes on one side and -poplar-trees; then one darted aside into the Italian hills and up a -steep ascent--this vision is also vague; but we remember the little -garden-gate and the narrow brick path and the irises! Irises and China -roses! It is a lovely mixture for colour; and as for scent! anyone who -knows anything about scent (and we wonder why there are not artists in -it, as well as for music and painting) anyone who knows anything about -scent, we repeat, is quite aware that orris, the pounded iris root, -is the only possible fragrance to keep constantly about. It combines -the breath of the mignonette and the subtle delight of the violet. -It preserves, too, its adorable freshness of impression. You never -sicken of it, you never tire of it. Of course it has the fault of its -delicacy, it is evanescent; but, then, it is never stale. Any woman -who wishes an atmosphere of poetry should use nothing but orris, the -pure pounded root without any addition, and that perpetually renewed. -Precious quality, it cannot be overdone. - -The odour of the flower itself in the sunshine is a different thing, -far more piercing and far more pronounced. It must be enjoyed in the -sunshine, or after a spring storm. Those other incomparable banquets -to the sense which a bean-field or a clover-meadow will spread for you -cannot be captured and refined in the same manner. More’s the pity! - -Lafcadio Hearn declares that human beings have lamentably failed -to cultivate the rich possibilities of the sense of smell. In this -respect, he says, dogs are infinitely superior. Who can tell, he asks, -what ecstasy of combination, what chords, what symphonies of harmony -and contrast, might we not be able to serve ourselves? But we do not -think the idea will bear development, and certainly many suffer enough -from an over-sensitiveness of nostril already to prevent them from -desiring any further cultivation of its powers. - -The Villino in June smells very good, however, and that is gratifying. -And to complete the catalogue there are the new pine shoots delicious -and aromatic, stimulating and healthy; a perfect aroma on a hot day. - -“Tell me your friends and I will tell you what you are,” says the sage; -it sounds like a dog, but the Padrona feels that with one sniff she can -sum up a character. - -When Tréfle Incarnat, or its last variant, takes you by the throat, you -needn’t look to see what kind of young woman is sitting beside you at -the theatre. - -And when a portly friend, resplendent in gorgeous sables, heralds -her approach with a powerful blast of Napthaline, you know the kind -of woman _she_ is, and that the word “friend,” just written, is -misapplied; for you never could make a friend of anyone so stuffily and -stupidly careful. - -And when you go to tea with an acquaintance--probably literary, living -in Campden Hill and fond of bead blinds--and the smell of joss-stick -floats upon the disgusted nostril from the doorway, you know the kind -of party you are going to have. Your hostess will have surrounded -herself with long-haired and dank-handed young men, the Postlethwaites -of the period, and brilliant young females who wear a mauvy powder over -rather an unwashed face, and curious garments cut square at the neck, -and turquoise matrix ear-rings, very much veined with brown! Besides -the joss-sticks there is cigarette smoke, and the atmosphere, morally -as well as physically, is fusty! - -Then there is the female who produces a bottle of Eau-de-Cologne on -board ship. If it isn’t a German governess, it is a heated person with -something purple about her and kid gloves--why pursue the horrid theme! - -Let us end this divagation by a little anecdote as true as it is -charming. It happened to a member of our own family. She was hurrying -along one foggy November morning to the Brompton Oratory rather -early; and the dreadful acrid vapour and the uncertain struggle of -a grimy dawn contended against the glimmer of the gas-lamps. As she -approached the steps of the church somebody crossed her, and instantly -the whole air was filled with an exquisite fragrance as of violets. -Involuntarily she started to look round, and her movement arrested, -too, the passer-by. For a second they stood quite close to each other, -and to our relative’s astonishment she saw only a small, meek-faced old -lady in an Early Victorian bonnet wrapped in a very dowdy dolman. - -The old lady gave a little smile and went her way. There was certainly -no adornment of real violets about her, and to look at her was enough -to be assured that artificial scents could never approach her. - -The incident seemed strange enough to be worth making investigations, -and the explanation was simple. The little old lady was very well -known; mother of priests, a ceaseless worker among the poor; nearly -eighty, and every day at seven o’clock Mass. Many people had remarked -the scent of violets about her, and her friends thought, laughingly, it -was because she was something of a saint. - -This sweet-smelling saint died as she had lived. She had received the -Last Sacraments; she knew her moments were numbered, but she sat up, -propped by pillows, and went on knitting for the poor till the needles -fell from her hands. - -If the story of the violets had not happened to a member of the family, -the Signora would be quite ready to believe it on hearsay, because -of the delicious simplicity and certain confidence of that placid -deathbed. - - - - -VIII - -OUR BLUE-COAT BOYS - - “Ils ont le bras en écharpe, et un bandeau sur l’œil, - Mais leur âme est légère et ils sourient ... - Ils s’en vont, grisés de lumière, - Etourdis par le bruit, - Traînant la jambe dans la poussière - Le nez au vent, le regard réjoui....” - - CAMMAERTS. - - -We asked them to tea; the Sister said that “the Matron said they -couldn’t do that”; but they could come for morning lunch about -half-past ten o’clock, and have bread-and-butter and see the garden. -And they would like to come very much indeed, preferably next day. The -Matron further opined about twelve would feel well enough to avail -themselves of our hospitality. - -It gave us very little time for preparation, and the baker declined -to provide us with buns so early. But it was very hot, fortunately; -so Mrs. McComfort set to work at dawn to prepare lemonade and fruit -salad, and immense slices of bread-and-jam. And we were very glad she -had been so lavish in her Irish generosity when we heard the sound of -voices and the tramping of feet in the courtyard: it seemed as if there -were a regiment of them! In reality there were only twenty--twenty -smiling, stalwart “blue-coat boys.” Some with an arm in a sling; two -or three limping along with the help of a stick; one with a bandaged -head; three, in spite of a brave front, with that look of strain and -tragedy in the eyes which stamps even those who have been only slightly -“gassed.” - -They are very much amused at the little outing, as pleased and -as easily diverted as children, not anxious to talk about their -experiences, but answering with perfect ease and simplicity any -question that is made to them on the subject. They are chiefly excited -over our little dogs. We wish that we had twenty instead of only -three; or that we had borrowed from a neighbour’s household for the -occasion. Every man wants to nurse a dog, and those who have secured -the privilege are regarded with considerable envy by the others. - -The younger members of the _famiglia_ are in a desperate state of -excitement, and there is a great flutter of aprons, and cheeks flame -scarlet under caps pinned slightly crooked in the agitation of the -moment. - -Miss Flynn the housemaid, Miss O’Toole the parlourmaid, are stirred to -rapture to discover an Irish corporal, wounded at Ypres. We think they -talk more of Tipperary--it really is Tipperary--than of Flanders. Miss -Flynn, a handsome, black-eyed, black-haired damsel, with a colour that -beats the damask roses on the walls of the Villino, has been born and -bred in England. She is more forthcoming than Miss O’Toole, who has the -true Hibernian reserve; who looks deprecatingly from under her fair -aureole of hair, and expects and gives the utmost respectfulness in all -her relations with the opposite sex. - -They say this lovely sensitive modesty of the Irish girl is dying out. -The penny novelette, the spread of emancipation and education--save the -mark!--facilities of communication, have done away with it. More’s the -pity if this be true, for it was a bloom on the womanhood of Ireland no -polish can replace; it added something incommunicably lovable to the -grace of the girls, something holy, almost august, to the tenderness of -the mothers. - -When the Signora was a child in Ireland the peasant wife still spoke -of her husband as “the master”; and in the wilds of Galway, quite -recently, she has seen the women in the roads pull their shawls over -their faces at the approach of a stranger. The humble matron of the -older type will still walk two paces behind her husband. These are, -of course, but indications of the austere conception of life which -an unquestioning acceptance of her faith kept alive in the breast of -the Irishwoman. When she promised to love and honour him, the husband -became _de facto_ “the master.” Yet the influence of the Irish wife -and mother in her own home in no way suffered from this conception of -her duty. She was as much “_herself_” upon the lips of her lord as he -“_himself_” upon hers. It used to be a boast that the purity of the -Irish maiden and the Irish mother was a thing apart, inassailable. The -Signora’s recollections of Ireland, of a childhood passed in a country -house that kept itself very much in touch with its poor neighbours and -dependants, bring her back many instances of drunkenness among the -men, alas! and the consequent fights and factions; of slovenliness -among the women, and hopeless want of thrift and energy; in one or two -instances, indeed, of flagrant dishonesty; but she never remembers a -single occasion marked by the shocked whisper, the swift and huddled -dismissal, or any of the other tokens by which a fall from feminine -virtue is mysteriously conveyed to the child mind. - -Among all the poor cottage homes, the various farms, great and small, -prosperous or neglected, each with their strapping brood of splendid -youth, never one can she recollect about whose name there was a -silence; never a single one of these dewy-eyed, fresh-faced girls that -did not carry the innocence of their baptism in the half-deprecating, -half-confident looks they cast upon “the quality.” - -Naturally there must have been exceptions; and naturally, too, this -state of affairs could not have applied to some of the more miserable -quarters of the towns. Nevertheless, the Ireland of a quarter of a -century ago had not forgotten she had once been called the Island of -Saints; and her mothers and daughters kept very preciously the vestal -flame alive in their pure breasts. - -Times have changed, and more’s the pity, as we have said. But now and -again a flower blooms as if upon the old roots, and though Mary O’Toole -is transplanted to England, we trust that she may keep her infantile -innocence and her exquisite--there is no English equivalent--_pudeur_. - -It was a picture to see her in her cornflower-blue cotton frock, with -her irrepressible hair tucked as tidily as nature would allow beneath -her white cap, staggering under the weight of a tray charged with -refreshments for the wounded. She is about five-foot nothing, with a -throat the average male hand could encircle with a finger and thumb, -but among the twenty soldiers, all of different ages, classes, and, of -course, dispositions, who visited us that day, there was not one but -regarded her with as much respect as if she had been six foot high and -as ill-favoured as Sally Brass--we hope, however, with considerably -more pleasure. - -When the blue-coat boys have been duly refreshed, they wander out into -the garden. They remind one irresistibly of a school, and there is -something tenderly droll in their complete submission to the little -plump sister, who orders them about with a soft voice and certain -authority. - -“No. 20, come out of the sun. No. 15, I’d rather you didn’t sit on the -grass.” - -Then she turns apologetically to us: “It isn’t that I don’t know it’s -quite dry.” (We should think it was, on our sandy heights, after five -weeks’ drought!) “But I never know quite where I am with the gassed -cases. That’s the worst of them. They’re perfectly well one day, and we -say, ‘Thank goodness, _that’s_ all over,’ and the next day its up in -his eyes, perhaps!” - -“I’ll never be the same man again,” suddenly exclaims a short, -saturnine young Canadian, who has not--a marked exception to the -others--once smiled since he came, and who keeps a dark grudge in his -eyes. He seems perfectly well, except for that curious expression, to -our uninitiated gaze, but his voice is weak and there is a languor -about his movements extraordinarily out of keeping with his build, -which is all for strength, like that of a young Hercules. - -“I’ll never be the same man again; I feel that. It’s shortened my life -by a many years. So it has with them over there.” He jerks his thumb -towards his comrades in misfortune. “They’ll none of them ever be the -same men again.” - -The Signora tries feebly to protest, but the nurse acquiesces placidly. -It is the hospital way, and not a bad way either; misfortunes are not -minimized, they are faced. - -The Signora has an unconquerable timidity where other people’s -reticences are concerned, and was far from emulating the amiable -audacity of a close relative--at present on a visit to the -Villino--whose voice she hears raised in the distance with query after -query: “Where was it? In your leg? Does it hurt? Do you mind? Do you -want to go back again?” But when she sees that the men indubitably like -this frank attack, and respond, smiling and stimulated, the silence of -her Canadian begins to weigh upon her. She tries him with a bashful -question: - -“Is your home in a town in Canada?” - -“No, not in a town. Three hundred and eighty miles away from the -nearest of any importance.” - -“Oh, dear! Then it must take you a long time to hear from your people.” - -The young harsh face darkens. - -The post only comes to his home out yonder once a week, anyhow, but -he hasn’t heard but once since he left. Not at all since he came to -England wounded. - -“Oh, dear!” exclaimed the Signora again, scenting a grievance. “But if -it’s so far away, you couldn’t have heard yet.” - -The lowering copper-hued countenance--it is curiously un-English, -and reminds one vaguely of those frowning black marble busts in the -Capitol: young Emperors already savagely conscious of their own -unlimited power--takes a deeper gloom. - -He could have heard. No. 9 had had a letter that morning, and _his_ -home was forty miles further north. - -“Had No. 9 a letter?” asks the little Sister. - -She sits plump and placid in her cloak, and looks like a dove puffing -out her feathers in the sunshine. We have said she has a cooing voice. - -“Yes, he had,” says the Canadian, and digs a vindictive finger into the -dry grass. - -The Signora, fearing the conversation is going to lapse, plunges into -the breach. - -“What was your work at home? Farming, I suppose.” - -This remark meets with an unexpected success. The poor, fierce -eyes--that seem never to have ceased from contemplation of unpardonable -injury since that day at Ypres when the fumes of hell belched up before -them--brighten. - -“Wa-al! I do sometimes this and sometimes that. I can do most things. -It’s just what I happen to want to put my hand to. I’m master of half a -dozen trades, I am. I’ve been on the farm, and I’m a blacksmith, and an -engineer on the railway; and a barber, and a butcher.” - -“Dear me!” says the little Sister. - -Her gaze is serenely fixed on the smiling green path. From the shadow -in which we sit, it leads to a slope out into the blaze of the -sunshine, where a cypress-tree rises like an immense green flame, -circled with a shimmer of light. But perhaps her tone conveys rebuke, -for our Canadian suddenly relapses into silence, from which we cannot -again entice him. - -A little further away a friend who is staying with us, and the relative -above mentioned, are listening with intense interest to the talk of a -tall, black-moustached soldier. His face is very pale under its bronze; -he is the worst of the three gas victims who have come to-day. It is -only what are called the very slight cases that are treated in the -hospital close by. - -A much older man this, who has been many years in the army and came -over with the Indian division. He has a gentle, thoughtful face. There -is no resentment in his eyes--only the look of one who has seen death -very close and does not forget--and a great languor, the mark of the -gas. He is talking very dispassionately of our reprisals. - -“Oh yes, we have used our gas, the freezing-gas! But it don’t seem -hardly worth while. It draws their fire so.” Then, with an everyday -smile and no more emotion in his tone than if he were descanting on a -mousetrap, he goes on to describe the incredibly sudden effect of what -he calls the freezing-gas, which we suppose to be the French Turpinite. -“It freezes you up, so to speak, right off on the spot. You see a -fellow standing, turning his head to talk to a fellow near him. He -lifts his hand, maybe, in his talk like; then comes along the gas, and -there he stands. You think he’s going on talking. He’s frozen dead, -his arm up, looking so natural-like, same as might be me this minute. -Oh, it’s quick! what you call instantaneous. But it ain’t ’ardly worth -while. The Germans, you see, it draws their fire so. Two or three times -we got it in among our own men--oh, by mistake, miss, of course!” This -in response to the horrified ejaculation of his interlocutor. “And that -didn’t seem ’ardly worth while.” - -Beyond this group, again, the daughter of the house, seated on a -croquet-box, is surrounded by three sprawling blue soldiers. One of -them is talking earnestly to her. The others are so much engaged in a -game of “Beggar my Neighbour” with three-year-old Vivi, the Belgian -baby, that they do not pay the smallest attention to their companion, -and yet what he is saying is horrible enough, startling enough, God -knows! The speaker is a fair, pleasant-looking boy with a cocked nose, -tightly curling auburn hair, and an air of vitality and energy that -makes it difficult to think of him as in anything but the perfection of -health. He is a territorial, and evidently belongs to that thinking, -well-educated, working class that has made such a magnificent response -to the country’s call. - -“No, miss, we are not taking many prisoners now. No, we’re not likely -to. Well, think of our case. Just one little bit out of the whole long -line. They caught our sergeant--the sergeant of my company. We were -all very fond of him. Well, miss, they put him up where we could all -see him--top of their trench--and tortured him. Yes, miss, all day -they tortured him in sight of us, and all day we were trying to get -at them and we couldn’t. And when in the evening we did get at them, -he was dead, miss. We were all very fond of him. We weren’t likely -to give much quarter after that. And our officers”--here he smiles -suddenly--“well, miss, we’re Territorials, you see. Our officers just -let us loose. We’re Territorials,” he repeated. “They can’t keep us -as they keep the regulars. Not in the same military way. No, miss, we -didn’t give much quarter!” - -Our daughter groans a little. She understands, she sympathizes, yet she -regrets. She would like our men to be as absolutely without reproach as -they are without fear. - -“But you wouldn’t bring yourself down to the level of the Germans,” she -says; “you wouldn’t cease doing right because they do wrong?” - -He fixes her with bright blue eyes, and they are hard as steel. - -“Your British blood will boil,” he says slowly. - -It seems impossible to associate such a dark and awful tragedy with -this slim English boy and his unconquerable air of joyous youth. The -Signorina remembers the repeated phrase, “We were all very fond of -him,” and she sickens from the thought of that hellish picture of -cruelty and agony on one side, of the impotent grief and rage on the -other. - -To change the subject, she says: - -“How were you wounded?” - -And then it transpired he had been carrying in the British wounded at -the end of that day. He had been hit in the leg without knowing it, and -just as he was starting off to help to carry in the German wounded, he -collapsed. - -_To help to carry in the German wounded!_ Those Germans who had -tortured his own comrade all day! Dear Tommy! Dear, straight, noble, -simple British soldier! How could one ever have mistrusted your rough -justice or your Christian humanity? - -Real boy that he is, he warms up to the glee of narrating his -audacities when out at night with a party on listening-post duty. - -“Rare fun it was,” he declares. - -He used to creep up to the enemy’s trench and bayonet what came handy. - -“I couldn’t fire, you see, miss, nor do anything likely to make a -noise, so it had to be done on the quiet. But I got a good many that -way.” - -Baby Vivi is tired of her game of cards. For a while past she has been -amusing herself by boxing the two sitting soldiers. Very well-delivered -vigorous thumps she applies on their chests with her little fists, -and they obligingly go over backwards on the grass. She now comes to -exercise her powers on the Territorial. He catches her in his arms. - -The men all look at the little girl with strange, troubled, tender -eyes. One knows what is at the back of their thought. One of them -expresses it presently. - -“To think that anyone could ever hurt a little creature like that!” - -Vivi’s young mother sits with her small group further away. She has -told them how she has fled out of her castle in the Ardennes at dawn, -without having had time even to pack her children’s clothes. They had -thought themselves safe with the pathetic hopefulness that filled poor -Belgium from the moment when the French troops and the English appeared -in strength upon the soil. “Now all is well,” they said; “now we are -safe.” - -A French General and his staff lodged in the château, and the men -camped in the park. On the vigil of the day fixed for their intended -advance, the General took her on one side. An old man, he had been -through the whole of the war of ’70. He solemnly warned her of the -folly of remaining in her home, as she intended. - -“Madame, I know the Germans. I know of what they are capable. I have -seen them at work; I have not forgotten.” - -Should the invader reach a certain point within ten miles of the -district she must fly. - -All that night the aviators kept coming with messages, and in the early -dawn they started. She was up and saw the cavalcade winding away -through the park. She stood in the porch to wish them God-speed. The -young men were full of ardour. They were going forth to meet the enemy. -The General was grave. When he had reached the public road, he sent -one of his aide-de-camps riding back at a gallop. Was it a premonition -of disaster, or had secret news reached him by some emissary from the -field of conflict? The message to her was, that she was to be gone at -once with her family. At once! - -The young husband had already departed at break of day in their -automobile. He and his machine had been offered to the service of the -country and accepted. The mother, with her four little children--among -them the sturdy, two-year-old Viviane--had to walk to the station, with -what luggage could be got together and trundled down in a wheelbarrow. -Luckily it was not far--their own station just outside the park-gates. -They got the last train that ran from that doomed spot. The German guns -were within earshot as they steamed away. - -In their hurry they had forgotten to bring any milk or water for the -baby girl. The heat was suffocating. The only thing that could be laid -hold of was a bottle of white wine which someone had thrust into a -bag. Vivi clamoured, and they gave her half a glassful in the end. She -enjoyed it very much, and it did not disagree with her at all. - -The men in their blue garb listen to some of this story with profound -attention. They have a very touching, respectful, earnest way of -talking to the Belgian lady, and are very anxious to impress upon her -that soon they will have her country cleared of the enemy. - -“You tell her that, miss. She do believe it, don’t she? We’re going to -sweep them out in no time. Tell her that, miss. That’s what we’re over -there for. She’ll soon be able to get back there--back in her own home.” - -One of them gazes at her for a while in a kind of brooding silence, and -then says huskily: - -“Isn’t it a mercy you got away, ma’am--you and your little children!” - -He knows. He has seen. - -Then Viviane is called upon to sing “Tipperary.” - -Though only just three, this child, as has been said before, she looks -a sturdy four. The most jovial solid, red-cheeked, blue-eyed, smiling, -curly-haired little girl that it is possible to imagine. Her mother -says that she never lost her balance and tumbled down even when she -first began to toddle; and one can well believe it. There is a mixture -of strength and deliberation in everything she does that makes one -regret she is not a boy. But she has pretty, coaxing, coquettish ways -that are quite feminine. - -She now puts her head on one side, and ogles with her blue eyes -first one soldier and another, and smiles angelically as she pipes -“Tipperary.” - -This is a favourite song among the infant population these days. The -child of a friend of ours calls it her hymn, and sings it in church. - -There is something really engaging in Viviane’s roll of the “r’s.” -Her Tipperary is very guttural and conscientious, and her “Good-bye, -Piccadeely” always provokes the laughter of admiration. - -Encouraged by applause, she bursts into, “We don’t want to lose you, -but we think you ought to go.” And is quite aware, the little rogue, -of the effect she will presently produce when, upon an incredibly high -note, she announces, “We will _keess_ you.” - -After this, she breaks into piety with, “Paradise, oh! Paradise.” - -The little plump nurse gets up and shakes out her cloak. It is getting -quite late, and they must go back to the hospital. She marshals her -charges up on the terrace. They obey her just as if they were very good -little boys in charge of their schoolmistress. - -“Now say good-bye, and thank you. I’m sure you’ve all enjoyed -yourselves. No. 20, where’s your hat? Go down and get your hat, No. 20. -No; his poor leg’s tired. You go down and get it, No. 13.” - -“I seen it a while ago,” No. 13 announces obligingly. - -They say “good-bye” and “thank you” with the conscientiousness of their -simple hearts. We shake, one after the other, those outstretched hands -that grip back so cordially. - -A guest of the Villino--an honoured guest, who is not only one of the -most distinguished women artists of the day, but has lived all her -married life within sound of the drum; who has been always inspired -by the sights and scenes, the high glories and noble disasters of -warfare--expresses the feeling struggling in our hearts as she retains -the hand of the last of the file of blue-coats in hers: “What an honour -to shake the hand of a British soldier!” - -We hear them troop away through the little courtyard, laughing and -talking. We think, as the small nurse said, that they have had a -pleasant time. - - * * * * * - -One of the small side amusements in life is to hear other people’s -reflections upon experiences that one has lived through together, and -to measure the distance that lies between different points of view. It -makes one realize how extraordinarily difficult it must be to obtain -reliable evidence. - -A neighbour has obligingly come in to help us with the entertainment. -She is the pleasant, middle-aged Irish widow of an Irish doctor, -and her good-humour is as pronounced as her brogue. Finding herself -alone on the terrace with the Signorina after the departure of the -convalescents, she mystified her with the following remark: - -“How frightened the poor old lady was!” - -The poor old lady? The Signorina was all at sea. There was no one -answering to such a description among us to-day. - -“The poor old lady,” repeated the other firmly. “Yes, Lady ----. -I was talking to her, and oh! anybody could see how terrified she -was. Nervous, you know; trembling at the mention of the war, upset, -shrinking away. And no wonder, I’m sure,” she concluded genially. -“Hasn’t she got a son out there?” - -She betook herself down the steps towards her cottage. Our daughter -watched the purple-spotted blouse meandering downwards from terrace to -terrace till it disappeared. She was too astounded even to be able to -remonstrate. - -And, indeed, of what use would it have been? That Lady ----, -distinguished, humorous, with her figure erect and slender as a girl’s, -and her refined, delightful face stamped with genius on the brow, and -with the most delicate humour about the mouth; that this incomparable -woman, actually in the zenith of her power, personal as well as -artistic, a being whom it seems that age can never touch, to whom the -years have so far only brought a maturing of all kinds of excellence, -should have appeared to anyone as the _poor old lady_! And that she -should be further classed among the frightened! She who more than any -fighter of them all sees the romance of war, the high lesson of war; -who only the day before, speaking of a discontented soldier friend, had -said to us in tones of wonder: - -“He’s not enjoying war! It seems so strange.” - -There was nothing for it but to laugh. But what an insight into the -manner in which “other people see us.” - -In the Signora’s early teens her family indulged in a Dublin season, -during which a very worthy prelate, the Cardinal Archbishop of her -Church, died. He was full of years and good works, but at no moment of -his existence remarkable for good looks. - -A sprightly housemaid of the establishment demanded permission to go -and visit the church where he was laid out in state. On her return the -Padrona’s mother inquired how the sight had impressed her, expecting a -duly pious response. - -Quoth the damsel, with her brisk Dublin accent: - -“Well, really, ’m, I thought the Cawdinal looked remawkably well!” - -As a rule, however, the Irish lower classes are more quick to seize -shades of feeling, refinements of emotion, than the poor of other -races; especially--to hark back to a former page--that peasantry of the -older type in which a vivid spirituality was kept alive by their faith. -A chaplain has written to us from the Isle of Wight speaking of the -immense consolation he had had in the presence of some Irish soldiers -among the troops stationed there. “Their faith made me ashamed.” - -But indeed the feeling of religion among all our men, of whatever -creed, and from whatever part of the British Isles they have come, is -not one of the least remarkable manifestations of the war. - -“I knew I would not be killed,” said a wounded soldier beside whose bed -we sat the other day. “But I knew I’d come back a better man, and I -think I have.” - -Then he added that the only thing that troubled them, lying in -hospital, was the thought of the comrades in the thick of it, and not -being able to help them. - -“Of course,” he went on thoughtfully, “we can pray. We all do that, of -course; we do pray, and we know that helps.” - -This man was neither Irish nor Catholic. - -Infinitely touching are the remarks they make, these dear fellows; -beautiful sometimes in their unconscious heroism. - -“Well, at least,” said the Signorina to a man permanently crippled by -shrapnel, saddened by the decision that he could never go back to the -front. “At least you know you’ve done your little bit.” - -“Ah, but you see, miss,” he answered in all simplicity, “among us -the saying goes, no one has really done his little bit till he’s -underground.” - -“Will you mind going back?” said a rather foolish friend of ours to an -exhausted, badly wounded sufferer in a Dublin hospital. He had seen -Mons and its horrors, all the brutality of war with little of its -concomitant glory. The eyes in his drawn face looked up at her steadily. - -“If it’s my dooty, lady, I’m ready to go.” - -“I’d give my other leg to go back,” said a maimed lad to Lady ----. He -was in a hospital at Lyndhurst, a fair, splendid boy, not yet eighteen. - -“Don’t make me too soft, Sister,” pleaded an Irish Fusilier with five -bullet wounds in his back, to his kindly nurse in the little convent -hospital near here. “I’ve got to finish my job out there.” - -At a recent lecture delivered on “Five Months with the British -Expeditionary Force”--his own experience--Professor Morgan made use of -these remarkable words: “Our men count no cost too high in the service -of the nation. They greet death like a friend, and go into battle as to -a festival.” - -What wonder, then, that there should be such an unshakable spirit of -confidence throughout the whole of our army, for with conscience at -peace, and eyes fixed on their high ideal, they go forth to fight, -knowing that, as a great preacher has said, those who do battle in a -just cause already carry the flame of victory on their foreheads. - - - - -IX - -IT’S A FAR CRY TO PERSIA - - “Come, my tan-faced children, - Follow well in order, get your weapons ready! - Have you your pistols?--Have you your sharp-edged axes? - - * * * * * - - For we cannot tarry here--we must march, my darlings; - we must bear the brunt of danger! - - * * * * * - - O resistless, restless race! O beloved race in all! O, my breast - Aches with tender love for all! - O, I mourn and yet exult. I am rapt with love for all!” - - WALT WHITMAN. - - -The master of the Villino got the telegram when he was shaving, that -morning of October 26. - - “Slightly wounded. Going London.--H.” - -He came straight in to the Signora, who instantly read all kinds of -sinister meanings into the reticent lines. - -Slightly wounded! H. would be sure to say that whatever had happened. -Even if he had lost an arm or a leg he might very well try and break it -to us in some such phrase. There were certainly grounds for consolation -in the fact that he should be “going London,” but were not the papers -full of accounts of the felicitous manner in which the transport of -very serious cases was being daily accomplished? - -The only brother and very precious! Always in the Signora’s -mind--stalwart, middle-aged man as he is--doubled by and impossible -to dissociate from a little fair-haired boy, the youngest of the -family, endeared by a thousand quaint, childish ways. That he should be -wounded, suffering Heaven knew what unknown horror of discomfort and -pain, was absurdly, but unconquerably to her heart, the hurting of the -child. Alas! if an elder sister feels this, what must the agony of the -mothers be all through the world to-day! - -We telephoned to the clearing station at Southampton, and found that -the ambulance train had already started. Then the master of the -Villino, and the sister whose home is with us, determined to leave for -London themselves and endeavour to trace our soldier. - -It was late in the afternoon when a comforting telegram came through to -those left behind; it told us that H. had been run to earth; that the -wound was indeed favourable; that he was well in health, and that we -might expect him here to be nursed in a couple of days. - -Very glad the Villino was to have him, very proud of its own soldier, -deeply thankful to be granted the care of him! - -The Signorina immediately instituted herself Red Cross nurse, the local -lectures having borne fruit after all. The wound was for us and for him -a very lucky one, but the doctor called it dreadful, and, indeed, one -could have put one’s hand into it; and Juvenal, summoned to assist at -the first dressing, fainted at the sight. But it had not touched any -vital point, and though the muscle under the shoulder-blade was torn in -two, it has left no weakness in the arm. - -Like all soldiers we have met, he will not hear of the suggestion that -it was inflicted by a dum-dum bullet. Nevertheless, it is a singular -fact that where the bullet went in the hole is the ordinary size of -the missile, and where it came out it is the size of a man’s fist. -Something abnormal about that German projectile there must have been. -But we were ready to go down on our knees and thank God fasting for -a good man’s life; and it was clear that it would take a long time to -heal! - -Anyone who knows our soldiers knows the perfectly simple attitude -of their minds as far as their own share in the great struggle is -concerned. Further, they have an everyday, common-sense, unexaggerated -manner of speaking of their terrible experiences which helps us -stay-at-homes very much--we who are apt to regard the front as a -nightmare, hell and shambles mixed. - -“We were a bit cut up that day, but we got our own back with the -bayonet.” - -“Well, they took our range rather too neatly, but man for man Tommy’s a -match for the Hun any day, even if we were short of shells.” - -“Poor lads! they had to trot off before they’d had their breakfast--a -six-mile walk and stiff work to follow--after three days and three -nights of it below Hollebeke. We’d been sent back for a rest when the -message came; but the men didn’t mind anything, only the loss of the -breakfast. ‘Such a good breakfast as it was, sir,’ as one of them said -to me. Six o’clock in the morning and a six-mile march! A few of the -fellows clapped their bacon into their pockets. The line was broken -and the Germans coming in. Someone had to drive them out, and the -Worcesters came handy.” - -“Oh yes, we did it all right; running like smoke they were, -squealing--they can’t stand the bayonet!” - -That was the “little bit” where our soldier got his wound. - -“It’s nothing at all, me child.” - -His sergeant dressed it first at the back of the firing-line, then he -walked into Ypres. He went to the hospital, found it crowded--‘Lots -of fellows worse than I was’--so he strolled away and had his hair -cut!--“A real good shampoo and a shave, and a bath, and then a jolly -good dinner!” And then he proceeded to look up some nice fellows of the -Irish Horse. And in the end he went back to the hospital, and they “did -him up!” - -When one thinks that in peace time, if anyone had accidentally received -such a wound, what a fuss there would have been! What a sending for -doctors and nurses! what long faces! what lamentations, precautions, -and misgivings! It makes one understand better the state of things over -there. How splendidly indifferent our manhood has become to suffering! -How gloriously cheap it holds life itself! - -H. is happily not among those unfortunate brave men who suffer nervous -distress from the sights, the scenes, and the strain of warfare, but he -has a keen, almost a poetic, sensibility to the romance and tragedy of -his experiences. - -As he sat, those November days, in one of the deep arm-chairs before -the great bricked hearth in the Villino library, a short phrase here -and there would give us a picture of some episode which stamped itself -upon the memory of the listener. - -“Lord, it was jolty, driving along in the ambulance to the station! The -poor boy next to me--badly wounded, poor chap! lost a lot of blood--he -got faint and lay across my breast; went to sleep there in the end.” - -“Shells? ’Pon me word, it was beautiful to see them at night! Oh, -one’s all right, you know, if one keeps in one’s trenches. One of my -subalterns--ah, poor lad! I don’t know what took him--he got right -out of the trench and stood on the edge, stretching himself. A shell -came along and bowled him over. We dug him out. He was an awfully -good-looking boy. There wasn’t a scratch on him, but he was stone dead; -his back broken. And there he lay as beautiful as an angel. The Colonel -and I, we buried him. He was twenty-three; just married. The Colonel -and I used to bury our men at night.” - -Suddenly the speaker’s shoulders shook with laughter. - -“Those shells! One of my fellows had one burst within a yard of him. -Lord, I thought he was in pieces! He was covered in earth and rubbish! -‘Has that done for you?’ I called out to him. ‘I think it has, sir,’ he -said, and you should have seen him clutching himself all over! And then -there was a grin. ‘No, sir, it’s only a bruise!’ Oh, you get not to -mind them, except one kind; that does make a nasty noise--a real nasty -noise; it was just that noise one minded. Ugh, when you heard it coming -along! Spiteful, it was!” - -In the private London hospital where he spent three days the bed next -to him was occupied by a Major of Artillery, wounded in the head. - -“There was not much wrong with him, poor old chap! but he had got a -bit of nerve-strain. Lord, he never let me get a wink, calling out all -night in his sleep: ‘D---- that mist! I can’t see the swine. A bit more -to the left. Now, now, boys, now we’ve got them! Oh, damn that mist! -Ha! we got them that time--got the swine!’” - -The doctors who saw our soldier were rather surprised to find him so -calm in his mind. They could scarcely believe he should sleep so sound -at nights--that the human machine should be so little out of gear. Yet -there were days when he called himself “slack,” looked ill enough, and -one could see that even a short walk was a severe trial of strength. - -We shall not lightly forget a funny little incident which happened upon -an afternoon when he seemed peculiarly exhausted. He was sitting in his -arm-chair close to the fire, looking grey and drawn, declaring that -the north-east wind never agreed with him. A kindly clerical neighbour -rushed in upon us. He had just heard that fifty thousand Germans had -landed at Sheringham. All the troops were under orders. Despatch riders -had galloped from Aldershot to stop the billeting of a regiment just -arrived here. The men had started up in the middle of their dinners and -begun to pack again. They were to go back to Aldershot and concentrate -for the great move. Further--indisputable authority!--the Chief -Constable of the county had private information of the invasion. - -You should have seen our soldier! He was up out of his chair with a -spring, his blue eyes blazing. All the languor, the unacknowledged -stiffness and ache of his wound, were gone. If ever there was a -creature possessed with the pure joy of battle it was he. How much the -womenkind miss who have never seen their men leading a charge! What a -vital part of a man’s character lies dormant in times of peace! - -There is, we believe, a large number of people who regard this fighting -spirit as a purely animal quality; recently, indeed, a certain -professor delivered a lecture on the subject of wild dogs and wolves -who fight in packs, with special reference to the present state of -humanity. These thinkers, sitting at ease in their armchairs, placid -materialists, who have never known their own souls, much less do they -know those of their countrymen. What we saw in our soldier’s eyes was, -we swear, the leap of the spirit--the fine steel of the soul springing -out of the scabbard of the body, the fire from the clay. Carlyle has -somewhere a lovely phrase anent that spark of heroism that will burn in -the heart of the lowest British soldier, the poorest, dullest peasant -lad, and make of him hero and martyr, enable him to face long agony and -death, endure as well as charge. - -So H. flung off his languor and dashed out of his armchair and sprang -to the telephone to order himself a car, and presently departed, -already invisibly armed, in search of--this time--an invisible foe. For -the foe was invisible! - -No one knew whence the scare had come; whether there were any real -justification for the preparations which were certainly ordered. The -regiment which had had to pack up again just as it had got into its -billets, and go back to Aldershot in the very middle of its dinner, was -kept under arms all night; but there was never the point of a single -_Pickelhaube_ visible on the horizon at Sheringham or elsewhere. And -on examination it turned out that the “Chief Constable” of the county, -that unimpeachable and alarming authority, had been none other than -the local policeman, which was a comedown indeed! But the thrill was -not altogether unpleasant, and we like to remember the sick soldier -springing up, that St. Michael fire in his blue eyes. - - * * * * * - -In a short account written for his school magazine, H. summarizes the -experiences of his own regiment at Ypres thus: - -“All the officers in my company are wounded or invalided. The men are -very cheerful under all the hardships and losses, and their behaviour -under fire is splendid. The Brigade (5th) has been taken three times -at least to ‘mend the line’ where the Germans had broken through. -From October 24 to November 5 my regiment lost about 450 officers and -men--mostly, thank God, wounded. The Germans can’t shoot for nuts, but -their artillery fire is accurate and _incessant_, and the machine-guns -very deadly.” - - * * * * * - -There is nothing more touching than the devotion of the officers to -their men. They feel towards them truly as if they were their children. - -“No officer,” said the widow of a great general to us the other day, -“ever thinks of himself in action, ever casts a thought to the bullets -flying about him. Indeed, the officers don’t seem to believe they can -get hit; they’re so occupied in looking after their men. All the time -they’re looking at their men.” - -Even as we write these lines we see the death, in the Dardanelles, of -a young officer who had been under H. when he was training reserves -during his recent period of convalescent home service. This youth was, -in our brother’s eyes, the perfection of young manhood. He prophesied -for him great things. He told us many stories of his quaint humour and -incisive wit. One anecdote remains. Among their recruits were between -twenty and thirty extremely bad characters--slack, undisciplined -fellows, worthless material belonging almost to the criminal classes. -After working in vain with all his energy to endeavour to put some kind -of soldierly discipline into them, young W. paraded them in the barrack -yard, and addressed them in the following language: - -“His Majesty’s Government cannot afford nowadays to spend money -uselessly. You are a dead waste to the nation. You are not worth the -food you get nor the clothes you wear. It has been decided, therefore, -to send you to the front; and, as every man is bound to do his utmost -to help his country in the present crisis, it is earnestly to be hoped -that you will, each one of you, endeavour to get himself shot as soon -as possible.” - -We understand that the result of this stringent discourse on that “bad -hat” squad was miraculous, although the sergeant-major was so overcome -with mirth that he had to retire to give vent to it. - -This boy had been serving in the East in a wild and difficult district, -and had distinguished himself so remarkably that he was summoned to the -Foreign Office to advise upon an expedition which it was proposed to -send to those regions. Never was there any life so full of promise. Gay -and gallant youth, it seems a cruel decree that the bullet of some vile -Turk should have had the power to rob England of a son so likely to do -her signal honour and service in the future. “It is the best that are -taken”--a phrase sadly familiar just now that finds only too true an -echo in everyone’s experience. - -There was another, whom we had known from the time when he was an -apple-cheeked little boy in petticoats--a sunny, level-headed child, -who gave the minimum of trouble and the maximum of satisfaction to -his parents from the moment of his appearance on this earth. All his -short life always busy, always happy. His mother said that she had -never seen a frown of discontent on his face. Head boy at Harrow, where -the authorities begged to be allowed to keep him on another year for -the sake of the good example he gave; writer of the prize essay three -years running; winner of all the cups for athletics; champion boxer -and fencer--with these brilliant qualities he had--rare combination -indeed!--a steady, well-balanced mind. With high ideals he had a sober -judgment. He was but twenty. With all these achievements--splendid -lad!--he fell leading his platoon of Highlanders at Aubers upon that -most ill-fated, most tragic 9th of May. - -“I always wanted my son to be just like Keith”--more than one friend -gave this tribute to the stricken father. - -Characteristic of the unchanged romantic mysticism that lies deep in -the hearts of the Scots--Scots of the glens and hills--are the words in -which the local paper refers to the loss which had befallen the country -in the death of the gallant young officer: “He died like a Stewart: he -dreed his weird, he drank the cup of his race!” - -It is the fine flower of our young manhood that is being mown down. -What is to become of England, robbed of her best? It seems such waste -and loss; we who cannot fight feel at times as if the pressure of -such calamity “doth make our very tears like unto bloode.” But we -must believe that it is not waste, but seed; that the nations who sow -in tears will reap in joy; that each of these young lives, so gladly -given, shares in the redemption of the country; that, in all reverence, -in all faith, that they are mystically united to Calvary; and that -their glory will be presently shown forth even as in the glory of -resurrection! - -A correspondent writing from the front describes the expression in the -eyes of the friendly officer, who has been his guide, as he pointed out -the myriad crosses of the burial-ground. “He looked envious,” he says, -and adds that he noticed that all out there “speak with envy of the -dead.” - -Is not the nation’s honour sharpened to its finest point when the ideal -of its manhood is to die for the country? _Dulce et decorum...._ - -We were very glad, nevertheless, when, in spite of his repeated -applications to return to his own men, H. was ordered to take a command -in the Persian Gulf. The link that binds a man to comrades with whom -he has shared every possible danger and hardship, to those who have -faced death with him, whom he has himself led on to peril and agony, -the while they have been to him as his children--such a link is indeed -one that is hard to break! Their peril has been his; their glory is his -pride. - -“If I can single out one regiment for special praise,” said the -Commander-in-Chief, “it is the Worcesters.” - -And again: - -“I consider the Worcesters saved Europe on that day.” - -It is no wonder that H. should be proud of them; that the thousand -fibres should draw him back to them. - -But, when the summons came, he was told “to prepare for a hot climate.” -And then, of all strange things, or so it seemed to us, we found -that his destination was Persia. The Garden of Eden! Further, it was -rumoured, the objective was likely to be Bagdad. It sounded like a -fairy tale. He promised us Attar of Roses; and indeed, we think, -carpets. And a flippant niece wrote to him that she was sure that by a -little perseverance he could find a magic one, and come sailing across -the sky some night after duty, like the merchant in the Arabian nights. -She added: “And do bring me a hanging garden, if you can.” But when the -parting came it was a very cruel reality. It’s a far cry to Persia! - -He started on the day of the sinking of the _Lusitania_; a date branded -on the history of the world till the end of all time. The two who had -gone to fetch him and brought him home--so contented in their tender -anxiety that he was safely wounded--saw him on board the great liner. - -Many Indians returning to Bombay, a few officers ordered to his own -destination, a batch of nurses for Malta, and one or two ladies -hurrying to their sons wounded in the Dardanelles--these were all his -fellow-passengers. - -It somewhat restored our confidence, shaken by the facile success of -the monstrous crime, to know that they were to be convoyed a certain -way, and that they had a gun on board. Nevertheless, they were not to -escape menace. - -“The evening we started,” he wrote, “I asked the steward if they had -seen any submarines about. ‘No, sir,’ he admitted reluctantly. Then -brightened up, anxious to oblige, ‘But we have seen a lot of luggage -floating about--trunks and clothes, sir.’” - -(It was obvious no passenger need give up hope; and, indeed, the letter -posted at Gibraltar continues):-- - -“I have had no occasion to use your lifesaving waistcoat yet, though, -as a matter of fact, we _had_ a small-sized adventure with a submarine. -At dinner on Monday we felt that they had suddenly altered the ship’s -course. It appears that a submarine was spotted about five hundred -yards away. The captain slewed the vessel round to bring our one gun to -bear on her. However, the smoke obscured our view, and the submarine -must have seen our gun, as she disappeared.” - -Then comes an anecdote, dreadfully characteristic of our happy-go-lucky -English ways, a comedy that might have been--for this house, at least, -God knows!--the direst tragedy. - -“Next day,” he continues, “we had gun practice, but it turned out that -none of the gun’s crew knew how to work her; and after fumbling for -about two hours, a passenger came along and showed them how to manage -her, and fired her off. We all cheered.” - -The next stage on that lengthening journey that is to take him so -unrealizably far away from us is Malta. The place laid its spell upon -him, though at first he writes: - -“From the ship both islands looked most unprepossessing: dry, arid, -khaki-coloured lumps, full of khaki-coloured buildings. Once on shore -one begins to love the place. The buildings, fortifications, and -general spirit are most inspiring and grandiose. One expects to see -some proud old Templar riding down the gay streets, looking neither to -the right nor left. I had no time to do any of the right Cathedrals, -where there are wonderful paintings by Michael Angelo, etc., nor -the Grand Master’s Palace Armoury, with the knight’s armour, nor the -Inquisitor’s Palace. I went off to look for wounded Worcesters from the -Dardanelles. I had no time to see anything else as the hospital was a -long way off. - -“Every hole and corner is turned into a beautiful garden, with lovely -flowers and ‘penetrating scents,’ fountains, and shady palms and trees. - -“How you would revel in the churches! They are more numerous than in -Rome, and quite beautiful. The people, too, are intensely religious. - -“There are many French shops here, and the French women look tawdry -beside the Maltese, with their wonderful black cloaks and reserved -aristocratic air. - -“I am sending you a weird map full of quaint spelling, given to me -by a wounded Worcestershire (4th Batt.) sergeant, at the hospital at -Malta, and a rough idea of the difficulties of the landing. Early on -one Monday morning, about 1 a.m., the ships got into position round the -promontory, with the troop lighters behind. About 4 a.m. the latter -were towed off during a bombardment such as never has been heard or -seen before in the history of the world. - -“The Turks did not reply till the boats got quite close to shore and -the ships’ guns could not fire on the located maxims (which were sunk -in deep, narrow slips close to the shore). As far as I gathered, the -Lancashire Fusiliers were the first actually to get on shore on the -extreme left at Tekki Barna, where they charged with the bayonet and -the Turks retired. They were able to enfilade a good portion of the -ground, and enabled the Essex and 4th Worcesters, both of whom had -suffered very heavily from Maxim fire, to land and drive the Turks -back. Three boatloads of Dublin Fusiliers were wiped out by gun and -Maxim fire near Ish Messarer point. The Lancashire Fusiliers suffered -rather badly from the fire of some of our ships’ guns, which, of -course, could not be helped. - -“The Worcesters were sent up to help the Essex, and advanced against -some barbed wire, which a young subaltern called Wyse volunteered to -cut. He rolled over sideways till he got under the wire and cut it from -strand to strand upwards. As he got to the last strand a sniper shot -off two fingers in successive shots. - -“The snipers had their faces painted green to harmonize with the -surroundings, and were calmly surrendering as we advanced, having -picked off numbers of men. They were all shot, however, _pour -encourager les autres_. - -“My sergeant was shot in the hip that evening, but he told me that by -Wednesday the troops had secured Envedos, a most important position, -and the safe landing of stores and guns was thus secured. - -“He said the Turks either ran from the bayonet or surrendered. The -prisoners said they did not want to fight, but were forced to do so by -the Germans. - -“The ships are in their more or less correct position in the map, the -sergeant says, as he took trouble to find out from a naval chart.” - -From Malta to Alexandria, from Alexandria to Aden, and from thence to -Bombay. His letters mark each point of his Odyssey. And at Alexandria -he is fascinated with the movement and colour; he goes on shore and -visits the shops; he parts from the delightful American lady who has -been the life and soul of the ship; she whose wounded son awaits her -in Cairo. At Aden, the heat striking at them from the shore prevents -him from landing; an unattractive torrid spot. Here they take in a -young Indian Government official, who gives an interesting detail upon -his destination: - -“He knew Wilcox very well, the man who was going to make the barrage -on the Euphrates and Tigris, and convert Mesopotamia into the richest -country in the world. Wilcox said he found all the details given in the -Bible about the various depths and breadths of the rivers absolutely -accurate--curious after all these centuries!” - -At Bombay he has a pleasant time; a brother officer having wired to -relations who take him about and show him what is most worth seeing -in his short stay. He puts up at the Bombay Yacht Club, “wonderful -place, like fairyland, with palms and fountains and music, with cool, -quiet rooms looking out over wide and lovely views.” He goes on long -drives “under trees that grow for miles and miles along the sea coast, -where the graceful-moving natives in their bright colours look awfully -picturesque.” - -He sees the famous towers of silence where, with effective, but no -doubt quite unconscious, alliteration, he describes “the ghoulish -vultures sitting grimly in the glorious gold mohur trees.” - -His last letter says: “I start on Sunday for Bosra.” - -He believes that they will remain at Bosra, and makes little of the -fact that the heat is terrible there just now. - -“We will live in cool underground rooms,” he says, “and be all right!” - -And now we know that we shall not have news of him again for a long -time. A thousand anxieties assail us, for which we can have no -reassurance. We picture him in that strange region, but realize that of -its strangeness we can form no real image. - -He will see the dead cities and the great desert wastes and the -swamps--it is in those swamps under the merciless sun that our terror -lies; he will deal with a fierce and treacherous people whose thoughts -are not as our thoughts, whose motives and beliefs are irreconcilably -alien; and this dangerous race is fermenting under the influences, the -money, the lies, the ceaseless open and secret poison leaven of a race -more treacherous, more dangerous still. - -Blinding sunshine, black shadows, arid stretches of dried earth and -mud and burnt vegetation; the colour of the Eastern crowd, the river -waters and the harbour stretch; the Arab and the Kurd, the Turk, the -Armenian, and the Jew, sights and scenes and creatures that have been -but as names to us, are about him. He has followed the drum from Cape -Town to Magaliesburg, from Bloemfontein to Bethlehem, from Gibraltar to -Cork, from Soupir to Ypres, from Ypres to Plymouth, and from Plymouth -to the Euphrates; he has left his cool, green Ireland, his hunting and -his fishing, his own wide acres and the rural life among his beasts for -this picturesque, unknown, uncertain destiny! - -Often in the long hot hours will not his mind go back to those -stretches of shady, luxuriant park land where his cattle feed; to the -great lime avenue with the voice of the bees; the circle of the purple -hills, the woods, those incomparable woods of our old home with their -cool depths of bracken, silver green; the dells, the climbing roads, -the view over the “deer-park” to the sunset, which impressed even our -childish imaginations; the voice of the wild pigeons through the trees; -and the immense white house--empty--which before this war broke out, he -was about to furnish; the corridors, the vast rooms full of memories; -latterly, to us, of hopes. His heart will be there, we know. - -And his home is guarded by his faithful Spanish servant, who followed -him, out of love, from those far Gibraltar days of his young soldier’s -life; who, when a legacy made of him a comparatively rich man, refused -to profit of it, and sent the money back to a distant relative in -Spain, saying: “What do I want of it? You, my master, you, my father, -you, my mother, you, my country, you, all I want!” Pedro, by a singular -freak of fate, ruling this Irish land with an equal zeal and ability, -writes to us: “I pray my dere master may come home safe. I have great -hope in Our Lady, the Mother of God.” - -What is left to us, too, but a similar trust? We can but commend him to -the Father of All that He may overshadow him with His shoulders; that -the sun should not burn him by day, nor the moon by night; that he may -be guarded from the arrow that flieth by day, from the assault of the -evil one in the noontide! - - - - -X - -A THREE DAYS’ CHRONICLE - - “Happy in England! I could be content - To see no other verdure than its own: - To feel no other breezes than are blown - Through the tall woods with high romances blent; - Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment - For skies Italian....” - - KEATS. - - -_June 29, 1915._--The feast of Peter and Paul comes round with a -new significance. In war time we learn the meaning of so much that -has seemed unimportant; of things hidden away at the back of our -consciousness--things neglected, unknown, or even despised--and we -learn, too, the worthlessness of so much that has seemed paramount and -necessary, desirable and precious. War is a stern master. He teaches -above all the relative values; how to weigh the greater against the -less; how to fling away with one superb gesture the whole sum of human -possessions for a single imperishable prize. - -“What doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world and suffer the -loss of his own soul?” - -He who spoke these words gently to a handful of poor Jews now seems to -cry them with a voice of thunder from end to end of the earth. - -Thus, this, their festival day, brings the two great champions of the -Cross--and it is for Christ and the Cross that every son of England -is fighting to-day--before our minds with a singular vividness and -nearness: Peter, type of the natural man, untutored; sure of himself -and of his own good impulses, of the honest purpose of his guileless -heart; impetuous, loving, weak, with all purely human weakness, even -to betrayal; and--divinely strengthened--Peter the rock, Peter the -fisherman who conquered the world! Paul, the Patrician, the apostle -born out of due time, whose ardour is all of the intellect, keen as -a blade and burning as a flame; the little man of Tarsus upon whose -spirit the teaching of all Christianity reposes as firmly to-day as -does the Church upon the stone of Peter; Paul, whom the Captain, Christ -Himself, enlisted by the miraculous condescension of a personal appeal. -Has not every Christian, whatever his creed, vowed them reverence -throughout all the ages? To-day, may not the eyes of the believer look -up to them with a new confidence? - -The Signora, lying through a wakeful night and thinking of these -things, went with a rush of memory back to Rome, to scenes and -experiences and thoughts dominated by the memories of the two chief -apostles. - -There is nothing more characteristic of their lives than the different -manners of their death. Peter is Peter to the end; first yielding to -the natural impulse, then, by virtue of the grace of God, returning -upon himself and leaping to the highest altitude of superhuman -sacrifice. In the whole tradition of the Church there is no legend -more touching than that which tells us how Peter, flying out of Rome, -met the Christ carrying the Cross. It is the original Peter in all -his guilelessness who, unstartled by the vision, with the perfect -simplicity of his faith, asks: “_Domine quo vadis?_” And it is the -sublime founder of the Church of God who, unquestioning, accepts the -Master’s rebuke, and retraces his steps to face his Lord’s torment with -the added agony his own holy humility demands. - -Every pilgrim to Rome has knelt or stood, prayed or pondered at the -tomb of Peter in the golden twilight of the great Basilica, by the -vastness of which, as Marion Crawford says, “mind and judgment are -dazed and staggered.” Who has not leant on the marble balustrade of -the confession and looked down upon the ninety-five gilded lamps -that burn there day and night, upon the kneeling white figure of the -Seventh Pius?--a vision in which the whole linked grandeur and piety of -the Church of Rome seems epitomized. In St. Peter’s, Simon, the poor -fisherman, is little thought of; it is Peter, saint and pontiff, who -is paramount; he who has miraculously fed the lambs and fed the sheep -from that hour on the sea of Galilee to this day. And very few remember -the old man, too weak and aged to bear his cross, who had climbed -half-way to the Janiculum, when his executioners, seeing that he could -not advance any further, planted his gibbet in the deep yellow sand and -crucified him then and there--head downwards, as he begged them. This -is the ancient tradition, and it further tells us that he was followed -by but few of the faithful, who stood apart, weeping. - -Impressive as are these hallowed spots, these glorious memorials of -the Eternal City; however full, to the believer, of the atmosphere of -the days of faith--oases in the great desert of life, where the palms -of the martyrs are still green and throw a grateful shade--there is -nothing, to our minds, in all the grandeur of Rome, even under the dome -of Peter, comparable to the effect produced upon the mind by a visit to -Tre Fontane. - -As Peter was led to die the death of the lowest criminal--the death of -his Master--Paul was brought forth to the death of the sword, reserved -for the Patrician. - -To go to Tre Fontane and visit the spot of his martyrdom is to return -to the primitive ages of the Church. The fisherman lies in a tomb such -as no king or emperor, no hero or conqueror or best beloved of the -world’s potentates ever had. And Paul sleeps in that great pillared -church _fuori le mura_, in a severity and dignity of magnificence very -well befitting the stern fire of the apostle’s zeal. But the memory of -his martyrdom is consecrated in a curious isolation of poverty, one -might almost say, aloofness; an earnest purity that reminds one, as -we have said, of early Christian times. You have all the splendours; -the golden glory, the marble, the mosaic, the sculpture and the jewels; -the movement, the colour and the crowd of Rome behind, and you come out -into the sweeping solitudes of the Campagna. For those who know and -love those strange, arid, melancholy spaces, there is no more potent -spell than the hold they lay upon the spirit. The gem-like distances -of the mountains, the radiant arch of the Italian sky, the movement -of light and shadow over the immense waste, the romance of each of -the historic ways, the mystery of the secrets they hold--better pens -than ours have striven to embody the charm and failed! Why should we -try? It is like a strain of music the meaning of which is lost to us. -We hear; we cannot understand. It is too full of messages. It is sad -and beautiful and haunting, and withal intensely human. Here you have -nature at her wildest and most untrammelled; and yet, never was city so -peopled, so thick with memories of all races and all histories; endless -streams of pilgrims have traversed the long roads; the centuries have -come and gone upon them; the blood, the tears, the strivings and hopes -of all humanity are here. - -One looks forward towards wave upon wave of low-lying ground, bordered -by the mountain barriers; and each time one looks back, the dome of -Peter hangs pearl-like against the sky. - -Speaking of the memory of our drive to Tre Fontane, the Signorina is -reminded that she has jotted down her impressions in an old diary. - -“We drove to the Trappist Monastery,” she wrote, “where St. Paul was -beheaded. His head is said to have rebounded three times as it struck -the earth, and on each of those three hallowed spots there sprang up a -miraculous jet of water. The first spring is still warm as if with the -glow of the great spirit that there left its mortal frame; the second -spring is tepid; the third cold as death. - -“The drive is a beautiful one; through the Campagna stretching wide and -green on either side, bounded by the mountains, some now snow-capped. -The first sight of the monastery breaks on one from the top of a little -hill. The huddled buildings appear suddenly at the foot in a deep -valley, shrouded by eucalyptus groves. On the right of the convent the -ground rises again, covered with a perfect forest of the same trees. It -is one of the saddest and most impressive places I ever saw. It strikes -chill, even when the rest of the Campagna is warm, and the continual -shuddering of the eucalyptus leaves makes an uncanny murmur. We drove -through an avenue of them, grey-green all over, trunks and leaves; and -then came to an arched gateway closed by an iron gate. - -“We dismounted from our carriage, already quite impressed, and pulled -the bell, which echoed with a deep and beautiful note through the -monastery grounds. - -“A porter opened and we walked into the garden, still under the -eucalyptus (mingled here with palms and lemons), and made more -beautiful still by the fragments of antique sculpture that border the -walks--marble capitols and broken acanthus leaves and pieces of old -pavements wonderfully worked in scrolls and twists. - -“Papa particularly lost his heart to a lion’s head, with a dear flat -nose! He could not tear himself away from it; he wanted it so badly -for our new little garden in Surrey! - -“As there are three fountains, so there are three churches, but -the miraculous springs are all under one roof. This is a fine, -comparatively modern church, situated at the end of an avenue of -eucalyptus and marble fragments. It has a classic pavement (pagan) -representing the four seasons. - -“Opposite the entrance are the fountains--built in, now, and covered -over, but each with a little opening where the attendant friar will let -down a ladle and draw up the water for the faithful. Over each fountain -is an altar, with the head of St. Paul, in bas-relief, sculptured by -Canova: - - “‘A la première, l’âme vient à l’instant même de s’échapper du - corps. Ce chef glorieux est plein de vie! A la seconde, les ombres - de la mort couvrent déjà ses admirables traits; à la troisième, le - sommeil éternel les a envahis, et quoique demeurés tout rayonnants - de beauté, ils disent, sans parler, que dans ce monde ces lèvres ne - s’entr’ouvriront plus, et que ce regard d’aigle s’est voilé pour - toujours.’ - -“In the right-hand corner of the first altar is the pillar which marks -the actual spot of the martyrdom of the fiery-hearted saint. The -ancient Via Lorentina passed along this very place, and here stood the -mile-stone, whereat St. Paul was beheaded. - -“‘This is absolutely certain,’ said the monk who conducted us. ‘Even -protestants acknowledge the death to have taken place here. For the -rest,’ indicating the three fountains, ‘there is only the legend. You -may believe it or not, as you like.’ - -“He looked so happy, this monk. He had been thirty years at Tre -Fontane, but there was no sign of age on his face. It was, perhaps, a -trifle withered, like a ripe apple that has lain long on a shelf, but -that was all. And yet he said that, for the first fifteen years, he had -suffered continuously from malarial fever. He had superintended, and -even worked at, the planting of the eucalyptus groves which have so -purified the district that there has not been one case of the sickness -since. - -“The other two churches are close to one another. The first is very old -and utterly bare, and, in a strange, mournful way, deeply impressive. -It dates from the sixth century, and is lofty and vaulted and almost -Gothic in its spirit. It has several rose-windows, and there are many -round holes in the walls also. These are now either empty or fitted -with common glass, but they were once filled with thin slices of -alabaster, or other precious transparencies. At present it seems the -embodiment in stone of the Trappist order, ‘la piu severa ordine della -chiesa Cattolica,’ as our monk described it. The church is as cold as a -well. - -“The last of the three churches is of a much gayer mood: quite -Romanesque, perched on a pretty flight of rounded steps. It has a crypt -over the bodies of St. Zeno and two thousand and more companions, -martyred Christians, who built the Baths of Diocletian.” - -The drive through that eucalyptus wood here described remains one of -the most curious impressions of those Roman days. It was like passing -through a Dante circle--the first circle of all, of Limbo, where Virgil -met the poet; an unsubstantial wraith-like world, full of a perpetual -whisper and murmur: - - “Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare, - Non avea pianto, ma che di sospiri, - Che l’aura eterna facevan tremare: - - E cio avvenia di duol senza martiri, - Ch’avean le turbe, ch’eran molte e grandi, - E d’infanti, e di femmine e di vivi.” - -Whether the sky became really overcast as we entered into these -mysterious precincts, or whether the height of the trees shadowed the -narrow way, certainly there was a dimness about us; not a positive -darkness but a negation of light, even as the chill that enfolded us -was not so much a cold as a cessation of heat. - -But through the gates of the monastery courtyard we saw sunshine again, -and white pigeons strutting about the cobbles, picking and preening -themselves--a wonderful picture of peace. It is a consecrated spot; a -place the most aloof, the most severe, the most denuded of all earthly -joys that we have ever seen; a stage on the arid way of pilgrims -forging determinedly by the shortest cut to heaven. And yet it is full -of sweetness. As from a mountain ledge, the world must lie so far below -these Trappists that it is no longer seen, scarcely divined behind its -own vapours. No use looking down: looking up--there is the blue sky, -and there are the peaks pointing heavenward, still to be conquered. -There is very little comfort for the traveller, but he has a strange -gladness. He is cradled in ethereal silences. The balm of majestic -solitude bathes his soul; his spirit is cheered by an air as pure as -it is vivifying, and he knows that he will climb the peaks. - -_July 4._--Mrs. McComfort, our cook, has a brother on the Clyde. He -writes an extraordinary account of the effort expected of, and given -by, the able workman. - -“It may be, miss,” says Mrs. McComfort to the Signorina, her chief -confidant, “he’ll be called up for a job on a ship that’s just come in, -and that’ll mean that he and the rest of them will be at it from seven -in the morning till eight the next morning. Yes, miss, all night, as -well as all day. And then they’ll come home, and it’s too weary to eat -they are, and they’ll just roll themselves up and fall asleep, as tired -as dogs; and when they’ve slept a bit, maybe they can get a little food -down. And then it’s off back again to work! And that’ll go on till -the job’s done. And when the battleships come in, the steamers do be -waiting all night upon the Clyde, to take the men up to them, it’s that -urgent. And, oh, miss, how they do love the ships they’ve built! And -when one is lost, you’d never believe the grief there is, with the men -crying and saying: ‘It’s my old lady’s gone, my poor old lady!’” - -They need no comment, such stories as these. Here are humble heroes, -martyrs of duty; here is the poor heart of humanity, with its infinite -power of attachment. We have scarcely heard of anything more touching -than the tears of these rough men for their “poor old lady.” - -We saw a letter the other day from a transport driver describing, -to a relative in England, the meeting with an old friend on the -bloodstained, shell-battered road at the back of Arras. This man had -been the driver of a motor omnibus in a country district at home. - -“What do you think?” he writes. “You’ll never believe! If I didn’t come -across old Eliza! Me that drove her for more than three years. I knew -her at once, poor old girl! knocked about as she was; I’d have known -her anywhere, by the shape of her, knowing her in and out as I did -those years, every bit of her. She was a bit the worse for wear, but -she was fit for a lot yet; a trifle rattley; but there’s a deal of life -in her. I can’t tell you what I felt when I came across her so sudden. -There, I couldn’t help patting her and patting her! Poor old Eliza! To -think of her and me meeting again like that, both of us doing our bit, -like!” - - * * * * * - -This fourth day of July brings us the third of the rain and thunder -squalls which have followed the great drought. - -Japhet says, relaxing to something approaching a smile, that he doesn’t -see why this should not end by being a nice garden, and that the earth -is in very good heart. - -Dear English earth, it has need to be in good heart! Who knows what it -may yet have to bear and give? - -The Villino garden wears the war-time stamp, at least to its owners’ -eye! The Signora, who has always hitherto plunged at a horticultural -list the moment there was a gap in her borders that needed filling -or a mistake that needed repairing, which could not be done to her -sense of perfection “out of stock,” has had to teach economy to -wait on necessity, and ingenuity on both. The result is not really -gratifying. In all her long experience economy has never been -gratifying in any branch of life. But even if the money were there for -extravagance--which it isn’t--thrift has become a positive instead of -a negative virtue. - -“Thou shalt not spend” is now nearly as urgent a commandment as “Thou -shalt not steal.” - -It has set her mind to work more and more, however, upon the -desirability of permanence in the garden. - -In the borders of the terraces round the house she has decided to put -a foot-deep edging of Mrs. Simkins pinks. These are adorable in their -time of bloom, and the grey-green foliage is tidy, and a pretty bit of -colour all the year round. - -This year the lobelia, scantily planted, and the climbing geraniums, -pathetically subdivided, will take considerable time before forming -the show of flower and foliage without which the Villino garden is a -failure. But it is a very good thing for individuals as well as nations -to be forced to stop and examine their manner of life. Hideous as the -struggle is--dead loss of life and happiness and money--good comes out -of the evil at many points. Not the least beneficial lesson is that -which teaches us now what an extraordinary amount of money and energy -one has frittered away by easy-going ways, the amount of items one -can put down in a household without being the worse--rather, indeed, -the better! Even in a little household, what waste, what excess, -what follies of mere show! And if this seems a flat contradiction to -the remark upon economy passed a little while ago, let it be noted -that conscience and inclination are for ever waging war, and that -conscience, as is proper, must have the last word. Moreover, once the -domination of conscience is established, the results are, in nine cases -out of ten, surprisingly bearable. Frugality combines very well with -refinement, and simplicity with dignity. One can be as happy with a -three-course lunch and a three-course supper-dinner as one was with -an endless array of dishes--those dishes which took so much time and -material to prepare, and were so often barely touched! The contents -disappeared--thrown away, perhaps, or, what was certainly the case in -our household, disposed of as _hors d’œuvres_ between the dining-room -and the pantry. - -“Why does your butler always come in chewing?” asked an observant -relative. - -Juvenal, indeed, despite a certain foreign disregard for his -meal-times, made such a practice of snatching morsels in transit that -the sixteen-year old footman--chief of the many grievances which -determined our separation--who outstayed him, has had to be severely -reprimanded for making a clean sweep of the dishes that caught his -young fancy, with a special partiality for roast chicken. - -The new regimen--agreeable this hot weather--of soup, one cold-meat -dish, salad, vegetable, sweet, and dessert--supper, in fact, instead -of dinner--has, besides its intrinsic economy, the further advantage -of diminishing the expenditure of kitchen coal to an almost incredible -degree. - -We who have to render an account hereafter, even of every idle word, -shall we have to answer, we wonder, for all that unconscious waste -which mere convention has induced in our homes? How many poor families -might have been fed from the agglomeration of the Signora’s years of -housekeeping! She did not think. No one thought. It has taken this -scourge to make us stop in our easy course, to make us look into -ourselves, into our ways. - -“What can we do? What can we do without?” These must be now the mottoes -written large round our house of life; and, indeed, the first includes -the second, for it takes considerable energy to abstain. - -“There is none that thinketh in his heart, therefore they shall go down -alive into hell.” - -A very disagreeable text, which comes disagreeably to the mind this -Sunday morning, for the _famiglia_ have just come back from church, -where what is vulgarly called a “hell-fire sermon” was delivered by a -Welsh preacher, who, though a Franciscan, is, one of his congregation -declared, a revivalist lost to his native hills. - -“You ought to go down into hell in spirit every day, me brethren,” he -thundered, “or ye’ll very likely find yourselves there in the end. And -what an off-ful thing that ’ud be! And there’s thousands and thousands -of soa-ouls there this minute, better than you are!” - -This was neither comforting, nor, we believe, theological, for the -congregation was small, and, on the whole, devout. But no doubt there -is a type of mind before which it is necessary to hold up a threat of -everlasting punishment; the type of person whom conscription alone can -move to serve his country before it is too late. - -Not the least remarkable result of the German brutality is that the -great majority of its opponents find themselves forced back into the -old simplicity of belief. We can no longer afford to deny the existence -of demons and their power; and if reason is to keep her balance and the -soul her ultimate faith in Divine justice, acceptance of the doctrine -of hell and adequate punishment must logically follow. - -A celebrated, if rather medievally minded, preacher, whom we once heard -lashing the vices of the day, cried sarcastically: “You’ll meet the -very best society in hell.” - -Holy man, we doubt if he would have made the same remark to-day! The -resort in question must have become so overwhelmingly German. - -_July 8._--The Signora had been a whole year at the Villino--perhaps -the longest time in all her life in one place--but circumstances -had summoned her family to London for a few days, and she could not -contemplate their being exposed to Zeppelins without her. - -The little London house which was our home so long, and--to use nursery -parlance--the nose of which has been so completely put out of joint by -the Villino, seemed glad to see us again. - -How curious is the atmosphere of place! These walls that enfold us, -that have seen our swift joys and our great sorrows, our merry hours -and our sad ones, become fond of us, as we of them. We are convinced -that there is a spirit in inanimate things, something that gives back, -that keeps. Do not old places ponder? Are they not set with memories? -Do they not know their own? Do they not withhold themselves and suffer -from the stranger? Who has not seen the millionaire striving to make -himself at home in the great house that will have none of him? Who has -not felt what an accident he is, how little he belongs, how little he -or his race will ever belong to the stones he has bought, and which he -will never own? - -And even a little London house in a street may become individual to -oneself; and you may feel as the Signora did, that it has missed you, -that through long absence you have been unkind; that if you finally -separate yourself from it, it will always want you, and you it. -And, after all--it is with houses, as with people--the link is not -necessarily that of the blood relationship or long acquaintance. You -need not have inherited your affinity. You are in sympathy, or you are -not. The Villino claimed us upon our first meeting, but we impressed -ourselves upon the town dwelling. It is still home to us; not _the_ -home, _a_ home. - -We sat in the high-ceilinged drawing-room, with its rather delicate -Georgian air, and found old familiar emotions waiting for us. And we -thought of all the kind and dear friends we had seen between these -walls; of our gay little parties and the music-makers who had made -music to us; hours that seemed to belong to another life. Here the -great Pole, whose magic hands have refused themselves to the notes ever -since his people have been in anguish, made the night wonderful with -his incomparable art. We do not think the small London house can ever -forget the echoes of that music. It was always a feast for it when -he, with whose friendship we feel ourselves so deeply honoured, came -to its board. Loki--he was in his puppyhood then--decorated with the -Polish colours, would dance towards him on his hind-legs. The genius -would come in like sunshine, happy himself in the immense pleasure his -presence gave. Certainly this rare being seemed to give forth light. - -“When he leaves the room,” said a friend of his to us, “it is as if the -light went out.” - -If one had the gift of beholding auras, what a halo of fire would one -not have seen about that wonderful head? We once said this to him. - -“Do you believe in it?” we asked. - -He smiled. “I think everyone has got his flame to cultivate. I think I -have cultivated mine.” - -Most truly, indeed, has he done so; and not only in the divine way of -his art, for year by year the selflessness and the magnanimity of his -character seem to deepen and extend; and so, too--inevitable tragedy -of years--the sadness. Impossible for any perfectly noble mind not to -gather melancholy as life goes on!--a melancholy culminating in his -case with the burthen of agony which the present sufferings of his own -race have laid upon his shoulders. - -Therefore these memories of the days when he was as a young god, the -days when a celebrated painter could find no truer way of expressing -him than by flinging on the canvas the radiant vision of an Apollo, are -poignant memories. We are glad that we should have them, yet they bring -a stab of pain for that lost high spirit which life inevitably dashes. - -With us all, the good ship Youth sets forth merrily with sails taut and -pennons fluttering, filling to the wind and breasting the waves! We -know that inevitably the storm winds must catch her; that she will be -beaten by breakers; drawn out of her course by false currents; that if -she become not a derelict, if she does not founder with all hands, she -must--too often--cast much of her treasure overboard, furl her white -wings, and come creeping into a cold harbour. Even those who, like our -rare and wonderful friend, have gathered glory and dignity and power, -as they plough a mighty course, have passed from under radiant skies -into the gloom of the storm. A sombre thing, the human span, at the -best, and most blest nowadays. - -What can we say of the fair craft that founders almost as soon as -launched? Ah! the young ghosts in that London drawing-room! The -sound of the children’s voices yet ringing in our ears! There is -“Mustard-Seed,” the splendid little fair boy, who had been the -favourite of our Shakesperian revels nine years ago--not yet nineteen, -not a month a soldier--shot through the head on that Flanders field, -the graveyard of England’s choicest! And the little Scotch lad, who -used to prance about in his black velvet suit, with cheeks that shamed -the apple--no one knows where he lies to-day; only two or three saw him -fall. And his graver, gentler brother--a prisoner, even as we write in -the first agony of the grief which has befallen him in the loss of his -life-companion! - -And out of a merry group of Irish children, irresponsible, -high-spirited, noisy, two brothers sleep in that alien earth--now for -ever English--“where their young dust lies,” as the poet who wrote so -prophetically of his own fate has beautifully said. And yet another -is wounded, and another invalided; and the once merry sister, whose -gallant husband was left wounded on the field and was missing long -weeks, still mourns him as a prisoner. - -Of the rest of the company, those companions of our daughter’s own -unclouded childish days, some are widows; and some can scarce meet the -morning for apprehension of its news, or return to their homes for -fear of that orange envelope that may lie on the hall table, or sleep -in the night for listening for the sound of the bell. And some are in -the Dardanelles, under skies of brass, treading on earth of iron, and -some are in those trenches, deep-dyed and battered a hundredfold. Two -more brothers--the elder twenty and the younger nineteen--fell within a -month of each other. A few are still on English soil, light-heartedly -preparing for the great fray, straining like hounds at the leash, -staring with bright, impatient eyes towards that goal with its unknown -and terrible possibilities; cursing the slow flight of time. Of these -one thinks, perhaps, with a heart more tightened than of all the rest! - -The reaper has come forth to reap out of season, and the young corn is -mown down in the green ear, and all the poppies and the pretty flowers -go down with it. - -Sitting in rooms which we had not revisited since before the war, these -are sad thoughts that the crowded recollections bring. - -London itself, however, seemed little changed; even that much-discussed -night-darkness hardly noticeable. Driving in the daytime we -instinctively counted, with frowning glance, the number of stalwart -young men out of uniform, and wondered how any girl could walk with -them, much less smile upon them. And our eyes followed the soldiers -with pride as they marched by, singing popular catches to inspire -themselves in default of the band which the stern necessities of this -war forbid. What fine fellows they are--so well set up, looking out -with such steady vision upon the future which they have chosen! And the -lilt of the merry tune, with what a deep note of pathos it strikes upon -the ear! - -Of course there are a great many soldiers about London, yet no more -than in Jubilee time, and there is no greater excitement among them, -and a good deal less among those who watch them pass, than in the days -when it was all pomp and circumstance, and no warfare. - -London does not carry the stamp of war about her, but we carry it each -one of us in our hearts. That is why we sicken from the music-hall -posters; why wrath and grief mingle in our minds at the sight of that -bold-eyed community with its whitened face, its vulgar exaggeration -of attire, and its unchecked and unashamed hunting of its prey; a -prey sometimes visibly unwilling, sometimes pathetically, innocently -flattered! - -The Zeppelin menace has created no sense of apprehension in the town. -The first night of our arrival we conscientiously prepared amateur -respirators for ourselves and such of the _famiglia_ as accompanied us. -Pads of cotton-wool, soaked in a strong solution of soda, were placed -within easy reach of the bedside. The next night we said “Bother!” -and the third night we forgot all about it. Though the Signora, lying -awake, had occasionally a half-amused speculation whether the throbbing -passage of some more than usually loud traction-engine, or the distant -back-firing of a belated taxicab, might not be the bark of the real -wolf at last! - -Our little white-haired housemaid, generally left alone to mind the -London house, possesses this philosophic indifference. She made herself -a respirator. We doubt whether she ever thinks of placing it handy. We -believe she shares the view of the old nurse of a friend of ours into -whose garden a bomb really and truly did drop during the recent raid on -Southend. - -“Frightened, miss? Lord bless you, no! I knew it was only them Germans!” - -Nevertheless, though London is neither alarmed nor depressed, we set -our faces towards the Villino again with a sense of relief. These days -it is better to be in one’s own place; and in London we feel only -visitors now. Yet, strangely, the country is far more full of the war -than the town. - -Beginning at Wimbledon, we meet motorcars filled to overflowing with -bandaged, bronze-faced young men, who smile and wave their hands as we -whizz by. Dear lads! Some from that greater England beyond the sea, -more closely our brothers now than ever before, with ties cemented by -the shedding of blood. _Blut-Bruderschaft_, indeed, you have pledged -with us: a Teutonic rite put into practice after a fashion our enemies -thought out of the range of possibility. - -And presently we come to the camps. Here, where the pine-woods solitary -marched, where the heather was wont to spread, crimsoning and purpling -to the line of blue distance--a wonderful vision of wild scenery--here -is a brown waste, peopled with a new town. Rows and rows of wooden -huts run in parallel lines. Where the trees stood you cannot even -guess; but once and again there is the smell of the raw wood, and you -see a giant lying lopped of his branches. And the whole place swarms -in activity. We pass hundreds of ammunition and gun carriages--the -two-wheeled carts for the new howitzers--some already with the guns -in place; long sheds where half a dozen smiths are busy shoeing, with -groups of patient horses, shoulder by shoulder, waiting outside; we -hear the clank of iron upon iron from within; we catch the vision of -red fire upon the sleek flank and the brawny arms wielding the hammer. -Horses everywhere, it seems--lines of them, picketed; horsemen coming -and going: detachments riding up and down among the thickest dust -that you have ever imagined; and waggons lumbering, some charged with -fodder, some, as we pass, with loaves fresh from the baking. And now a -traction-engine, filling the air with noise and smoke, driven by two -grimy Tommies who shout at each other as they throb and bumble along, -has to be dodged and left behind. - -This is an artillery camp--a marvellous place which gives one a more -vivid impression of England’s strength, of England’s new army, than any -words can describe. These splendid, happy, vigorous, busy men; these -rows of howitzer and ammunition carts; these thousands of sleek, lively -horses; this untiring, determined movement of work and preparation ... -all for the Dardanelles, we hear. - -We get out of the dust and the noise and the gigantic stir, and along -the green roads again; and then into another camp. A curious stillness -here: the myriad huts are all shut up, the sheds empty, even the new -shops seemingly untenanted; only here and there stands a stray khaki -figure to emphasize the loneliness. They left for the front the day -before yesterday. To-morrow twenty thousand new men are expected, like -a new swarm of bees, to take their place in the vacated hives. - - * * * * * - -Home again in the Villino, with all the fur babies washed and waiting -for us. Rather a silent group of dogs, a little offended because we -went away. Loki, who generally screams with rapture, has certainly a -reservation in the ecstasy of his greetings; but Mimosa clings to us -with two little paws, like a child hugging a recovered treasure, and -offers kisses, of which she is not generally prodigal. Plain Eliza is -shy. She has grown perceptibly in three days. - -The garden is full of sweet scents. The dawn, the coronation, and the -crimson ramblers are bursting into lovely bloom beside the blue of the -delphiniums. - -There was always a special kind of joy in the old days about -home-coming to the Villino. We used to go from room to room, taking -stock of the dear, queer little place; greeting the serene, smiling -Madonnas; the aloof angels folded into their prayers; pagan, pondering -Polyhymnia in her corner of the drawing-room, brooding upon the glory -of times that will never be again.... It is all just as it used to be: -bowery, without and within, as usual. - -Everything is scrubbed to the last point of daisy freshness and -polished to spicy gloss against the Padrona’s return, and smiling -damsels await compliments on the stairs. Other years, as we say, these -were moments of unalloyed light-heartedness. It was always unexpectedly -nicer than we had imagined. - -“Isn’t it dearer than ever?” we would say, then, to each other. “Don’t -you love it? Aren’t we happy here?” - -This year it is another cry that rises to our lips. - -“Oh, how happy we might be, if only----” - - - BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND - - - - -Transcriber's Note: - -Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as -possible. - -Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. - -The following is a list of changes made to the original. -The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. - -Page 13 - - by Mrs. MacComfort as umistakably Mimi’s - by Mrs. MacComfort as unmistakably Mimi’s - -Page 21 - - surrounted with politely assisting Hoheiten. - surrounded with politely assisting Hoheiten. - -Page 46 - - “_Ah, voilà qui m’est bien egal!_ That is my own - “_Ah, voilà qui m’est bien égal!_ That is my own - -Page 70 - - up, Birdie’--he calls me ‘Birdie,’--but I can - up, Birdie’--he calls me ‘Birdie,’--‘but I can - -Page 130 - - ontclusion to draw that the mere fact of death - conclusion to draw that the mere fact of death - - cheem, in the eyes of most people, to qualify - seems, in the eyes of most people, to qualify - - ses soul for eternal bliss. It is idle to ask whaf - the soul for eternal bliss. It is idle to ask what - - becomes of the generally accepted doctrine fo - becomes of the generally accepted doctrine of - - certain to be saved, anyone should put himselt - certain to be saved, anyone should put himself - -Page 151 - - of a beautiful little daughter. - of a beautiful little daughter.” - -Page 178 - - Artist, in all reverence be it said. “He hath - Artist, in all reverence be it said: “He hath - -Page 191 - - Trainant la jambe dans la poussière - Traînant la jambe dans la poussière - -Page 197 - - there is a langour about his movements extraordinarily - there is a languor about his movements extraordinarily - -Page 206 - - To think that anyone could ever hurt a - “To think that anyone could ever hurt a - -Page 224 - - the swine!” - the swine!’” - -Page 225 - - blazing. All the langour, the unacknowledged - blazing. All the languor, the unacknowledged - -Page 240 - - terrible there just now - terrible there just now. - -Page 265 - - It is still home to us; not _the_ home, _a_ home - It is still home to us; not _the_ home, _a_ home. - -Page 269 - - bell. And some are in the Dardenelles, under - bell. And some are in the Dardanelles, under - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Little House in War Time, by -Agnes Castle and Egerton Castle - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE HOUSE IN WAR TIME *** - -***** This file should be named 63618-0.txt or 63618-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/6/1/63618/ - -Produced by Clarity, Paul Clark and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: A Little House in War Time - -Author: Agnes Castle - Egerton Castle - -Illustrator: Charles Robinson - -Release Date: November 3, 2020 [EBook #63618] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE HOUSE IN WAR TIME *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, Paul Clark and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<div class="figcenter" id="cover"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="663" height="1000" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_i"></a>[Pg i]</span></p> -<h1>A LITTLE HOUSE IN WAR TIME</h1> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ii"></a>[Pg ii]</span></p> - -<div class="center"><div class="ilb"> -<p class="center">TO THE<br /> -<span class="large">REV. ST. GEORGE K. HYLAND, D.D.</span><br /> -“<i>Guide, philosopher, and friend</i>”</p> - -<p class="p2"><i>September, 1915</i> -</p> -</div></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter" id="frontis"> -<a href="images/frontis-large.png"><img src="images/frontis.png" width="517" height="800" alt="The Little House CHARLES ROBINSON" /></a> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iii"></a>[Pg iii]</span></p> - -<p class="center xlarge">A LITTLE HOUSE<br /> -IN WAR TIME</p> - -<p class="p2 center">BY -<span class="large">AGNES AND EGERTON CASTLE</span></p> - -<p class="center">AUTHORS OF<br /> -“THE STAR-DREAMER,” “INCOMPARABLE BELLAIRS,”<br /> -“OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN,” ETC. -</p> - -<div class="poetry-container p2"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“God gave all men all earth to love,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But, since our hearts are small,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ordained for each one spot should prove</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Beloved over all;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That, as He watched Creation’s birth,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So we, in God-like mood,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">May of our love create our earth</div> - <div class="verse indent4">And see that it is good.”</div> -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Rudyard Kipling</span></p> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="p2 center large">NEW YORK<br /> -E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY<br /> -681 <span class="smcap">Fifth Avenue</span><br /> -1916 -</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iv"></a>[Pg iv]</span></p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Printed in Great Britain</span> -</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_v"></a>[Pg v]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table summary="Contents"> -<tr> -<td></td><td></td> -<td class="tdr small">PAGE</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><a href="#A_FOREWORD">A FOREWORD</a></td> -<td class="tdpn">vii</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr">I. </td> -<td><a href="#I">THE VILLINO IS PINCHED</a></td> -<td class="tdpn">1</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr">II. </td> -<td><a href="#II">OUR LITTLE BIT</a></td> -<td class="tdpn">29</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr">III. </td> -<td><a href="#III">OUR MINISTERING ANGELS</a></td> -<td class="tdpn">62</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr">IV. </td> -<td><a href="#IV">“CONSIDER THE LILIES”</a></td> -<td class="tdpn">92</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr">V. </td> -<td><a href="#V">DEATH IN THE LITTLE GARDEN</a></td> -<td class="tdpn">119</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VI. </td> -<td><a href="#VI">BABIES: CHINESE AND OTHERS</a></td> -<td class="tdpn">141</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VII. </td> -<td><a href="#VII">OUR GARDEN IN JUNE</a></td> -<td class="tdpn">163</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr">VIII. </td> -<td><a href="#VIII">OUR BLUE-COAT BOYS</a></td> -<td class="tdpn">191</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr">IX. </td> -<td><a href="#IX">IT’S A FAR CRY TO PERSIA</a></td> -<td class="tdpn">217</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr">X. </td> -<td><a href="#X">A THREE DAYS’ CHRONICLE</a></td> -<td class="tdpn">244</td> -</tr> -</table> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vi"></a>[Pg vi]<br /><a id="Page_vii"></a>[Pg vii]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_FOREWORD">A FOREWORD</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent14">“... thoughts by England given;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And laughter learnt of friends; and gentleness,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.”</div> -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Rupert Brooke.</span> -</p> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smcap">A little</span> chronicle of a great time may have an -interest of its own quite incommensurate from -its intrinsic worth. These pages do not pretend -to any merit beyond faithfulness; but they are -the true record of the everyday life of an average -family during the first year of the war of wars; -what we have felt, what we have seen; the -great anxieties; the trivial incidents and emotions -which have been shared by thousands of -our fellow-countrymen. This home has been so -far exceptional that it has had few hostages to -give to fortune, and that it has mercifully been -spared the supreme sacrifice demanded with -such tragic universality, and given with such a -glorious resignation: but, infinitesimal pulse, it -has beaten with the great arteries, the whole -mighty heart of the British Empire.</p> - -<p>Annals enough there are, and will be, of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_viii"></a>[Pg viii]</span> -soul-stirring events of 1914: the proud rise of -the nation, its struggles, its failures, its appalling -blunders, and the super-heroism that has saved -the consequences. If Armageddon be not the -end of the world; if there be generations coming -after to carry the sheaves of that seed sown with -blood and tears to-day, there will be no dearth -of evidence to enable our children’s children to -feed upon the story of England’s glory. They -will be able to read and learn and look back, out -of the peace won for them, to examples almost -beyond the conception of idealism. Should, by -some freak of chance, this humble book survive, -it may not then be without an interest of its own.</p> - -<p>This was how the quiet stay-at-home family -felt and thought in the days of the titanic -conflict; these were the little things that happened -in a little country house. No great moral -lesson certainly, no revelation of out-of-the-way -philosophy; just the way we hoped and feared; -the way we still laughed and talked, gardened -and worked, the way we were led on from day -to day and made to find, after all, what seemed -unbearable, bearable, brought to see light where -there was apparently no issue.</p> - -<p>Being, as we say—so far—singularly un<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ix"></a>[Pg ix]</span>stricken -in the midst of so much mourning, we -have been able to enjoy the lighter side of -existence, the humours, the quaintnesses, which -relieve, blessedly for poor humanity, the most -complicated and the most desperate situations. -Perhaps, therefore, these random jottings, -turned, many of them, to the lighter side of -life, may, in some stray hour of relaxation, -amuse here and there one actively engaged in -the stern actions which the time demands. -Perhaps the breath of the garden may be -grateful to a mind upon which the wind from -the trenches has blown so long.</p> - -<p>There is a great deal of laughter about our -country, even now. The troops go singing -down the roads in the early dawn, and come -tramping back to camp, with tired feet, but with -joking tongues, after the long days. We know -there is much laughter in the fighting-line; -innocent, childish pleasantries, catchwords that -run with grins from lip to lip. There is no -laughter so genuine as that which springs from -a good conscience. And so there is laughter in -the hospitals also, thank God!</p> - -<p>We trust our pages may add a little mirth -more to the gallant spirit abroad; beguile the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_x"></a>[Pg x]</span> -fancy of one wounded man, or the oppression of -one anxious heart. Then, indeed, they will not -have been written in vain.</p> - -<p>Would only that through them we could -convey an impression of the surroundings in -which we write; would we could bring our -readers the atmosphere of these Surrey heights; -of the rolling moorland, of the winds, sweet with -heather, aromatic with the pine-woods, charged -with the garden scents that blow about us; then -truly would they find refreshment! Would we -could show them our terraced borders where -now the roses are breaking into wonderful -bloom, pink, crimson, cream, fire-carmine, and -yellow; where the delphiniums are arrayed, -noble phalanxes in every shade of enamel blue -and purple—spires marshalled together like -some fantastic cathedral town, viewed in impossible -moonlight, out of a Doré dream; where -the canterbury bells are beginning to shake out -their cups, tinted like the colours in a child’s -paint-box; and the campanulas, with their tones -of mountain wildness—of snow and blue distance—bring -coolness into the hotter tints of the -border.</p> - -<p>We look down on this July richness from the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xi"></a>[Pg xi]</span> -small white house with its green blinds, which, -though compact, round-windowed, comfortably -Georgian, has yet an absurd Italian look.</p> - -<p>On the upper terrace wall the ornamental -pots, each with its little golden cypress, begin -to foam with lobelia and creeping geranium; -between two clumps of cypress-trees, Verocchio’s -little smiling boy grips his fish against a tangle -of blush rambler. And that’s a bit of Italy for -you, even with the ultimate vision of wild moor!</p> - -<p>The terraces run down the hill, tier below -tier. On the other side of the valley the woods -rise between the shouldering heather-clad hills, -to the east; the wide, long view spreads to the -south-west, where the hills begin to lift again, -and distant pine-woods march across the sky.</p> - -<p>Would we could but give to mere words the -sense of altitude, of great horizons which our -high-perched position gives us!</p> - -<p>“You’re in a kind of eyrie,” says one visitor. -And another: “Oh, I do like all this sky! It’s -so seldom one really gets the sky about one.”</p> - -<p>“You have,” said an exile—an old Belgian -religious—after tottering solemnly along the -terrace walk, “you have here an earthly paradise. -A spot God has wonderfully blessed.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xii"></a>[Pg xii]</span></p> - -<p>Besides the startling contrasts and the fairness -of its prospect, the little place has a special -charm of its own, which is not possible to -describe, yet which everyone feels who comes -within its precincts. We quite wait for the -phrase now, upon the lips of guests under the -red-tiled roof: “It’s so extraordinarily peaceful.”</p> - -<p>Peace! Peace in the midst of the boom of the -war tocsin, echoing all round! Peace, in spite -of the newspapers, the letters, the rumours, the -perpetual coming and going of troops, the -distant reverberations of gun practice, the never-relaxing -grip of apprehension! Yes, in spite of -all the world being at war—there is peace in the -Villino.</p> - -<p>Some of us believe it wells out from a little -chamber, where, before the golden shrine, the -Donatello angels hold up never-extinguished -lamps. Or a visitor may say wonderingly: “I -think it must be because you’re all so united.” -Or, perhaps, as the old monk had it, there is an -emanation from the place itself: so beautiful a -spot of God’s earth, so high up, so apart between -the moor and the valley! Whatever the reason, -we wish that some of the peace that lingers here -may reach out from these pages, and touch with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiii"></a>[Pg xiii]</span> -serenity any unquiet heart or restless spirit that -comes their way.</p> - -<p>And since the soldiers we have written about -wanted toys, like sick children, their mascot to -hug—here comes a procession of our little fur -folk walking vividly before your mental eye.</p> - -<p>Here is Loki, the first and oldest of the pets. -Loki, growing grey about the muzzle, elderly -already by reason of his six years of life; with -his immense coat, tawny, tufted, plumed, fringed; -with his consequential gait; his “quangley” -ways: so easily offended, in his own strong -sense of dignity; with his over-loving heart; -his half-human, half-lion eyes; Loki, with his -clockwork regularity of habit; his disdainful -oblivion, except on certain rare occasions, of the -smaller fur fry; Loki, making windmill paws to -the Master of the Villino, till he has succeeded -in dragging him away from his pipe and his -arm-chair for a walk on the moors; or yet frantically -and mutely imploring the mystified visitor -to go away and cease from boring him.</p> - -<p>And here is Mimosa, the most Chinese of -little ladies, hued like a ripe chestnut, with dark -orbs so immense and protuberant as almost to -seem to justify the legend that Pekinese will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiv"></a>[Pg xiv]</span> -drop their eyes about if you don’t take care. -Very sleek and sinuous and small is she, a -creature of moods and freaks, fastidious to the -point of never accepting a meal with the other -dogs; with all kinds of tricksy, pretty ways of -play, shrilly barking and dancing for bread pills, -which she will fling in the air and catch again, -throw over her shoulder and waltz round to -pounce upon, more like a kitten than a little dog.</p> - -<p>And the puppy, Loki’s own contemned daughter, -the colour of a young lion cub—the puppy, -with her irrepressible enthusiasms, her unsnubbable -demonstrations, her “pretty paws,” her -coal-black muzzle, her innocent countenance—“Plain -Eliza”—whose heart, like her father’s, is -so much too big and tender and faithful, that -happening the other day to see, over the garden -hedge, a member of the family in whose house -she was born, she rent the air with such shrieks -of ecstasy that the whole Villino establishment -rushed to the spot, thinking she was being -murdered.</p> - -<p>Then there is Arabella, the lavrock setter. -“Perverse, precise, unseasonable Pamela,” cries -Mr. B. in Richardson’s celebrated novel, when -having pursued the virtuous damsel to her last<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xv"></a>[Pg xv]</span> -refuge, she not unnaturally misunderstands the -purport of his next advance.</p> - -<p>When she does understand she exclaims: -“Mr. B. is the noblest of men, he has offered me -marriage.”</p> - -<p>To come back to Arabella. We wish we could -find a union of epithets as telling as that of -Mr. B. in the exasperation of his conscious -rectitude. Inane, inert, inconvenient Arabella, -fairly well describes our sentiments towards her. -She is a bore and a burden. She feels the heat -and goes out and takes mud-baths, and comes in -and shakes herself in the drawing-room. She -cannot understand why she should not lie in our -laps as well as the puppies. She howls mournfully -outside the kitchen door unless she is -invited in to assist in the cooking. She has -destroyed three arm-chair covers in the servants’ -hall, preferring that resting-place to her basket. -“Fond” is the word that might best be used to -qualify our feelings towards her. We don’t -know what to do with her, but we should not -like to be without her.</p> - -<p>Then there is the black Persian, “Bunny,” our -kind dead Adam’s cat. You will meet him -circling round the garden. He will raise his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xvi"></a>[Pg xvi]</span> -huge bushy tail when he sees you, and fix his -inscrutable amber eyes upon you, questioningly. -Then he will pass on with a soundless mew. -He is looking for his master, and you can watch -him slink away, superb, stealthy, pursuing his -fruitless quest.</p> - -<p>The fur children come first, being the Villino’s -own family, but there are other kinds with us -now. The little Belgians run about the paths -calling to each other with their quaint pattering -intonation, so that long before you hear the -words you know by the sound of the voices -coming up the hill that these are the small exiles. -Brown-haired Marthe, with her childish ways -and her serious mind, her ripe southern-tinted -face, and Philippe, with his shock of fine hair, -hazel-colour, cut medieval fashion, and his little -throat, which bears his odd picturesque head as -a flower-stem its bloom. And sturdy Viviane, -stumping up with her solemn air, precisely -naming the flowers as she comes:</p> - -<p>“Sweet Will-li-yam! Del-phi-ni-um! Canterry -bells!”</p> - -<p>Soon Thierry, the schoolboy, will be here -too. The garden is full of Easter holiday -memories of him; a little perspiring boy, squar<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xvii"></a>[Pg xvii]</span>ing -a tree-trunk with boxing-gloves five times too -large for him, under the grand-paternal tuition -of the Master of the Villino. It would have been -difficult to say who was the more pleased, child -or man. And Thierry can box with a right good -will; a very excellent little boy this, with a -bursting patriot’s heart under his shy, reserved -ways. No doubt he fancied he was hitting a -German with each of those well-directed blows.</p> - -<p>It is nice to have the children about the Villino; -and that they are exiles adds pathos to the sound -of their happy laughter in our ears, and a tenderness -to the pleasure with which our eyes watch -their unconscious gaiety.</p> - -<p>Perhaps, however, if anyone wanted to have a -really poetic impression of our little house, they -should see it by moonlight, or—which, of course, -nobody does except by accident—in the summer -dawn. Whether it is because of an unconscious -appreciation of the limits of our own intellect, or -whether from some inherent vulgarity, human -nature is prone to depreciate all that is laid out -very plainly before it. We demand mystery in -everything if it is to mean beauty to us.</p> - -<p>Some such idea as this Mr. Bernard Shaw -expresses—in one of his uncanny leaps of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xviii"></a>[Pg xviii]</span> -spirit out of his own destructive philosophy—when -he makes the Christian martyr retort to -the Pagan who accuses her of not understanding -her God: “He wouldn’t be my God if I could!”</p> - -<p>To pass from the infinite to the atom: when -the Villino garden and its prospects are but -imperfectly revealed on a moonlight night the -view, with mystery added to its fairness, becomes -wonderful in its loveliness.</p> - -<p>On such a night as this the valley holds mist -in its bosom, and the distant moor ridges in -their pine-woods might be the Alps, for the air -of distance they assume, the remote dignity -with which they withdraw themselves, pale and -ethereal, into the serene sky. It may be the -moon is rising over the great wooded hill in -front of the Villino. The white radiance pours -full upon us. We know all that is revealed, and -yet all is different. Each familiar object has a -strange and transfigured face. The little cypress-trees, -rimmed in silver, cast black shadows on -the grass, silver-cobwebbed. The great moors -are exquisite ghost wildernesses, their hollows -full of cloudy secrets. And you can hear the -night-jar spinning out its monotonous, mysterious -song, a song which does not break the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xix"></a>[Pg xix]</span> -grand restfulness, but only accompanies it. We -have no running streams—there is nothing -perfect here below, it is a great want! But the -song of the night-jar makes up a little for the -voice of water in the night-time. It is the hearing -of some such sound, lost in the turmoil of -day, that emphasizes the incomparable silence.</p> - -<p>Our heights in the sunrise show once again -a world transfigured; a sparkling, coloured, -other-worldly world.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The saffrons and yellows begin to gather over -the moors, and the crests of the hills and the -tree-tops are tipped with light. Each flower has -its shimmering aureole; each has taken a hue -never seen in the garish fulness of the sunshine, -enamel, stained-glass-window hues, difficult to -describe. There is a curious look of life about -everything. It is the exquisite hour of the -earth, untroubled by man; garden and woods, -hill and valley, unfold their secrets to the sky -and hold commune with the dawn-angels. There -is a freshness, a vividness, almost a surprise -about the world, as if all things were made new -again. An immense difference in the scene<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xx"></a>[Pg xx]</span> -compared to the night’s grave mysteries. The -latter is a canto from the Divine Comedy as -against Fra Angelico’s dance of Paradise. And -to this innocent joy of the waking earth you -have the songs of the birds. Some ecstatic -thrush, or liquid slow-chanting blackbird, will -have begun the hymns at the first glimmer -of dawn, and hold the world spell-bound till the -lesser chorus spreads a tangled web of sound -from end to end of the valley and the garden -heights, and the moor silence is reached.</p> - -<p>Morning after morning of this glorious summer -of the war, the pageant of sunrise marches, for -those who have eyes to see, and night after -night the mystery gathers in the moonlight. -All England holds some such fair visions. Does -it not seem a dream that it should be so? The -horror, the devastation, the noise, the fire, the -bloodshed, the agony, the struggle, only a couple -of hundred miles away, are they the only realities -in this red year? To us in England’s heart, -still mercifully unwounded, these sometimes -seem the dream, the dream of evil, and our -peace the reality.</p> - -<p>Dream, or reality, it is our peace we want to -bring to you.</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[Pg 1]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_LITTLE_HOUSE_IN">A LITTLE HOUSE IN<br /> -WAR TIME</h2> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="I">I<br /> -THE VILLINO IS PINCHED -</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Prepare, prepare the iron helm of war,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And casts them out upon the darkened earth!</div> - <div class="verse indent24">Prepare, prepare!”</div> -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">W. Blake.</span> -</p> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smcap">The</span> most usual remark that people make after -a visit to our little house on the hill is this: -“How peaceful!”</p> - -<p>Even in the ordinary course of life—those -times that now seem extraordinary to a world -already accustomed to the universal struggle—when -everyone in England was in peace, except -where their own unquiet spirits may have -marred it, even then this nest of ours seemed -peace within peace. We do not know now -whether the contrast is not the more acute. -One of the thousands of homes dedicated to -the quiet joys and innocencies of life, where no -one ever wanted to quarrel, because all found -the hours so full of sweet content, we do not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[Pg 2]</span> -flatter ourselves that we are singular: only -typical. The shadow of the great cloud cast -at first a hideous, unnatural darkness over our -harmless ways.</p> - -<p>All during the long golden summer, when -we looked out across the moor basking in the -radiance; when our roses bloomed and the -garden rioted in colour, and the valley slowly -turned from green to russet; when the harvest-moon -went up like a huge brass platter in -silver skies, the very beauty of it all clutched -one’s heart the fiercer. How fares it with our -boys over there in the heat and the stress? -How much worse it must be for them that the -sun should blaze upon them, marching, firing, -rushing forward, lying wounded, wanting -water!... Oh, dear lads of England, how we -at home agonized with you!</p> - -<p>The little house, bought in a light-hearted -hour, furnished with infinite zest in happy -days out of distant Rome, was a sort of toy -to us from the beginning; and kind friends -surveyed it with indulgent and amused, yet -admiring, glances, such as one would bestow -upon an ingenious and pretty plaything. We -called it the Villino, partly in memory of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[Pg 3]</span> -Italian sojourn, and partly because, though it -is bounded by wild moors, it contrives a -quaintly Italianate air. It stands boldly on -the lip of the hill, and the garden runs down -in terraces to a deep valley. Across the valley -to the east the moors roll, curve upon curve. -South, facing us, the trees begin their march; -and westward the valley spreads, rising into -moors again, where again the fir-trees sentinel -the sky. The view from the terrace rather -takes your breath away. It is unexpected and -odd, and unlike anything, except Italy and -Scotland mixed: the wildness, and the trim -terraced garden with its calculated groups of -cypress, its vases brimming with flowers, its -stone steps, its secret bowery corners.</p> - -<p>“Mount Ecstasy” an artist friend has dubbed -it. “Is it possible,” she asked us in the middle -of this radiant October of the war, “that the -wind ever blows here? Do you ever hear it -shrieking round the house?”</p> - -<p>We gave her a vivid description of what the -wind could do when it liked; when it came up -the valley with the rain on its wings. She -looked incredulous.</p> - -<p>“Is it possible?” she repeated softly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[Pg 4]</span></p> - -<p>She had come straight from the great camp -at Lyndhurst, where the 7th Division, gallant -as ill-fated, had gathered in all its lusty strength -before embarking for the bloody struggle in -Flanders. She had just said good-bye to her -eldest son; the call of the bugle, the march -of thousands in unison, was in her ears; the -vision of the crowded transport vivid in her -mind. Yet here she would not believe that -even the winds could break our peace.</p> - -<p>This was very much what we felt ourselves -when the Storm burst; it was incredible with -this placidity all about us.</p> - -<p>One tries to think what it would be had the -Villino sprung to life in Belgian soil, or did the -Hun succeed in landing, and come pouring, a -noxious tide, across our country roads, taking -the poor little place on its way. The first -refugee from that heroic and devastated land -who found shelter here was very smiling and -brave until she came out into the garden. -Then she began to cry.</p> - -<p>“I had such pretty flowers too.”</p> - -<p>All our moors are turning into camps; they -grew like mushrooms in a day, it seems. We -hear the soldiers marching by in the dead of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[Pg 5]</span> -the night, singing, poor boys! to give themselves -heart—such nights, too, as they are this -autumn, deluged with rain and blown through -with relentless wind! We stand between two -hospitals; and Belgian refugees overflow in -the villages. We read of the bombardment -of the coast and the dropping of bombs, and -yet we do not realize. We still feel as in a -nightmare from which we must wake up.</p> - -<p>Yet the effects of war are beginning to -stamp themselves, even in the Villino and in -its garden. We are, some of us, naturally -inclined to luxuries. The mistress of the -Villino is certainly a spendthrift where bulbs -and tubers and seeds are concerned; and for -three out of the four years since she owned -the little property, the spring garden has justified -impenitence. Oh! the crocuses running -through the grass of that third terrace called -the Hemicycle! Oh! the scyllas making miniature -skies under the almond-trees! Oh! the -tulips swaying jewel chalices over the mists of -blue forget-me-not: glories of the past, this -coming spring, how shall the garden miss you!</p> - -<p>It must be explained that our soil—green-sand—our -position—high-perched—our general<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[Pg 6]</span> -tendency—sloping down-hill—make us charmingly -dry and healthy, but disagree with the -bulb. It is impossible to naturalize anything less -hardy than the daffodil. The snowdrop declines -to live with us. Therefore our autumn bulb -lists were copious and varied, and the results -ephemeral and lovely. This year there has -been no bulb list; who could think of this -completely personal and selfish gratification -when it is the flower of our manhood that is -being mown down out yonder? when all that -can be spared must be spared to help! There -is so little one can do, and so appallingly much -to be done.</p> - -<p>And inside, too, we are being pinched; not -badly, not cruelly, but just as if the war monster -had reached out one of its myriad hands—quite -a small and rather weak one—and had hold of -us, enough to nip, not to strangle.</p> - -<p>It will not surprise any garden owner to -learn that this is the year of all others in which -Adam, the Villino gardener, had an “accident” -with the cuttings, and that therefore those -bushes of chrysanthemums, which look so well -on our grey and orange landings, have not -been forthcoming. Another year it would not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[Pg 7]</span> -have mattered. We should have gaily replenished -the Italian pots from the local nursery, -where chrysanthemums are a speciality. -But as it is—we go without.</p> - -<p>In a hundred other items the nipping fingers -produce the same paralyzing result. The -footman, who, we regret to say, gibbered at -the thought of enlisting, and avowed to a horrified -kitchen circle that he might perhaps be -able to help to carry a wounded man, but face -a bullet—“Never, never!”—found his post untenable -in a household chiefly composed of the -fair and patriotic sex. We conceived that the -times demanded of us to bring the garden-boy -into the house, thus reducing our establishment -without inflicting hardship.</p> - -<p>Such, however, was not the opinion of -Juvenal, our eccentric butler. This strange -being, from certain aspects of his character, -might have been, as the Italian prelate said of -a distinguished Jesuit preacher, “born in a -volcano.” He is devoted to the dogs, and has -a genius for settling flowers; and he has become -altogether so much a part of the establishment—the -<i>famiglia</i>—that the Villino would lose -half its charm without him. Nevertheless, he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[Pg 8]</span> -is volcanic! And though at first he took the -substitution of four-foot in buttons for six-foot -in livery with an angelic resignation, Vesuvius -broke forth with unparalleled vigour and frequency -after a couple of weeks of the regimen. -Unfortunately, Juvenal is not sustained by -patriotic ardour. He deliberately avoids afflicting -himself with thoughts about the war. “I -never could bear, miss, to see anything that -was hurt! And as for anything dying, miss, -even if it was only a little animal—why, there, I -couldn’t as much as look at my poor old father!” -Here is his point of view as expressed tersely -to the Signorina of the Villino.</p> - -<p>This being the case, he succeeds so thoroughly -in blocking his mind against all facts connected -with war time (except the entertaining of “a -nice young fellow from the camp”) that he has -found himself injured to the core by our attempts -at economy. And when it came to our -unexpectedly inviting a refugee lady into his -dining-room, and his having to lay three extra -places for her and her children, the lava overflowed -into the upper regions. We with difficulty -extricated “Miss Marie” from the burning -flood.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[Pg 9]</span></p> - -<p>We are all slightly overwrought these days, -and instead of pretending not to notice, which -is the only possible way where Juvenal is concerned, -we suggested that he should look for -another situation. It would be difficult to say -whether outraged feeling or amazement predominated -in him. Of course, we all deeply -repented our hasty action, and then ensued -four uncomfortable weeks of cross purposes in -which neither side would “give in.” Finally -the poor volcano departed in floods of tears, -with twenty-four bird-cages and a Highland -terrier.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you take on, Mr. Juvenal,” said Mrs. -MacComfort, the cook; “you’ll be back in no -time!”</p> - -<p>There ensued a dreadful interlude with an -anæmic young butler unfit for military service, -who promptly developed toothache and a -bilious attack, and whom all the servants regarded -as a spy for the convincing reasons that -he sat and rolled his eyes and said nothing.</p> - -<p>He was, however, non-volcanic, and placidly -accepted Jimmy, the promoted garden-boy. -This was not reciprocal, for Jimmy, who displayed -a degree of conscientiousness, peculiar<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[Pg 10]</span> -indeed in the light of after-events, could not -reconcile himself to the change.</p> - -<p>He would canter heavily, smothered to the -chin in six-foot’s pantry apron, into the drawing-room -to announce with a burst of tears to the -young housekeeper:</p> - -<p>“Please, miss, ’e won’t suit! ’E won’t do -nuthin’ I tell him! Oh, please, miss, he’s putting -the cups—the mistress’s own cup—in the wrong -cupboard, and”—with a howl—“he ain’t washed -it, miss! And when I tell him, ’e says it doesn’t -matter!”</p> - -<p>We didn’t think he would suit, ourselves. -We had all said so often that Juvenal was perfectly -dreadful, and couldn’t be endured another -minute, and every member of the <i>famiglia</i> had -so frequently declared with tears that if Mr. -Juvenal remained she could not possibly stay; -she had borne it as long as she could, not to -make unpleasantness, but——</p> - -<p>We were unanimous now in regrets.</p> - -<p>“God be with poor Juvenal!” said Mrs. MacComfort, -the dear, soft-spoken Irish cook; and -added darkly: She wouldn’t like to be saying -what she thought of the new butler.</p> - -<p>However, <i>à quelque chose malheur est bon</i>, for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[Pg 11]</span> -had the following incident taken place under -Juvenal’s dog-loving eye, as Juvenal himself -subsequently remarked, there would certainly -have been murder done. We ourselves had -been inclined to consider Jimmy an agreeable -member of the domestic circle. Nobody minded -telling him to take out the dogs, no matter how -bad the weather was, and Jimmy always responded -with that smile of cheerful alacrity -that so endeared him.</p> - -<p>The tale which is here narrated may seem -irrelevant to the share which the Villino has -had to take in the universal and terrible cataclysm, -but nevertheless the incidents therein -set forth directly issued from it; and, in spite of -a dash of comedy, they were tragic enough for -those chiefly concerned, namely, the youngest -“fur-child” and Jimmy himself. If we had not -taken Jimmy into the house, Jimmy would not -have been told to walk the dogs; and if Jimmy -had not walked the dogs, the singular drama -of the phantom dog-stealers and the baby -Pekinese would never have occurred.</p> - -<p>There were then three fur-children: Arabella, -the Lavroch setter—lovely, dull, early Victorian, -worthy creature; Loki, the beloved, chief of all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[Pg 12]</span> -the little dumb family, first in our affections—a -quaint, saturnine, very Chinese little gentleman, -with crusty and disconcerting ways, and -almost a human heart; and Mimi, the heroine -of this adventure—Mimosa on solemn occasions—really -a beauty, with all the engaging Pekinese -oddities and that individuality of character -which each one seems to possess; spoilt, imperious, -vivid!</p> - -<p>It was a very wet day, and Jimmy had been -ordered to don his master’s mackintosh cape -and take the fur-children up the moor. The -first peculiar incident was that Mimi ran three -times headlong from his guardianship. As fast -as she was coaxed down one stairs she was up -the other, with her tail between her legs. It -might have made us pause, but it didn’t. We -said: “Poor Mimi doesn’t like getting her feet -wet.” Anyone who had heard the boy cooing -to his charges in tones of the most dulcet affection -would have been as dense as we were.</p> - -<p>That evening the dark adventure took place. -Jimmy came running into the kitchen, more -incredibly mud-encrusted than any living -creature outside an alligator is ever likely to -be again; and, bursting into loud wails, declared<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[Pg 13]</span> -that he had been set upon by two men and -robbed of Mimi.</p> - -<p>“Run, run,” cried Mrs. MacComfort, “and -tell the master!”</p> - -<p>Jimmy ran, working himself up as he went, -so that it was what our Irish nurse used to call -“roaring and bawling” that he rushed into the -library and poured out his dreadful news. The -master dashed in pursuit of the miscreants, led -by the hero, who cantered him uphill a good -half-mile. He was followed by the cook and -her Cinderella, valiantly brandishing sticks. -Having reached the post-office, the chase was -given up, and the master of the Villino was -returning dejectedly when a yapping behind -the hedge that skirted the road was recognized -by Mrs. MacComfort as unmistakably Mimi’s -voice.</p> - -<p>Mimi was extracted, none the worse for her -emotions, but with the remnants of a torn -pocket-handkerchief tied round her neck.</p> - -<p>Whether it was the abnormal layers of mud -on Jimmy’s countenance; or the curious fact -that, in spite of the horrible treatment which -he vowed had been inflicted upon him in a -hand-to-hand struggle with two men, under the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[Pg 14]</span> -mud there was not a scratch upon his ingenious -countenance; or whether it was that, although -the conflict was supposed to have taken place -within our own courtyard, no sound reached -anyone in the house—there and then Jimmy’s -master came to this conclusion: “I believe he’s -made it all up.” But he didn’t say so. The -boy was only cross-examined.</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you shout?” asked Mrs. -MacComfort.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t. They stuffed something soft -into my throat—a handkerchief, I think it was.”</p> - -<p>“Where did you get all that mud?” asked -the gardener next morning. “You never -picked that up in here. You couldn’t, not if -you’d scraped the ground.”</p> - -<p>It was then that Jimmy discovered that the -assault had taken place outside the gates.</p> - -<p>Jimmy’s mistress questioned him next, and -she instantly saw that he was lying. To point -the moral and adorn the tale she sent for the -policeman.</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you ’oller?” said the policeman.</p> - -<p>Jimmy’s knees shook together.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t ’oller,” he maintained doggedly. -“They’d stuffed something down me throat.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[Pg 15]</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, indeed!” said the policeman. “Maybe -it was this ’ankercher, was it?”</p> - -<p>He produced a dreadful rag that had been -picked up on the road. It fitted neatly with -the other rag that had been round Mimi’s neck: -awful <i>pièces de conviction</i>!</p> - -<p>“I say it’s your ankercher. Don’t go for to -deny it. I say it’s your ankercher; I ’appen to -know it’s your ankercher. I say you did it all -yerself!”</p> - -<p>When a six-foot, black-moustached policeman, -with boring eye, rolls out such an accusation -in tremendous crescendo, what can a little -criminal do but collapse? Jimmy collapsed. -It was his ankercher. He ’ad done it. There -never ’ad been no men. He never ’ad been -knocked down. He ’ad rolled in the mud on -purpose, in the ditch where it was thickest. -He ’ad tried to ’urt Mimi.</p> - -<p>“Why?—why?—why?”</p> - -<p>Even our local Sherlock Holmes couldn’t -extract anything like a plausible reason. Loki’s -mistress had to piece one together for herself.</p> - -<p>Jimmy hadn’t liked taking the dogs out on a -wet day. He had therefore planned to strangle -Mimi and throw her over the hedge, believing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[Pg 16]</span> -that if he showed himself unable to protect the -dogs he would not be sent out with them any -more.</p> - -<p>The two immediate results of this event, -extraordinary indeed in the annals of the -Villino, where a St. Francis-like love of our -little fur and feather brothers and sisters -dominates, was the prompt restoration of -Jimmy to the arms of Mrs. Mutton, his washerwoman -mamma, and the summoning of Juvenal -to the telephone. He was staying with his -brother, a postmaster. We communicated the -awful attempt. Juvenal averred, on the other -side of the wire, that you could have knocked -him down with a feather. Having thus re-established -communications, we wrote, and, -tactfully cloaking our own undignified yearnings -with the innocence of the fur-children, we -told him that the dogs missed him very much. -He was swift to seize the “paw of friendship,” -and, following our artful lead, responded by -return of post that Betty had been “that -fretted,” he did not know what to do with her—“<i>wine</i> -she did from morning till night!”</p> - -<p>It was obvious that anyone with a grain of -decent feeling must instantly remedy such a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[Pg 17]</span> -state of affairs. Juvenal returned with the -twenty-four bird-cages and Betty the terrier.</p> - -<p>We have compounded with an assistant -parlourmaid; it is by no means an economy, -but four-foot in buttons is in such demand that -Jimmy is irreplaceable.</p> - -<p>After all, so little has that war-pinch nipped -us, that, if it was not to laugh at them, one -would be ashamed to set these infinitesimal -bruises down at all. And, thank God! now one -can laugh a little again; the days are gone by -when it seemed as if every small natural joy -had been squeezed out of life, that existence -itself was one long nightmare of apprehension.</p> - -<p>We do not yet know what the future may -have in store for us; but, pray heaven, those -mornings may never dawn again when one -could scarcely open the paper for the beating -of one’s heart.</p> - -<p>It is not, we hope, that we are accustomed to -agony, though no doubt there is something of -habit that takes the edge off suspense and grief. -We are also better prepared; we have got, as -it were, into our second wind, and we are, after -our English fashion, perhaps even a little more -determined than we were to start with. When<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[Pg 18]</span> -it all began, with what seemed merely an insensate -crime in a half-civilized country, no one -would have thought that England, much less -our little house, would be affected. Though, -indeed, personally, the murder of the Archduchess -touched the mistress of the Villino a -little more nearly than most, for as children -they had played together. It was, and is, a -very vivid memory.</p> - -<p>She and her sisters had been brought to -Brussels for their education, and Sophie was -one of the youngest, if not the last, in the -nursery of the Austro-Hungarian Legation in -that city. The Chotek family used to come -to the <i>parc</i>; a tribe of quaint, fair-haired -children. They wore short black velvet coats -and caps, and plaid skirts, rather long. The -Signora can see little Sophie before her now; -a Botticelli angel, with an aureole of fair curls, -silver-gold, standing out all round her small, -pale, delicate face; a serious child, with lustrous -eyes and immense black lashes, and a fine, -curling mouth. She thought her lovely and -longed to cuddle her, with the maternal instinct -early developed.</p> - -<p>“Have you much sister?” said the tiny<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[Pg 19]</span> -Austrian, addressing her English friend upon -their introduction with great solemnity.</p> - -<p>Who could have thought what a destiny lay -before her, and in what a supreme act of self-devotion -the soul, already luminous in that -frail, exquisite little envelope, was to pass -away? We have been told on some excellent -authority that she was not popular in her -anomalous position, at least in her own class. -But her singular romance nevertheless was -crowned by so true a married happiness that -it can leave one in no doubt that she was -worthy of the sacrifice made for her by the -Imperial heir. He was—it is no uncharity to -mention so well-known a fact—a man of bad -life; she was his mother’s lady-in-waiting, -appointed to that post because of destitution, -no longer in the first freshness of her youth, -supposed to be a person of small significance—one -of those colourless shadows that haunt the -chairs of the great. But she captivated the -most important Prince in her country, barring -the Emperor; and, what is more, her spell never -lost its power. To that last breath, which, -greatly favoured in their awful tragedy, they -drew together, they adored each other. She<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[Pg 20]</span> -made of him a model husband, a model father, -a man of rectitude and earnestness. They had -children, and these were all their joy. It was -one of the reproaches cast upon her by the -indignant royalties of the Vienna Court that -the Duchess of Hohenberg was so economical -she would go down to her kitchen and see the -things given out. If she wanted to save money, -it was for those children, cut off from their -natural inheritance by the cast-iron laws that -debarred their mother from a share in her -husband’s rank.</p> - -<p>An invited guest at the wedding of the present -young hereditary Archduke to the Princess Zita -has given us a description of an incident which -well illustrates the treatment which the non-royal -wife of the Heir Apparent received at the -hands of her royal relatives. When the Duchess -of Hohenberg entered, her long, narrow train -caught in some projecting obstacle as she -swept up the little chapel. The place was full -of Archdukes and Archduchesses, in their -wedding attire. Not one of these high-born -beings budged. Each looked straight at the -altar, absorbed in pious prayer. The ostracized -lady had to disengage herself as best she could,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[Pg 21]</span> -and advance, blushing hotly, to her appointed -place, unescorted. A few minutes after a -belated Archduchess, entering swiftly, met -with the same mishap. Instantly she was -surrounded with politely assisting Hoheiten.</p> - -<p>The friend to whom we owe the anecdote remarked -that it had been “a dreadful moment,” -and that one could not help feeling sorry for the -poor Duchess. But it is to be remarked that -she herself—delightful, cultivated, large-minded -creature though she was—had been among the -stony ones, and there had even been a glint -of pleasure in her eyes under the compassion -as she told the story.</p> - -<p>Sophie was of those who are hated; but, -after all, what did it matter? Was she not -loved?</p> - -<p>Our daughter’s Hungarian godmother—a -most fairy and entrancing lady, with all the -spirit of her race under the appearance of a -French Marquise—like most Magyars, championed -the cause of one whom they intended -to make their future Queen. She gave us a -pretty account of the great pleasure it was -to the common people in Vienna to watch -their Archduke and his wife at the theatre.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[Pg 22]</span> -They sat in the royal box, not formally, one at -each end, as is the etiquette, but close, so close -that everyone knew they were holding each -other’s hands. They would look into each -other’s faces with smiles, to share the interest -and joy of what they beheld and heard. So the -lesser folk were fond of her, though the fine -Court circle could not forgive.</p> - -<p>When she went to Berlin, the astute William -received her with a tremendous parade of -honour, which made him very popular with the -Archduke, as well as with the multitude that -espoused his cause. But it was only a hollow -show of recognition after all—a banquet elaborately -arranged with little round tables, so as to -avoid any question of precedence under the -cloak of the most friendly intimacy. Our -simpler-minded court had to decline her visit -at the Coronation on account of this same -difficulty of precedence. Whatever might be -done in Austria, this was insulting from -England. “But she is of better family than -many of your royalties,” said a Bohemian -magnate to us across the table at a dinner-party, -his blue eyes blazing. “She is of very -good family. She is”—tapping his capacious<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[Pg 23]</span> -shirt-front with a magnificent gesture—“she is -related to me!”</p> - -<p>The petty malice of those whose prerogatives -had been infringed pursued her to her bloodstained -and heroic grave. To the last she was -denied all those dignities which appertained to -her husband’s rank. Her morganatic dust -could not be allowed to commingle with that -of royalty in the Imperial vault. The two who -had loved beyond etiquette were given a -huddled and secret midnight funeral; and -beside the Archduke’s coffin, covered with the -insignia of his state, that of his wife was -marked only by a pair of white kid gloves and -a fan.</p> - -<p>Such a pitiful triumph of tyranny over the -majestic dead! Horrible juxtaposition of the -ineptitude of pomposity and the most royal -of consummations! Sophie and her mate must -have smiled upon it from their enfranchisement.</p> - -<p>Perhaps if the doomed pair had not yielded -themselves to those Berlin blandishments their -fate might have been less tragic. There are -sinister rumours as to whose hand really fired -the revolver. We in England to-day may well -have come to believe that those whom the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[Pg 24]</span> -Kaiser most smiles upon are his chosen victims. -The laborious grin of the crocodile to the little -fishes is nothing to it; but England is rather a -big mouthful.</p> - -<p>Already one is able to say that any death has -been merciful which has spared an Austrian -the sight of his country’s dissolution. We are -glad that our fairy godmother has not lived -to have her heart torn between England, her -adopted country, and her passionately loved -Hungary.</p> - -<p>The cloud no bigger than a man’s hand in -the clear sky—shadow of the mailed fist—we -looked at it from over here with that stirring -of surface emotions that is scarcely unpleasant! -How horrible! we said. How wicked, how -cruel! The little bloodstained cloud! it hung in -horizons too far off to menace our island shores. -We were very sorry for the old Emperor, -pursued to the last, it seemed, by the inexplicable, -unremitting curse. “I have been spared -nothing,” he is reported to have said when the -news of the Archduke’s murder was broken to -him. Was he then in his own heart sheltering -the deadly spark that was to kindle the whole -world? We thought of the playmate of Brussels<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[Pg 25]</span> -days with a romantic regret, and envied her a -little. Since one must die, what a good way it -was to go with one’s only beloved! And then, -in the full summer peace, the clouds suddenly -massed themselves, darkened, and spread.</p> - -<p>“Austrian Ultimatum to Servia! World’s -Peace Threatened!” so read the newspaper -headlines, like the mutter of thunder running -from pole to pole. We saw without conviction. -It seemed too inconceivable that such a crime -could be committed in our century; and the -folly of it too manifest in face of the Slav -menace. And next came the crack and the -lightning glare—hideous illumination over undreamt-of -chasms!</p> - -<p>Will any of us ever forget that Saturday to -Monday? War was declared on Russia; war -on France. Luxemburg territory was violated, -and rumour raced from one end of England to -the other: “We are going to stand aside; the -peace party is too strong!... We are not bound -by deed to France, only by an understanding. -England means to let her honour go down on -a quibble....”</p> - -<p>We had guests in the house—a brother, -retired after hard service in the army; a slow-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[Pg 26]</span>spoken, -gentle-eyed man of law, who hid the -fiercest fire of British pugnacity under this -deliberately meek exterior. They were both -pessimistic, the soldier angrily so in his anxiety. -“I’ll never lift my head again in England!—I’ll -never go into a foreign country again! I’d be -ashamed!—Upon my word, I’ll emigrate!”</p> - -<p>And the other gloomily: “From my experience -of this Government, it’s sure to do -the worst possible thing. I haven’t the least -hope.”</p> - -<p>In our own hearts we had resolved, with -the soldier, that we would give up home and -country. Our thoughts turned to Canada.</p> - -<p>The relief was proportionate to the hideousness -of the doubt. What though the cloud had -spread and spread till it reached right across -the sky, there was brilliant sunshine over -England—the light of honour.</p> - -<p>Two ardent young patriots had visited us -unexpectedly in their car that Sunday night. -They brought small items of consolation. They -had been to Portsmouth. It was ready for -war. Fixed bayonets gleamed at every corner; -the port was closed. Both these youths were -full of martial plans. One was hurrying to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[Pg 27]</span> -London Scottish, the other northwards to put -all affairs in order before joining too. The -London Scottish boy obligingly kept us <i>au -courant</i> of the turn of events by telephone. -During the length of Sir Edward Grey’s speech -perverted extracts reached us and plunged us -into ever deeper gloom: “We are only to intervene -if French ports are bombarded....”</p> - -<p>Then at midnight on Monday the bell rang. -“Belgian neutrality had been violated; general -mobilization was ordered.” It was war. And -we slept on the tidings with a strange peace.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the universal feeling was most impressively -voiced by a Franciscan monk, who -said to us later (during the agonizing suspense -between Mons and the Marne): “Nothing can -be so bad as those days when we did not know -what the Government would do. Whatever -happens now, nothing can compare to that. -Shall I ever forget how we prayed?”</p> - -<p>Little Brothers of Peace and Poverty, humble, -self-despoiled servants of the rule most rigid in -its tenderness, clamouring at the throne of God -for a thing of pride, a priceless possession—their -country’s honour! Paradox can scarcely -go further, it would seem. Yet, even before<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[Pg 28]</span> -Mr. Chesterton pointed it out, most of us had -long ago accepted the fact that the deeper the -truth the more breathless the paradox. Is -there an Englishman among us who would -lift his voice to-day against the sacred precept: -<i>He that loses his life shall save it</i>?</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[Pg 29]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II<br /> -OUR LITTLE BIT -</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“‘J’entends des paroles amies</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Que je ne comprends pas.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Je me sens loin, bien loin, de la patrie....</div> - <div class="verse indent0">D’où vient que ces voix me semblent familières?’</div> - <div class="verse indent4">‘Mon père, nous sommes en Angleterre.’”</div> -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Cammaerts.</span> -</p> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smcap">It</span> is frequently said in letters from the front, -by the officer praising his men, or <i>vice versa</i>: -“A dozen things are being done every day that -deserve the Victoria Cross.” But if you speak -to one of these heroes of their own deeds, you -will invariably get the same answer: “I just -did my little bit.”</p> - -<p>How immense a satisfaction it must be to -feel you’ve done your little bit! And how out -of it are the stay-at-homes! Yet we also have -our part to play—infinitesimal in comparison, -but still, we hope, of use—the minute fragment -that may be wanted in the fitting together of -the great jigsaw puzzle.</p> - -<p>Our first little bit at the Villino when we -woke to activity after the stunning of the blow, -was obviously to house refugees. We wrote to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[Pg 30]</span> -a friend prominent among the receiving committee, -and offered, as a beginning, to undertake -twelve peasants out of the thousands of -unfortunates flying from the face of the Hun. -From that charming but harassed lady we received -a grateful acceptance, announcing the -arrival of our families that afternoon—hour to -be fixed by telegram. We feverishly prepared -for their reception. We were ready to shelter -five; kind neighbours proposed to take in the -other seven. We had a fleet of motor-cars in -readiness, and Mrs. MacComfort, our cook, -concocted large jars of coffee and other articles -of food likely to be relished of the Belgian -palate. No telegram arrived; but to make up -for it, our telephone rang ceaselessly with -anxious inquiries from the assisting neighbours—inquiries -which very naturally became -rather irate as the hours went by, while we -took upon ourselves the apologies of the guilty.</p> - -<p>Next day we ventured to address an inquiry -to the harassed lady. That was Saturday. On -Monday we received a distraught telegram: -“Will wire hour of train.” It reminded us of -the overdriven shop-assistant in the middle of -a seething Christmas crowd: “Will attend to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[Pg 31]</span> -you in a minute, madam.” We felt the desire to -oblige; but it left us just where we were before.</p> - -<p>On Wednesday an unknown Reverend -Mother telegraphed from an unknown convent: -“Are you prepared to receive two -Belgian families five o’clock to-day?”</p> - -<p>This message was supplemented by another -from an equally unknown Canon of Westminster -Cathedral: “Sending twelve Belgians -to-day. Please meet four-twenty train.”</p> - -<p>We had scarcely time to clutch our hair, for -it was already past three when a third despatch -reached us, unsigned, from Hammersmith: -“Two Belgian ladies seven children arriving -this afternoon five-five train. Please attend -station.”</p> - -<p>The question was, were we to expect twelve -or thirty-six?</p> - -<p>We rang up the devoted neighbours. We -increased our preparations for refreshment. -We spread out all the excellent cast-off -garments collected for the poor destitutes; -and we “attended” at the first train.</p> - -<p>Before proceeding any further with the -narration of our thrilling experiences, we may -mention that eighteen Belgians appeared in all,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[Pg 32]</span> -whom we succeeded in housing after singular -developments; the most unexpected people -showing a truly Christian charity, while -others, ostentatiously devoted to good works, -bolted their doors and hearts upon the most -frivolous excuse.</p> - -<p>A neighbour of ours, in precarious health, -with a large family, a son lost in Germany, a -son-in-law at the front, and an infant grandchild -in the nursery, would, we think, have given -every room and bed in her house to the exiles.</p> - -<p>“Only, please, do let me have a poor woman -with a baby,” she said. “I’d love to have something -to play with our little Delia.”</p> - -<p>Another, a widow lady, with a large house -and staff of servants to match, and unlimited -means, was horrified at the idea of admitting -peasants anywhere within her precincts; and as -to a small child—“I might be having the visit -of a grand-nephew, and he might catch something,” -she declared down the telephone, in the -tone of one who considers her reason beyond -dispute.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>About five-thirty the Villino opened its -portals to its first refugees. The two ladies<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[Pg 33]</span> -with the seven children were fed, and half the -party conveyed farther on, we undertaking a -mother and three children, under three, and a -sprightly little <i>bonne</i>. The Villino is a small -house, and we had prepared for peasant women. -A bachelor’s room and a gay, double-bedded -attic—it has a paper sprawling with roses and -big windows looking across the valley—were -what we had permanently destined for the -sufferers. Matters were not facilitated by discovering -that our guests belonged to what is -called in their own land the high-burgherdom; -and that they, on their side, had been told to -expect in us the keepers of a “family pension.”</p> - -<p>We do not know whether the unknown -Church dignitary, the mysterious Lady Abbess, -or the nameless wirer from Hammersmith were -responsible for the mistake. We do not think -it can have been our high-minded but harassed -friend of the Aldwych, as some six weeks later -we received a secretarial document from that -centre of activity, asking whether it was true -that we had offered to receive Belgians, and if -so: what number and what class would we -prefer to attend to? By that time, we may -mention, we had been instrumental in estab<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[Pg 34]</span>lishing -about sixty of every variety in the -environs.</p> - -<p>However, we had reason not to regret the -misunderstanding which brought Madame -Koelen under our roof.</p> - -<p>It was “Miss Marie,” the Villino’s Signorina, -who went down to meet her, accompanied by -those kindly neighbours. Madame Koelen -descended from the railway-carriage in tears.</p> - -<p>“Poor young thing,” we said, “it is only -natural she must be heart-broken—flying from -her home with her poor little children!”</p> - -<p>The first bombardment of Antwerp had been -the signal for a great exodus from that doomed -city.</p> - -<p>“We were living in cellars, <i>n’est-ce pas?</i> and -it was not good for the children, <i>vous savez</i>, so -my husband said: ‘You must go, <i>vite, vite</i>; the -last boats are departing.’ We had not half an -hour to pack up.”</p> - -<p>It was a piteous enough spectacle. She had -a little girl not three, another not two, and a -three-months-old baby which she was nursing. -We thought of the poor distracted husband -and father; and the forlorn struggle on the -crowded boat; and the dreadful landing on un<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[Pg 35]</span>known -soil, herded together as they were, poor -creatures! like a huddled flock of sheep; and -our hearts bled.</p> - -<p>Towards evening, however, when calm settled -down again on the astonished Villino, and -Madame Koelen, having left her children asleep, -was able to enjoy Mrs. MacComfort’s choice -little dinner, she became confidential to the -young daughter of the house. She began by -telling us that we must not imagine that because -a name had a German sound that her husband’s -family had the remotest connection with the -land of the Bosch. On the contrary, he was of -Italian extraction; descended, in fact, from no -less a race than the Colonnas! Having thus -established her credentials, she embarked on -long rambling tales of the flight, copiously -interlaced with the name of an Italian gentleman; -“a friend of my husband”; a certain Monsieur -Mérino.</p> - -<p>“When my husband was putting us on the -<i>remorqueur</i> at Flushing, we saw him standing -on the quay, <i>vous savez</i>, and then he said, <i>n’est-ce -pas</i>: ‘Ah, Mérino, are you going to England? -Then look after my wife!’”</p> - -<p>And Monsieur Mérino had been so good,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[Pg 36]</span> -and Monsieur Mérino had amused the children, -and Monsieur Mérino was so anxious to know -how they were established, and Monsieur -Mérino would probably come down to see for -himself, and Monsieur Mérino was so droll!</p> - -<p>We are very innocent people, and we accepted -Monsieur Mérino in all good faith. We announced -ourselves as happy to receive him; -we were touched by his solicitude. Madame -Koelen had surprisingly cheered, but there -was yet a cloud upon her brow.</p> - -<p>“Still,” she said, “I do not think it was right -of my cousin to have accepted to dine alone -with Monsieur Mérino, and to have passed the -night in London in the same hotel with only -her little brother to chaperon her—a child of -eight, <i>n’est-ce pas?</i>—and she only eighteen, <i>vous -savez</i>, and expected in Brighton.”</p> - -<p>We quite concurred. Monsieur Mérino’s halo -grew slightly paler in our eyes. Monsieur -Mérino ought not to have asked her, we said, -with great propriety.</p> - -<p>Madame Koelen exploded.</p> - -<p>“Ah, if you had seen the way she went on -with him on the boat! She was all the time -trying to have a flirt with him. Poor Monsieur<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[Pg 37]</span> -Mérino! and God knows what <i>blague</i> she has -told him, for he was never at the station to see -us off, and he had promised to be there, <i>n’est-ce -pas?</i> Oh, I was so angry! <i>Cette Jeanne</i>, she -prevented him! I cried all the way down in -the train.”</p> - -<p>Certainly she had been crying when we first -beheld her; and we who had thought!——</p> - -<p>Madame Koelen was a handsome, sturdy -creature, who would have made the most -splendid model for anyone wishing to depict -a <i>belle laitière</i>. Short, deep-chested, and broad-hipped, -her strong, round neck supported a -defiant head with masses of blue-black hair; -she had a kind of frank coarse beauty—something -the air of a young heifer, only that -heifers have soft eyes, and her eyes, bright -brown, were hard and opaque; something the -air of a curious child, with a wide smile that -displayed faultless teeth, and was full of the -joy of life; the kind of joy the milkmaid would -appreciate! We could quite understand that -Monsieur Mérino should find her attractive.</p> - -<p>Before the next day had elapsed we began -to understand her view of the situation also. -Like so many other Belgian women whom we<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[Pg 38]</span> -have known, she had been married practically -from the convent, only to pass from one discipline -to another. The husband in high-burgherdom, -as well as in the more exalted -class, likes to pick out his wife on the very -threshold of the world, so that he can have -the moulding of her unformed nature; so that -no possible chance can be afforded her of -drawing her own conclusions on any subject. -The horizon of the Belgian <i>nouvelle-mariée</i> is -rigidly bound by her home, and the sole luminary -in her sky is her husband. She must bask -on his smiles, or not at all. And if the weather -be cloudy, she must resign herself and believe -that rain is good for the garden of her soul. -Presently the lesser luminaries appear in the -nursery, and then her cup of happiness is indeed -full; the fuller the happier!</p> - -<p>“<i>Il ne me lâche pas d’une semelle!</i>” said an -exasperated little lady to us one day, referring -to the devoted companionship of a typical -husband.</p> - -<p>No wonder, when Monsieur Mérino flashed -across the widening horizon of Madame Koelen -with comet-like brilliancy, that the poor -little woman should be thrilled and dazzled.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[Pg 39]</span></p> - -<p>When, on the morning after her arrival, the -papers announced an intermittent bombardment -of Antwerp, she screamed: “Ah, <i>par -exemple</i>, it is I who am glad not to be there!” -without the smallest show of anxiety on the -score of the abandoned Koelen. We realized -that, to quote again our frank and charming -friend: “<i>Ce n’était pas l’amour de son mari qui -l’étouffait!</i>” And when she next proceeded to -hang on to the telephone, and with many -cackles and gurgles to hold an animated conversation -with the dashing Mérino, we began -to hope that that gentleman might not make -his appearance at the Villino.</p> - -<p>He did, however, next day; and, under pretence -of visiting houses, carried away the -emancipated Madame Koelen for a prolonged -motor drive, leaving the three-months-old baby -to scream itself into fits in the attic room upstairs; -she was tied into her crib while the -little <i>bonne</i> promenaded the other two in the -garden.</p> - -<p>The Villino is a tender-hearted place, and -the members of the <i>famiglia</i> vied with -each other in endeavouring to assuage the -agonies of the youngest Miss Koelen, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[Pg 40]</span> -nobody could provide the consolation she required.</p> - -<p>Madame Koelen and her <i>cavaliere servente</i> -returned for a late tea, no whit abashed; -indeed, extremely pleased with themselves. -He had a great deal to say in an assured and -airy manner, and she hung on his words with -her broad smile and many arch looks from -those brilliant opaque red-brown orbs.</p> - -<p>Monsieur Mérino was tall, quite good-looking; -with a smooth olive face, fair hair, and eyes -startlingly blue, in contrast to the darkness of -his skin. He gave us a great deal of curious -information. Summoned from Antwerp, where -he had a vague business, he was on his way to -join the Italian colours, but, calling on the -Italian Ambassador in London, the latter had -given him leave to defer his departure for -another ten days. He was, therefore, able to -devote his entire attention to the interests of -Madame Koelen, which he felt would be most -reassuring to her husband.</p> - -<p>We rather wondered why the Italian Ambassador -to the Court of St. James’s should -occupy himself with the movements of a casual -Italian merchant <i>en route</i> from Antwerp; or by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[Pg 41]</span> -what curious intermingling of international -diplomatic arrangements he should be able to -give military leave to a reservist; but we were -too polite to ask questions.</p> - -<p>Monsieur Mérino departed with many bows -and scrapes and hand-shakes; and Madame -Koelen evidently found that existence by -comet light was worth having.</p> - -<p>In the course of the evening she was very -communicative on the subject of this gentleman, -and several anecdotes of his drollery on board -ship were imparted to us. She had found out -that he was married—that was a funny thing, -<i>n’est-ce pas?</i> She had always heard of him -about Antwerp as a bachelor.</p> - -<p>“We thought he was a friend of your husband’s,” -we faltered.</p> - -<p>“Oh, a friend—a coffee-house acquaintance, -<i>tout au plus</i>!...</p> - -<p>“It was very droll. It came about this way. -He was playing with little Maddy, and I said -to him: ‘Oh! the good Papa that you will -make when you marry.’ Judge of my astonishment -when he looks at me and says: ‘I am -married already! Yes,’ he said, ‘I am married, -and my wife lives at Sorrento; I see her once<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[Pg 42]</span> -in six weeks when I make my voyage of -business. <i>J’ai des idées sur le mariage,’ il dit, -comme ça.</i>”</p> - -<p>These ideas she next began to develop.</p> - -<p>“‘I do not think one ought to be bound,’ he -says. ‘Do you not agree with me, Madame, a -man ought to be free?’ Oh, he was comic!”</p> - -<p>“But,” we said, “we do not think that is at -all nice.” The Villino is very moral. Its -shocked atmosphere instantly made itself felt -on Madame Koelen. Her bright eye became -evasive.</p> - -<p>“Of course I made him <i>la leçon</i> at once. Ah! -I very well made him understand I do not -approve of these <i>façons</i>. My husband teases -me; I am so serious, so rigid!”</p> - -<p>Before we separated that evening she told us -in a disengaged voice that she would spend the -next day in London. Monsieur Mérino could -not rest, it transpired, knowing her in such -dangerous surroundings; so far from a station, -in a place so likely, from its isolated inland -position, to be the objective of the first German -raid. He was, therefore, going to occupy himself -about another home for her; and at the -same time he would take the opportunity of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[Pg 43]</span> -conducting her to the Consul, for “it seems,” -she said, “that I shall have to pay a <i>grosse -amende</i> if I do not go immediately in person to -register myself in London.”</p> - -<p>“But the baby,” we faltered.</p> - -<p>“Oh, the baby!”—she flicked the objection -from her—“the baby will get on very well with -Justine. Justine knows how to manage her.”</p> - -<p>Justine was the minute <i>bonne</i> who had tied -the infant into the cot.</p> - -<p>Then there was Monsieur Mérino. The more -we thought of it, the less we felt that Monsieur -Mérino was to be trusted. Luridly our -imagination worked; we saw ourselves left -with three small Koelens in perpetuity; we -pictured that baby screaming itself into convulsions. -We thought it quite probable that -we might never hear of its Mama again. And -poor Papa Koelen, the brave Anversois Garde -Civique, dodging bombs in ignorance of the -horrible happening!</p> - -<p>The Master of the Villino was prevailed upon -to speak; in fact, to put his foot down. Next -morning he spoke, and crushed the incipient -elopement with a firm metaphorical tread.</p> - -<p>“Madame, this plan seems to be rash in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[Pg 44]</span> -extreme. I cannot permit it to take place from -under my roof. I feel, justly or unjustly, a -mediocre confidence in Monsieur Mérino. You -will, if you please, wire to him that you are -prevented from meeting him.”</p> - -<p>Madame Koelen became very white, and -though her opaque eyes flashed fury, she gave -in instantly; being a young Belgian wife, she -was accustomed to yield to masculine authority.</p> - -<p>Again she hung on the telephone. We were -too discreet to listen, but radiance returned to -her countenance.</p> - -<p>After lunch she explained the cause. Next -morning she and her whole family would depart. -Monsieur Mérino would himself convey -them to Brighton.</p> - -<p>The mistress of the Villino is occasionally -troubled with an inconvenient attack of conscience—sometimes -she wonders if it is only -the spirit of combativeness. In this instance, -however, she felt it her duty to warn Madame -Koelen.</p> - -<p>It was a brief but thrilling conversation. -Madame Koelen, her eldest little daughter on -her knee, occasionally burying her handsome -countenance in the child’s soft hair, was as cool<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[Pg 45]</span> -and determined, as silky and evasive as a lusty -young snake. She had a parry for every statement; -that she ate up her own words and -manifestly lied from beginning to end did not -affect her equanimity in the least. It was the -Signora who was nonplussed. There is nothing -before which the average honest mind remains -more helpless than the deliberate liar.</p> - -<p>Monsieur Mérino was her husband’s oldest -friend. He was intimate with her whole family. -She herself had known him for years. She -was under his charge by her husband’s wishes. -She had probably been aware of his marriage, -but it had merely slipped her memory—not -having his wife with him in Antwerp made one -forget it. He was perfectly right to invite her -young cousin to dine with him, since she had -her brother to chaperon her. Certainly the -brother was grown up and able to chaperon -her! How extraordinary of us to imagine -anything different!</p> - -<p>“You are young, and you do not know life, -my dear,” said the Signora at last, succeeding -in keeping her temper, though with difficulty.</p> - -<p>Madame Koelen bit into Maddy’s curls. It<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[Pg 46]</span> -was quite evident she meant to know life. She -had got her chance at last, and would not let it -escape.</p> - -<p>“I do not think,” said the unhappy hostess, -firing her final shot, “that your husband would -approve.”</p> - -<p>The wife wheeled with a sudden savage -movement, not unlike that of a snake about to -strike.</p> - -<p>“<i>Ah, voilà qui m’est bien égal!</i> That is my own -affair!”</p> - -<p>There was nothing more to be said. We -wondered whether the Garde Civique had ever -had such a glimpse of the real Geneviève Koelen -as had just been revealed to us. Even to us it -was startling.</p> - -<p>An extraordinary hot afternoon it turned out. -The sun was too blazing for us to venture -beyond the shadow of the house. We sat on -the terrace, and Madame Koelen wandered -restlessly up and down, biting at a rose. The -master of the Villino suddenly appeared among -us, all smiles.</p> - -<p>“A telegram for you, Madame. I have just -taken it down on the telephone. It is from -your husband. He is coming here to-day.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[Pg 47]</span></p> - -<p>He was very glad; it was the burden of -responsibility lifted. Not so, however, Madame -Koelen.</p> - -<p>“From my husband? How droll!”</p> - -<p>She snapped the sheet of paper and walked -away, conning it over.</p> - -<p>We sat and watched her.</p> - -<p>The garden was humming with heat. The -close-packed heliotrope beds in the Dutch -garden under the library window were sending -up gushes of fragrance. In the rose-beds -opposite, the roses—“General MacArthur,” -“Grüss aus Teplitz,” “Ulrich Brunner,” “Barbarossa” -(we hope these friendly aliens will -soon be completely degermanized), crimson -carmine, velvet scarlet, glorious purple—seemed -to be rimmed with gold in the sun-blaze. It -was a faultless sky that arched our world, and -the moor, already turning from silver amethyst -to the ardent copper of the burnt heather, -rolled up towards it, like a sleeping giant -wrapped in robes of state.</p> - -<p>On such a day the inhabitants of the Villino -would, in normal times, have found life very -well worth living indeed; basking in the sun -and just breathing in sweetness, warmth, colour<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[Pg 48]</span>—aspiring -beauty, if this can be called living! -But in war time the subconsciousness of -calamity is ever present. Inchoate apprehension -of bad news from the front is massed -at the back of one’s soul’s horizon, so that one -lives, as it were, under the perpetual menace -of the storm.</p> - -<p>The wonderful summer was being rent, laid -waste, somewhere not so very far away; and -the sun was shining, even as it was shining on -these roses, on blood outpoured—the best blood -of England! In the hot Antwerp streets, we -pictured to ourselves some tired man going to -and fro; the weight of the gun on his shoulder, -the weight of his heavy heart in his breast; -thinking of his wife and little children, hunted -exiles in a strange country, while duty kept -him, their natural protector, at his post in the -fated city.</p> - -<p>To have seen what we read on that young -wife’s face would have been horrible at any time: -it was peculiarly at variance with the peace of -the golden afternoon, and the lovely harmony -of the garden. But in view of her country’s -desolation and her husband’s share in its -splendid and hopeless defence, it was hideous.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[Pg 49]</span> -We do not even think she had the dignity of a -<i>grande passion</i> for the fascinating Mérino; it -was mere vanity, the greed of a pleasure-loving -nature free to indulge itself at last. She was -only bent on amusing herself, and the unexpected -arrival of her husband interfered with -the little plan. Therefore she stood looking -at his message with a countenance of ugly -wrath.</p> - -<p>“<i>Ah, ça, qu’il est ennuyeux!</i>... What has -taken him to follow me like this?”</p> - -<p>The thoughts were printed on her face.</p> - -<p>“Is it not delightful?” said the guileless -master of the Villino, who never can see evil -anywhere.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, indeed,” said she; “delightful!”</p> - -<p>She could no more put loyalty into her tone -than into her features.</p> - -<p>“Heaven help Koelen!” thought the Signora, -and was heartily sorry for the unknown, but -how glad, how indescribably thankful, that the -planned expedition had been prevented!</p> - -<p>Dramatically soon after his telegram Monsieur -Koelen arrived—an exhausted, pathetic -creature. He had stood twelve hours in the -steamer because it was so packed with exiled<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[Pg 50]</span> -humanity that there was not room to sit down. -He had exactly two hours in which to see his -wife, having to catch the night boat again from -Harwich. He had given his word of honour -to return to Antwerp within forty-eight hours.</p> - -<p>We did not, of course, witness the meeting, -but it was a very, very <i>piano</i> Madame -Koelen who brought Koelen down to tea; and -it was a cold, steely look which his tired eyes -fixed upon her between their reddened eyelids. -Whether he really came to put his valuables in -the bank, whether he was driven by some -secret knowledge or suspicion of his wife’s -character, we shall never know. We naturally -refrained from mentioning the name of Monsieur -Mérino. The host deemed his responsibility -sufficiently met by a single word of -advice:</p> - -<p>“Madame is very young; we hope you will -place her with people you know.”</p> - -<p>Monsieur Mérino was mentioned, however, -by the husband himself. It transpired Madame -owed him money. She wished to see him -again to pay him.</p> - -<p>“I will pay him,” said Monsieur Koelen -icily; “I will call at his hotel on my way.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[Pg 51]</span></p> - -<p>Madame’s head drooped.</p> - -<p>“<i>Bien, mon chéri</i>,” she murmured, in a faint -voice.</p> - -<p>In a turn of the hand, as they would have -said themselves, her affairs were arranged. -She was to go to Eastbourne, under the care -of some elderly aunts, Monsieur Koelen -presently announced.</p> - -<p>We had thought he looked like a hunted -hare. He had that expression of mortal agony -stamped on his face, which is often seen—more -shame for us!—on some poor dumb creature in -terror for its life; but he had still enough spirit -in him to reduce Madame Koelen to abject -submission.</p> - -<p>We could see he was oppressed with melancholy: -that his heart was bursting over the -children. We understood that this parting -was perhaps worse for him than those first -rushed farewells.</p> - -<p>He seemed scarcely to have arrived before -he was gone again. The young wife must have -had some spark of feeling left—perhaps, after -all, under the almost savage desire for a fling -she had a stratum of natural affection, common -loyalty—for she wept bitterly after his depar<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[Pg 52]</span>ture, -and, that night, for the first time, came -into the little chapel and prayed.</p> - -<p>We met the nurse with the children in the -garden, just as the father was being driven -away: a small, upright creature this, with flax-blue -eyes and corn-coloured hair, which she -wore in plaits tightly wound round her head. -She did not look a day more than sixteen, but -she had the self-possession of forty; and -possessed resource also, as was demonstrated -by her dealings with Baby.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur is so sad. Madame is so sad, -because of Antwerp, <i>n’est-ce pas?</i>” she said to us, -and by the sly look in those blue eyes we saw -that she was in her mistress’s confidence.</p> - -<p>It was true that he was sad for Antwerp; if -the word “sad” can be used to describe that -bleak despair which we have noticed in so -many Belgian men who have found shelter -in this country.</p> - -<p>“It is impossible that Antwerp should hold -out,” he said to us; “the spies and traitors -have done their work too well. The spies are -waiting for them inside our walls. They know -every nook in every fort, every weak spot -better than we do ourselves.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[Pg 53]</span></p> - -<p>That was mid September, and we put his -opinion down to a very natural pessimism. -No one knew then of the concrete platform -under the gay little villa outside the walls, -built by the amiable German family who was -so well known and respected at Antwerp; and -we have since heard, too, of the shells supplied -by Krupp and filled with sand; and the last -Krupp guns made of soft iron, which crumpled -up after the first shot.</p> - -<p>Alas, he was justified in his gloomy prophecy! -But we do not think that it was as much the -sense of national calamity that overwhelmed -him as the acute family anxiety. Yet, honest, -good, severe, ugly little man—worth a hundred -plausible, handsome, lying scamps such as -Mérino—he was a patriot before all else! He -would have had a very good excuse, we think, -for delaying another twelve hours to place his -volatile spouse in safety with the elderly relations -at Eastbourne—but he had given his -word. Had he arrived at the Villino only to -find that she had tripped off to London, with that -chance acquaintance of cafés, Monsieur Mérino -(to whose care he had in a distraught moment -committed her); had he thereafter been assailed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[Pg 54]</span> -by the most hideous doubts; had he believed, -as we did, that she meant to abandon husband -and babes at this moment of all others; or -had he—scarcely less agonizing surmise!—trembled -for her, innocent and lost in London, -the prey of a villain, we yet believe that he -would have kept his word.</p> - -<p>“<i>J’ai donné ma parole d’honneur!</i>”</p> - -<p>What a horrible, tragic story it might have -been, fit for the pen of a Maupassant! We -shall never cease to be thankful that it did not -happen. That is why we are glad to have -received Madame Koelen at the Villino.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Our next refugees came to us quite by accident, -and then only for a meal. A home had -already been prepared for them in the village, -but the excellent Westminster Canon, who -seemed to be the channel through which the -stream of refugees was pouring to us, announced -five, and casually added a sixth at the -last minute, with the result that the party were -not recognized at the station. The name of -the Villino having become unaccountably associated -with every refugee that arrives in this -part of the world, the Van Heysts landed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[Pg 55]</span> -<i>en masse</i> at our doors, demanded to have their -cab paid, and walked in.</p> - -<p>We all happened to be out, and Juvenal, our -eccentric butler, acquiesced. Standing on one -leg afterwards, he explained that, being aware -of our ways, he didn’t know, he was sure, but -what we might have meant to put them somewhere.</p> - -<p>Weary, tragic creatures, we weren’t sorry, -after all, to speed them on their road! The -three fair-haired children were fed with bread-and-butter, -and the young mother talked -plaintively in broken French, while the old -grandfather nodded his head corroboratively. -But the father: he was like a creature cast in -bronze—would neither eat nor speak. He sat -staring, his chin on his hand, absorbed in the -contemplation of outrage and disaster.</p> - -<p>They were from Malines.</p> - -<p>“And then, mademoiselle, it was all on fire, -and the cannon were sending great bombs; and -we fled as quick as we could, <i>n’est-ce pas?</i> I with -the littlest one in my arms, and the other two -running beside me. For five hours we walked. -Yes, mademoiselle, the two little girls, they -went the whole way on foot, and that one there<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[Pg 56]</span> -always crying, ‘<i>Plus vite, maman! plus vite, -maman!</i>’ and pulling at my apron.”</p> - -<p>The young husband sat staring. Was he -for ever beholding his little house in flames, -or what other vision of irredeemable misery? -He remains inconsolable. Poor fellow! he has -heart disease; he thinks he will never see his -native land again. And there is yet another -little one expected. Alas! alas!</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Of quite another calibre are the Van Sonderdoncks; -a very lively, cheery family this! There -are, of course, a grandpapa, a maiden aunt, a -couple of cousins, as well as the bustling materfamilias, -the quaint wizened papa, the well-brought-up -Jeanne, who can embroider so -nicely, and the four little pasty boys with red -hair and eyes like black beads. They are comfortably -established in a very charming house -lent by a benevolent lady, who also feeds -them.</p> - -<p>On the Signorina’s first visit she found -Madame Van Sonderdonck in a violent state -of excitement. She had received such extraordinary -things in the way of provisions “<i>de -cette dame</i>.” If mademoiselle would permit it,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[Pg 57]</span> -she would like to show her something—but -something—she could not describe it; it was -<i>trop singulier</i>. “One moment, mademoiselle.”</p> - -<p>She fled out of the room and returned with—a -vegetable marrow!</p> - -<p>She was rather disappointed to find that -mademoiselle was intimately acquainted with -this freak of nature, which she surveyed from -every angle with intense suspicion and curiosity. -Politeness kept her from expressing her real -feelings when she was assured of its excellence -cooked with cheese and onion and a little -tomato in a flat dish, but her countenance expressed -very plainly that she was not going to -risk herself or her family.</p> - -<p>Having failed to impress with the marrow, -she repeated the effect with sago. She had -eaten it raw. Naturally, having thus become -aware of its real taste, she could not be expected -to believe it would be palatable in any guise. -Nevertheless, she was indulgent to our eccentricities. -If anyone remembers the kind of -amused, condescending interest that London -society took in the pigmies, when those unfortunate -little creatures were on show at -parties a few years ago, they can form some<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[Pg 58]</span> -idea of Madame Van Sonderdonck’s attitude -of mind towards England.</p> - -<p>Good humour reigned in the family as we -found it.</p> - -<p>Though papa Sonderdonck had a bayonet -thrust through his neck—he had been in the -Garde Civique—and they had already had a -battle-royal with the Belgian family who shared -the house, they seemed to view the whole situation -as a joke. As they had routed their fellow -refugees—the latter only spoke Flemish, Madame -Van Sonderdonck only French, and an interpreter -had to be found to convey mutual abuse—and -furthermore obtained in their place the -sister-in-law and the two cousins, unaccountably -left out of the batch, they had some substantial -reasons for satisfaction.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Monsieur and Madame Deens are once -more of the heart-rending order. She, a -pathetic creature always balanced between -tears and smiles, with pale blue eyes under -her braided soft brown hair, looks extraordinarily -young to be the mother of two -strapping children. He is the typical Belgian -husband, devoted but grinding.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[Pg 59]</span></p> - -<p>Our first visit there was painful. Madame -Deens was like a bewildered child, and the -husband, a stalwart handsome fellow, who had -been chief engineer on the railway at Malines, -was torn between a very natural indignation at -finding himself beggared after years of honest -hard work, and bitter anxiety about his wife, -who was in the same condition as Madame Van -Heyst.</p> - -<p>He beckoned us outside the cottage to tell -us in a tragic whisper that he had good reason -to believe that “all, all the family of my wife,” -her father, mother, and the invalid sister, had -been murdered by the Germans; and their farm -burned.</p> - -<p>“How can I tell her, and she as she is? It -will kill her too! And she keeps asking me -and asking me! I shall have to tell her!”</p> - -<p>The tears rolled down his cheeks. Yet he -was a hard man; it galled him to the quick to -be employed as a common labourer and receive -only seventeen shillings a week.</p> - -<p>They had been given a gardener’s house: -the most charming, quaint abode. It had an -enormous kitchen, with a raftered ceiling, and -one long window running the whole length of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[Pg 60]</span> -the room, opening delightfully on the orchard. -The walls were all snowy white. He might -have made himself very happy in such surroundings -for the months of exile, with the -consciousness of friends about him, the knowledge -of safety and care for the wife in her -coming trial, and the splendid healthy air for -the children. But Deens was not satisfied.</p> - -<p>“I had just passed my examinations, <i>n’est-ce -pas?</i> monsieur, madame, and had received my -advancement, and we had just got into the -little house I had built with my savings. Now -it is burnt—burnt to the ground. And these -wages, for a man like me, mademoiselle, it is -something I cannot bring myself to. <i>Je ne puis -pas m’y faire, savez vous.</i>”</p> - -<p>“But Madame Deens is so well here, and we -will look after her,” said Mademoiselle.</p> - -<p>“Ah, but I could earn more money elsewhere! -I might have something to bring back -to my own country.”</p> - -<p>Of course he has had his way. A bustling lady -got him into a motor factory, and he dragged -his weeping but resistless spouse to a townlet, -where they are lodged in one room; where the -only person we could think of to interest in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[Pg 61]</span> -their favour was the old parish priest, who -turned out to be queer in his head, but where -Deens is in receipt of thirty-two shillings a -week. We are sure that what can be saved -is being saved for the <i>retour au pays</i>, and meanwhile -the poor little woman’s hour of trouble is -approaching, and she must get through it as -best she can, unbefriended. We feel anxious.</p> - -<p>Before she left, with many tears, she gave -the Signorina, who had sympathized with her, -the only gift she could contrive out of her -destitution. It was the youngest child’s little -pair of wooden shoes!</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[Pg 62]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III<br /> -OUR MINISTERING ANGELS</h2> -</div> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“Chi poco sa, presto lo dice!”</p> - -<p class="right"><i>Wisdom of Nations.</i> -</p></blockquote> - -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smcap">Of</span> course we are not behindhand in our village -in the Red Cross movement.</p> - -<p>Nearly every woman, whatever her views, -fancies herself nowadays in the rôle of ministering -angel. It may be doubted whether an -existence devoted to the Tango and its concomitants -has been a useful preparation for a -task which demands the extreme of self-devotion; -and we have heard odd little tales of how -a whole body of charming and distinguished -amateurs rushed into the cellars at the whiz of -a shell, abandoning their helpless patients; and -how the fair chief of a volunteer ambulance -staff fainted at the sight of the first wounded -man.</p> - -<p>Yet there may be many, even among what is -odiously called “the smart set,” who only find -their true vocation at such a moment as this, -when unsuspected qualities, heroic capacities<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[Pg 63]</span> -spring into life at the test. It is not enough to -say that times of great calamity sift the good -from the bad, the strong from the futile: they -give the wasters in every class of life their -chance of self-redemption—in numberless -instances not in vain. While freely admitting, -however, that there may be a good proportion -of society women who are drawn to work -among the wounded by a genuine desire to -help, and have therefore taken care to qualify -themselves for the task, who can deny that -with others nursing is merely a new form of -excitement, the last fashionable craze? It was -the same in the South African War. Indeed, -the episode of the wounded soldier who put -up a little placard with the inscription, “Much -too ill to be nursed to-day,” has, we see, been -revived in connection with the present conflict. -It may be taken as the classic expression of -Tommy’s feelings towards this particular form -of attention. We do not suppose, however, -that the case of the tender-hearted but unenlightened -lady who went about Johannesburg -feeding the enteric patients with buns -will be allowed to repeat itself at Boulogne -or Calais. We well remember reading her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[Pg 64]</span> -letter to the papers, in which she innocently -vaunted her fatal ministrations, inveighing -against the monstrous fashion in which “our -poor sick soldiers” were being starved. We -believe eleven victims of her charity died.</p> - -<p>A late distinguished general had a genial -little anecdote anent the energies of a batch -of fair nurses who landed in Egypt during the -last campaign. Happening to go round the -hospital one morning shortly after their arrival, -he saw one of these enchanting beings, clad in -the most coquettish of nursing garbs, bending -over a patient.</p> - -<p>“Wouldn’t it refresh you if I were to sponge -your face and hands, my man?” she inquired, -in dulcet tones.</p> - -<p>The patient, who was pretty bad, rolled a -resigned but exhausted glance at her.</p> - -<p>“If you like, mum. It’s the tenth time it’s -been done this morning!”</p> - -<p>Perhaps, like the war itself, everything is on -too tremendous a scale now to permit of such -light-hearted playing with the dread sequels of -combat. We can no more afford to make a -game of nursing than a game of fighting in -this world struggle. It is possible that only<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[Pg 65]</span> -such of our <i>mondaines</i> as have the necessary -knowledge and devotion are permitted to have -charge of those precious lives, and that the -others confine themselves to post-cards and -coffee-stalls, and dashing little raids into the -firing-lines with chocolates and socks. We -trust it may be so. We confess that what we -ourselves beheld of the local amateur Red -Cross fills us with some misgiving.</p> - -<p>Of course, as has been said, being a very -enlightened community, we were not going to -be left behind. A special series of lectures -was announced almost within a week of the -declaration of war. The daughter of the household -determined to join.</p> - -<p>On her arrival, a little late, at the village hall, -she was met by the secretary of the undertaking; -a charming and capable young lady, -looking, however, at this particular moment -distraught to the verge of collapse.</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>do</i> you know anything about home -nursing? <i>Do</i> you think you could teach a little -class how to take temperatures? You could -easily pick up what you want to learn afterwards, -couldn’t you? There are such a lot -of them, and they’re all so, so——” She sub<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[Pg 66]</span>stituted -“difficult to teach” for the word -trembling on her lips. “Nurse Blacker doesn’t -know which way to turn.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can certainly teach them to take temperatures,” -said the Signorina. Nurses, like -poets, are born, not made; and she is of those -who have the instinct how to help. Besides -this she has had experience.</p> - -<p>She was disappointed, however. She had come -to learn, not to teach. It seemed to her, moreover, -almost inconceivable that any female who -had arrived at years of discretion and was of -normal intellect should not be able to take a -temperature; but she swallowed her feelings, -after the example of the secretary, and went -briskly in to begin her task.</p> - -<p>She was provided with a jug of warm water, -several thermometers, and a row of various -women, ranging from the spinster of past sixty -to the red-cheeked sixteen-year old daughter of -the local vet—who ought to have known how -to take a temperature, if it was only a dog’s! -There were also two fluttering beribboned -summer visitors from the neighbouring hotel; -these were doing the simple life, with long motor -veils and short skirts and a general condescend<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[Pg 67]</span>ing -enthusiasm towards our wild moorland -scenery, which they were fond of qualifying as -“too sweet!”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said the secretary to the Signorina -as she hurried away, “you could teach -them to take a pulse also. They can practise -on each other. It would be <i>such</i> a help.”</p> - -<p>The Signorina felt a little shy. It did seem -somewhat presuming for anything so young as -she was to be instructing people who were all, -with the exception of the vet’s daughter, considerably -older, and, therefore, obviously considerably -richer in experience than herself. It -added to her embarrassment that the summer -visitors should fix two pairs of rapt eyes upon -her with the expression of devotees listening -to their favourite preacher.</p> - -<p>However, she summoned her wits and her -courage, and gave a brief exposition of the -mysteries of thermometer and pulse, patiently -repeating herself, while the students took -copious notes. Certainly there was something -touching in this humble ardour for useful knowledge. -Then the thrilling moment of practice -began.</p> - -<p>The spinster first monopolized the instruct<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[Pg 68]</span>ress’s -attention. Her white hairs and her years -entitled her to precedence.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” she remarked, with the air of -one whose scientific education has not been -altogether neglected, as she balanced her thermometer -over the jug, “the water won’t really -make it go up, will it, no matter how hot it is?”</p> - -<p>The Signorina did not think she could have -understood.</p> - -<p>“I mean,” said the maiden lady, waving the -little tube, “it’s not heat that will ever make -the thermometer go up. It’s fever, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“But fever is heat,” mildly asserted the -“home-nurse.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, I don’t mean <i>that</i>” said the spinster -loftily. “Of course, I know you’re hot with -fever; but it’s something <i>in</i> you, isn’t it, that -affects the thermometer? It wouldn’t go up, -even if I put it on the stove, would it?”</p> - -<p>“Put it into the jug and try,” said the Signorina, -who did not believe that language would -be much use here.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I think,” interpolated a summer guest -who was much impressed by the spinster’s -grasp of the situation, “I’d rather try my thermometer -on my cousin, please! I think one<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[Pg 69]</span> -would learn better. It would be more like -hospital practice, wouldn’t it?”</p> - -<p>The spinster turned from the jug with -alacrity.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure you are right,” she cried. Then -wheeling on her neighbour: “Oh, would you -mind?” she pleaded.</p> - -<p>The neighbour, a tailor-made lady with a -walking-stick, who looked on with a twisted -smile—we suspect she was a suffragette, pandering -to the weakness of a world distracted -from the real business of life—submitted to be -made useful. Her smile became accentuated.</p> - -<p>“Shouldn’t mind if it was a cigarette,” she -remarked in a deep bass, and thereafter was -silent, while the spinster laboriously prepared -to take two minutes on her watch.</p> - -<p>“Please, dear child,” cried one of the motor-veiled -ladies in her impassioned tone of interest, -“will you explain to me again, what is normal? -<i>I’d better take it out, dear! There’s no use doing -it wrong, is there?</i> You said something about -a little red line—or is that for fever? How -silly I am—red would be for fever, wouldn’t -it? No? <i>Red is normal, darling. Oh, I do -hope you’re normal!</i> What did you say, ninety-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[Pg 70]</span>eight, -point four? I never could do arithmetic -and I’m so stupid. My husband always says—<i>doesn’t -he, Angela?</i>—‘You won’t do much adding -up, Birdie’—he calls me ‘Birdie,’—‘but I can -trust you to subtract all right,’ dear, naughty -fellow! He loves me to spend, you know, -<i>doesn’t he, Angela?</i> Oh dear, it hasn’t moved -at all! Is that very bad? <i>Angela, darling!</i>”</p> - -<p>“But you didn’t leave it in two minutes,” -said the persevering teacher. “Supposing you -were to put it in your mouth now, and your -cousin were to take you?”</p> - -<p>“Will you, Angela?” The summer visitor’s -eyes became pathetic. “I’m sure I’ve been -feeling quite dreadful with all this anxiety.”</p> - -<p>“Your temperature,” said the spinster triumphantly -to the suffragette, “is a hundred -and twenty-eight.”</p> - -<p>The Signorina started.</p> - -<p>“But that’s quite impossible! Look here, let -me show you. It won’t mark over a hundred -and ten.”</p> - -<p>For the first time the spinster was flustered.</p> - -<p>“Oh, perhaps I read it wrong! Let me look -again.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[Pg 71]</span></p> - -<p>After much fumbling and peering she became -apologetic.</p> - -<p>“I see I did make a mistake. It’s twenty-six.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said the little lecturer hopelessly, -“if I just went over the readings of the -thermometer with you all once more——”</p> - -<p>But she was interrupted.</p> - -<p>“Would you mind”—the harassed secretary -seized her by the elbow—“would you mind -coming to superintend the bed-making? I’ve -got to take the bandage class, and Nurse -Blacker can’t really manage more than twenty -with the compresses.”</p> - -<p>The whole room was full of the clapper of -excited female tongues. The Signorina was not -sorry to leave the jug of warm water and the -extraordinary fluctuating temperatures. She -was followed by the summer visitors, motor -veils and ribbons flying.</p> - -<p>As she left, a cheerful, red-faced lady was -heard to announce casually, as she dropped the -fat wrist of the veterinary’s daughter, that -there was no use her trying to take that pulse, -as the girl hadn’t got any.</p> - -<p>The clamorous group surrounded the camp-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[Pg 72]</span>bed, -upon which was stretched a sardonic boy-scout, -fully clothed, down to his clumping -boots. He was aged about twelve, and assisted -in the education of the “lidies” by commenting -from time to time on their efforts in hoarse -tones of cynicism. After one impulsive neophyte -had seemed to be practising tossing him -in a blanket, he remarked into space: “Nurses -are not suppowsed to move the pytient.”</p> - -<p>And to another who jerked his heels up: -“Down’t you forget, miss, I’m a bad caise!”</p> - -<p>The Signorina had never been taught how -to make beds in the true hospital fashion -before, and was painstakingly absorbed in the -intricacies of rolling sheets without churning -the “bad caise,” when she was seized upon by -one of the flutterers from the hotel.</p> - -<p>“We’re going now; it’s been <i>so</i> interesting, -we <i>have</i> enjoyed it. I shan’t forget all you told -me about temperatures. I feel quite able to -look after our dear fellows already. Oh! I -<i>must</i> tell you. You’ve got such a sympathetic -face. I’m sure you will understand. I had -a most <i>wonderful</i> revelation the other day, in -church—in London, you know. I had such an -extraordinary feeling—just as if something came<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[Pg 73]</span> -over me—and I thought the church was full of -dead soldiers; and a voice seemed to say to -me: ‘Pray.’ I felt quite uplifted. And then -in a minute it was all gone. Wasn’t it wonderful? -That kind of thing makes one feel so -<i>strong</i>, doesn’t it? Oh, I knew you would -understand. The last news is <i>very</i> disquieting, -isn’t it? What a darling little -fellow!”</p> - -<p>The “bad caise” scowled at her horribly; -but the sweetness of her smile was quite unimpaired, -as she fluttered out of the hall.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“It is very important,” said Nurse Blacker -to the compress class, “that the nurse should -wash her hands before touching the patient’s -wounds.”</p> - -<p>“Now, tell me, Sister,” interposed a meek -voice, “is that precaution for the nurse’s sake -or for the patient’s? I mean, I suppose it’s in -case the nurse should incur any infection from -the wound?”</p> - -<p>This point of view—that of the White -Queen in “Alice Through the Looking-Glass”—had -not apparently struck Nurse Blacker -before.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[Pg 74]</span></p> - -<p>It all seems too ridiculous to be true, but yet -the facts are here set down as they actually -occurred.</p> - -<p>We think there are a good many women -about the world of the type of the spinster and -her sisters, and we are also convinced that it -would be quite impossible to succeed in impressing -upon such minds even the most rudimentary -notions of nursing; yet it is likely -enough they may all have been granted certificates -eventually. Professionals are dreadfully -bored in dealing with amateurs, and are -often glad to take the shortest road to deliverance.</p> - -<p>We were once witness, in pre-war days, of -the examination of a Red Cross class in the -north of England. There was a weary doctor -on the platform with a bag of bones; and a -retired hospital nurse, very anxious to be on -good terms with the delightful family who -were the chief organizers of the movement, -had charge of the “show.”</p> - -<p>The doctor gave a brief address upon dislocation. -It ran somewhat in this fashion.</p> - -<p>“Dislocation is the misplacement of a joint. -It is indicated by the symptoms of swelling,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[Pg 75]</span> -redness, pain, and inability to move the limb. -There is no crepitation as in a fracture. As to -treatment: my advice to you, ladies, when you -meet a case of this kind, is—ahem—to leave it -severely alone and to send for a medical man.”</p> - -<p>The class took copious notes. The doctor -dropped the two bones with which he had -been demonstrating into the bag again, leant -back in his chair and closed his eyes. His part -of the transaction was concluded. It had been -most illuminating, the ladies agreed, and the -Signorina’s chauffeur, who has a yearning -towards general self-improvement, remarked -to her on the way home:</p> - -<p>“Ow”—like the boy scout, he has a theatrically -cockney accent—“I am glad to know what -to do for discollation. I’d never studied that, -loike, before.”</p> - -<p>While the doctor leant back and rested, the -hospital nurse examined each student privately -on the subject of the previous instructions. -The Signorina happened to be quite close to a -little old lady with bonnet and strings, and a -small, eager, withered, agitated face under -bands of frizzled grey hair—the kind of little -old lady who is always ready to respond to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[Pg 76]</span> -call of duty, and who is in the van of knitters -for “our dear, brave soldiers” or “our gallant -tars.”</p> - -<p>“What,” said the hospital nurse tenderly, -“would you do for a bed-sore?”</p> - -<p>The little old lady began to twitter and -flutter:</p> - -<p>“I would first wash the place with warm -water, and—oh, dear me, dear me, I <i>did</i> know, -I knew quite well a minute ago—with, with -something to disinfect.”</p> - -<p>“It is something to disinfect, quite right,” -approved the nurse.</p> - -<p>“A salt, I think—I’m sure it was. I could -get it at the chemist——”</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” said the nurse, as if she were -speaking to a child of two years old, “the -chemist would be sure to keep it. It’s quite a -simple thing. But you would have to know -what to ask for, wouldn’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear me, yes. P—p— or did it begin -with an I?”</p> - -<p>“Perchloride of mercury,” said the nurse, -smothering a yawn.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” cried the little old lady, delighted, -“that’s it.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[Pg 77]</span></p> - -<p>“Well, now you know it, don’t you,” said -the nurse brightly, wrote “Passed” in her -notebook, and turned to the next.</p> - -<p>“How much liquid nourishment would you -give a typhoid patient at a time?”</p> - -<p>This to a village girl, who looked blank, not -to say terrified, and wrung her hands in her -lap.</p> - -<p>“I mean,” helped the questioner, “if the -patient were put on milk—a milk diet, very -usual in typhoid cases—how much milk would -you give at a time?”</p> - -<p>The girl’s face lit up.</p> - -<p>“Two quarts, miss,” she said with alacrity.</p> - -<p>“Not at a time, I think,” corrected the examiner, -quite unruffled. “Two quarts, perhaps, -in the twenty-four hours, if you could get the -patient to take it—that would be splendid. -Typhoid is a very weakening malady. It’s a -good thing to keep the strength up—if you <i>can</i>, -you know.”</p> - -<p>The Signorina heard this optimist make her -report a little later to the charming daughter -of the charming family, who had herself studied -to good purpose, but was too modest to undertake -the instructions.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[Pg 78]</span></p> - -<p>“They’ve all answered beautifully. Look at -my notebook——”</p> - -<p>It was “Passed,” “Passed,” to every name.</p> - -<p>“That <i>is</i> good,” said the gratified organizer. -“We <i>have</i> done well to-day.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>No doubt one occasionally comes across odd -specimens even among professionals. Certainly, -during a long illness with which the -Signora was afflicted a couple of years ago, -three of the five nurses who succeeded each -other in attendance upon her cannot be said to -have lightened the burthen.</p> - -<p>The first, sent for at eleven o’clock at night, -distinguished herself by instantly upsetting a -basin of hot water into the patient’s bed. As -she repeated the process next night, and greeted -the accident with shrieks of laughter, it could -scarcely be regarded as the exceptional breach -which proves the rule of excellence.</p> - -<p>The Signora, who was not supposed to be -moved at all, has, fortunately, the sense of -humour which helps one along the troublesome -way of life, in sickness as in health. She -laughed too. The nurse, who was an Irishwoman, -immediately thought herself rather a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[Pg 79]</span> -wag. She was a little, vivacious creature, ugly, -but bright-eyed. She was extremely talkative, -and perhaps the most callous person the Signora -has ever come across. It is our experience -that all nurses are talkative. If the patient -wants to make life endurable at all, the talk -must be guided into the least disagreeable -channels.</p> - -<p>The Signora’s dread is the tale of operations—“of -practice in the theatre,” which one of the -nurses of her youth told her she considered -“an agreeable little change.”—This particular -Dorcas’s favourite topic was deathbeds. The -patient was quite aware that the supreme experience -was a not at all impossible event for -herself in the near future, so she had a certain -personal interest in the matter. Anyhow, she -permitted the discourse.</p> - -<p>She heard at full length the narration of -Nurse MacDermott’s first deathbed in private -nursing. It was a horrible anecdote, which -might have formed a chapter in a realistic -novel. “A gentleman at Wimbledon it was,” -evidently of the well-to-do merchant class, and -he seemed, poor man! to have been the unhappy -father of a family as cold-blooded and heartless<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[Pg 80]</span> -as the wife in Tolstoi’s painful story of death. -But here there was no one to care, not even -a poor servant lad—not even the nurse whose -vocation it was to help him through the final -agony. She arrived at ten o’clock, and at -eleven the doctor warned the family that the -patient would not pass the night. Thereupon -everyone—the wife, two daughters, and a son—retired -to bed, and left the dying man in charge -of the newly arrived attendant, who sat down -to watch, reading a novel. About two o’clock -the moribund began to make painful efforts to -speak.</p> - -<p>“Charlie, Charlie,” he kept saying.</p> - -<p>“Ah, the poor fellow!” said the little nurse, -as she recounted the story, “he had a son who -was a scapegrace, it seems, off away somewhere, -and he wanted to send him a message. -I ran and called the wife out of her bed—what -do you think? She’d put her hair in crimpers! -Upon my word, she had; they were bristling -all round the head of her. Well, I didn’t want -to have him die on me while I was out of the -room, so I rushed back. And he made signs to -me. The power of speech was gone from him. -He wanted to write. I had a bit of pencil, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[Pg 81]</span> -there wasn’t a scrap of paper that I could see, -so there was nothing I could give him but the -fly-leaf of the book I was reading; and ah! the -poor fellow, it was only scrawls he could make -after all. And sure, he was dead before his -wife came in. And she just gave one look at him, -and, ‘I’m going back to bed,’ says she, and back -to bed she went. But it was the hair-curlers -that did for me. I never can forget them.”</p> - -<p>She was sitting at the end of the Signora’s -bed, and doubled herself up with laughter -as she spoke. We have no doubt but that she -went back to her novel, scrawled with the -dying father’s last futile effort.</p> - -<p>We never knew anyone quite so frankly -unmoved by the awful scenes it was her trade -to witness. She found vast amusement in the -wanderings of delirious patients. Whenever -she wanted to cheer the other nurses up, she -informed us, in the Home where they dwelt -together, she could always make them laugh -with little anecdotes from the typhoid ward; -and the “wanderings” from the different beds.</p> - -<p>She tried to cheer the Signora up on these -lines; and the Signora, on wakeful nights, has -to force her mind away from the “humorous”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[Pg 82]</span> -memories. She infinitely preferred the story -of Nurse McDermott’s love affairs. Like many -ugly people, the young woman believed herself -irresistible, and paid a great deal of attention -to the conservation of her charms. Once, -having settled her patient for the night, she -reappeared unexpectedly <i>en robe de chambre</i>.</p> - -<p>“I have just come to tell you how many -creams I have put on myself,” she cried to the -bewildered lady. “I know it will amuse you! -There’s the pomade for my hair, and Valaze -for my face, and the lanoline for my neck. I -do hate the mark of the collar—for evening -dress, you know—it gives one away so! And -there’s the salve for my lips, and the cold cream -for my hands, and the polish for my nails——”</p> - -<p>She went away in a hurry to a bad case -at Liphurst, jubilating because we were paying -her journey, and she would get it out of the -other lady also, and the doctor had offered -to send her in his car.</p> - -<p>Of quite another type was Nurse Vischet. -No one could say that she was unaffected by -her patient’s symptoms. They had the power -of flinging her into frenzy. Capable enough -when things were going fairly well with her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[Pg 83]</span> -charge, the first shadow of a change for the -worse produced in her what can only be -described as fury. Her face would become -convulsed, her eyes would flame, she would -knock the furniture about as she moved, and -could barely restrain herself from insulting -the sufferer.</p> - -<p>At first the Signora, who was very ill and -weaker than it is possible to describe, could -not at all understand these outbursts. “What -can have annoyed Nurse?” she would wonder -feebly to herself. But presently she understood. -It was really a mixed terror of, and -repulsion from, the sight of suffering. Why -such a woman should have become a nurse, -and how she could continue in the service -of the sick, feeling as she did, remains a -mystery. The key to her extraordinary behaviour -was given one day by a little dog, who -happened to be seized with a very common -or garden fit of choking through the nose; such -as affects little dogs with slight colds in their -heads. Nurse Vischet started screaming.</p> - -<p>“He’s all right,” said the Signora. “He -only wants his nose rubbed. Carry him over -to me if you won’t do it yourself.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[Pg 84]</span></p> - -<p>“Ugh!” shrieked Nurse Vischet. “I think -it’s dying. I wouldn’t touch it for the world!”</p> - -<p>One of the symptoms of the human patient’s -illness were agonizing headaches, during which -she could scarcely bear a ray of light in the -room. In spite of frequent requests, Nurse -Vischet always seized the occasion to turn the -ceiling electric light full on the bed, and when -at last forbidden to do so, she declined to enter -a room in which she could not see her way. -The Signora gave her the name of her “ministering -devil.” She was a rabid Socialist, and -had peculiar theories, one of which we remember -was that condemned criminals should be -handed over to the laboratories for vivisection.</p> - -<p>She had also to an acute degree the hospital -nurse’s capacity for upsetting the household. -Our butler, a hot-tempered man, happened -to drop a stray “damn” in the hearing of the -under-housemaid, and Vischet, hanging on the -landing over the kitchen regions, as she was -fond of doing, overheard the dread word. The -whole establishment was turned upside down. -Maggie was told that she “owed it to her -womanhood” not to allow foul language in her -presence. Maggie gave notice, but being,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[Pg 85]</span> -after all, an Irish girl with a sense of humour, -was as easily soothed down as she had been -worked up. Certainly, however, if we had -kept Nurse Vischet, we should have lost, one -by one, our excellent staff of servants. Besides -playing on their feelings against each other, -she had a horrible trick of telling them they -were at the last gasp upon the smallest ailment. -She did not like her patient to have symptoms; -but she encouraged the domestics to fly to her -with theirs.</p> - -<p>Irish Maggie had an indigestion. Vischet -declared her condition to be of extreme gravity. -She rushed to the Signora with her tale. -Maggie was ordered to bed. Vischet produced -an immense tin of antiphlogistine with -which to arrest “the mischief.”</p> - -<p>The daughter of the house went up to visit -the sick girl, and came down laughing to console -her mother.</p> - -<p>“You needn’t worry about Maggie,” she said, -and gave a pleasant little description of the -scene and the invalid’s remarks.</p> - -<p>“Ah, sure I’m all right, miss. It’s all along -of a bit of green apple. Sure, Mrs. MacComfort -has just given me a drop of ginger, and it’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[Pg 86]</span> -done me a lot of good already. Do you see -what Nurse is after bringing me? God bless -us all, wouldn’t I rather die itself than be -spreading that putty on me! I’ll be up for tea, -miss.”</p> - -<p>“She looks as rosy as possible,” went on the -comforter, “and ever so nice with her hair in a -great thick plait tied with ribbons, grass green, -for Ireland.”</p> - -<p>Through one recollection Vischet will always -remain endeared to the mind of her victim; -and that was for her singular pronunciation. -There was a story to which the Signora was -fond of leading up relating to por-poises, -(pronounced to rhyme with noises), and another -connected with a tor-toise, which happened to -be the pet of a recent “case.” There was also -a little tale of a dog: “I was out walking on -the embankment,” said Vischet, “and I saw a -man coming along leading two dogs—one was -a great bulldog, and the other was one of those -queer creatures you call a dashun” (the Signora -prides herself on her intelligence for instantly -discovering that the narrator meant a dachshund). -“And there was running about loose -the queerest animal ever I saw,” went on the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[Pg 87]</span> -nurse; “it had the head of a bulldog and the -legs of a dashun.”</p> - -<p>The third nurse was very different. The -daughter of an officer, who was seeking the -most genteel way to make her living, she frankly -handed over the chief of the attendance to the -Signora’s own devoted maid; which, on the -Signora becoming aware of her incapacity, she -was on the whole glad that she should do. -Nurse Fraser was a tall, handsome girl, who -was fond of sitting on the sofa at the foot of -the patient’s bed, her hands clasped round her -knees, staring into space. She was by no -means unamiable, but she was bored; and the -Signora, who rather liked her, was not averse -to screening her deficiencies. When the doctor -inquired after the temperature that had never -been taken, she herself would declare it had -been normal; and she was amused when Nurse -Fraser would next vouch for a “splendid breakfast.” -She not having appeared in her patient’s -room till noon.</p> - -<p>She made no attempt to conceal her complete -inefficiency in the treatment of the case.</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>do</i> tell me what I’m to do,” she had -cried on arrival to the district nurse who had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[Pg 88]</span> -come in as a stopgap. “I’m sure if I ever knew -anything about the illness I’ve quite forgotten.”</p> - -<p>One day—she, too, was garrulous—she informed -her patient that her mother had shares -in Kentish Mines. “If ever they work out, we -may get a lot of money, and then,” she cried, -quite unconscious of offence, “no more beastly -sick people for me!”</p> - -<p>She left us in tears. She had enjoyed herself -very much.</p> - -<p>It would seem as if our experience had been -unfortunate, and yet it is not so; for surely to -have known two perfect nurses one after another -is sufficient to re-establish the balance. Chief -of these, first and dearest, was Nurse Dove. -She was the district nurse, called in, as we -have said, in a moment of emergency. How -Miss Nightingale would have loved her! -Blessed little creature, it was enough to restore -anybody’s heart to see her come into the sick-room, -quiet, capable, tender, her eyes shining -with compassion for the sufferer and eagerness -to relieve. She was as gentle as she was skilful: -to anyone who did not know her it would -be impossible to convey the extent of the virtue -contained in this phrase. The Signora would<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[Pg 89]</span> -have placed herself, or, what means a great deal -more, her nearest and dearest, with the completest -confidence in her hands alone, in any -dangerous illness.</p> - -<p>Among the poor she was an apostle. It -seemed to have been her fate that, during her -brief stay in our village, several young mothers -found themselves in mortal extremity. She -never lost a life. We think now with longing -of what she would have been among the -wounded. Alas! we were not destined to -keep such perfection with us. It was Cupid, -not death, that robbed us of this treasure—if -Cupid, indeed, it can be called, the dingy, -doubtful imp that took her away from her -wonderful work among us. Alas! charming, -devoted, exquisite being as she was, she had -a very human side. We fear there was a touch -of “pike,” as the old gardener had it, in the -business, but in spite of all our efforts a -“coloured gentleman,” an invalid to boot, a -shifty elderly fellow with an Oriental glibness -of tongue, carried her off away with him back -to India. She has since written to us describing -her palatial abode on the borders of a lake with -a horde of servants and a private steam-launch,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[Pg 90]</span> -but we strongly suspect that if the pen was the -pen of Nurse Dove, the words were the words -of the coloured gentleman.</p> - -<p>The individual was a Baboo, a clerk in -the Madras Post Office, and had already -been invalided out of the service before he left -England. We cannot believe that the pension -of an underling in the Indian Civil Service runs -to these Rajah-like splendours. Moreover, -there was a tragic little postcard, sent to a -humble friend, which did not at all correspond -with the highflown letter above-mentioned: -“The world is a very sad place; we must all -be prepared for disappointments.”</p> - -<p>There is one thing quite certain—wherever -she goes she will be doing good.</p> - -<p>Curiously enough, the second perfect nurse -resembled her in dark pallor of skin, splendour -of raven tresses, and thoughtful brilliance of -brown eyes; but she was younger and more -timid. She will want a few more years of -experience and self-reliance before she can -develop into a Nurse Dove.</p> - -<p>But nevertheless, resembling her in countenance, -she had the same deep womanly heart -for her patients. Suffering in their sufferings,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[Pg 91]</span> -she would spare no pains to relieve them. And -she had the touch of imaginative genius and -the courage to act on her own responsibility -which made her presence in a house of sickness -a comfort and a strength. In fact, the life was -to her a vocation. She nursed to help others, -not herself. She had not grown callous through -the sight of agonies, only more urgent to be -of use.</p> - -<p>God send many such to our men in their need -to-day!</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[Pg 92]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV<br /> -“CONSIDER THE LILIES”</h2> -</div> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“For the first time the Lamb shall be dyed red....”</p> - -<p class="right"><i>Brother Johannes’ Prophecy.</i> -</p></blockquote> - -<p class="pfirst">“<span class="smcap">Consider</span> the lilies, how they grow....”</p> - -<p>The sad thing is that with us they decline -to grow. When we bought the small, high-perched -house and grounds on the Surrey -hills there is no doubt that the thought of -lilies in those terraced gardens was no unimportant -part of the programme. Oddly, the -little house had from the first an Italian look, -which we have not been slow to cultivate.</p> - -<p>Now we were haunted by a picture of an -Italian garden: a pergola—vine-covered, it was—with -two serried ranks of Madonna lilies -growing inside the arches; flagged as to pathway, -with probably fragrant tufts of mint and -thyme between the stones. In the land of its -conception this vision of shadowy green and -exquisite white, cool yet shining, as if snow<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[Pg 93]</span>-fashioned, -must have given upon some stretch -of quivering, heat-baked country.</p> - -<p>Without being able to provide such an antithesis, -the garden-plotter—she means the -dreadful quip—otherwise the mistress of the -English Villino, with a vivid and charming picture -in her mind’s eye, fondly imaged a very -effective outlook upon the great shouldering -moors that rise startlingly across the narrow -valley at the bottom of her garden. But the -lilies refused to grow.</p> - -<p>She tried them in border after border. She -set clumps of Auratums under the dining-room -between the heliotrope and the Nicotianas, -which swing such gushes of fragrance into -the little house all the hot summer days. She -got monster bulbs of Madonnas from the first -specialist in the kingdom, and put them singly -between the red and white roses against the -upper terrace wall. She ran amok upon -luscious spotted darlings; Pardelinum and -Monadelphum, Polyphyllum and Parryi, and -had them placed in a cool, shady walk against -a background of delphiniums. She thrust -Harrisi under the drawing-room bow; and the -glorious scarlet-trumpeted Thunbergianum<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[Pg 94]</span> -where they would flame in the middle distance. -They showed many varied forms of disapproval, -but were unanimous in declining to remain -with us. Some were a little more polite than -the others. The great trumpets blew fiercely -for one season, almost as with a sound of -glorious brass, in their dim nook; and a single -exquisite, perfect stem of Krameri rose intact -amid a dying sisterhood, and swayed, delicately -proud, faintly flushed, a very princess among -flowers, one long, golden September fortnight. -But such meteors only make our persistent -gloom, where lilies are concerned, the more -signal.</p> - -<p>The pergola had to go the way of so many -cherished dreams. Yet there is an exception. -With just an occasional threat of disease, there -is one border favoured by the tiger-lily. She -is not a very choice creature, of course; she -has neither the fragrance nor the mystic grace -of her cousins; but such as she is, she is -welcome in our midst. On our third terrace -there is a stretch of turf, curved outwards like -a half-moon, against a new yew hedge: we -call it the Hemicycle. In spring it is a jocund -pleasaunce for crocus and scylla and flowering<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[Pg 95]</span> -trees—almond, <i>Pyrus floribunda</i>, and peach; in -summer the weeping standards hold the field, -set between the pots of climbing geraniums. -That is on the outward curve. A rough wall, -overhung with Dorothy Perkins, clothed from -the base with Rêve d’Or, runs straightly on the -inner side. It is in the border underneath this -wall that the tiger-ladies condescend to us.</p> - -<p>Last year, by a somewhat accidental development -of seeds, we had a marvellous post-impressionist -effect along the line, for all the -stocks there planted, between the Tigrinum, -turned out to be purple and mauve. They -grew tall, with immense heads of bloom: drawn -up by the wall, we think. Over the orange -and violet row the Dorothy Perkins showered -masses of vivid pink. A narrow ribbon of -bright pale yellow violas ran between the -border and the turf. To connect this mass of -startling colour, an intermediate regiment of -lavender-bushes and the cream hues of the -Rêve d’Or roses against their grey-green foliage -acted very successfully. It is not a scheme -that one would perhaps have tried deliberately, -but we could not regret it. It does one good -sometimes to steep the senses in such a fine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[Pg 96]</span> -tangle of elementary colour. The shock is -bracing, as of a sea wave; like the march of -a military band, we could enjoy it, in the open -air and sunshine, just where it was placed; -away from the house, with its distant background -of fir-trees and moors.</p> - -<p>Yet it is a mistake to use the word “post-impressionist” -in connection with our border; -for that movement, with all its pretended revival -of the old pagan spirit of joy, was only -an effort to conceal fundamental misery. The -tango is no dance of gods and nymphs, but a -dreadful merry-go-round of lost souls. The -post-impressionist painting is not a flag of -radiant defiance—youth challenging the unbelieved -gloom of life—but a kind of outbreak -as of disease: something spotty, fungoid, shaped -like germs under the microscope.</p> - -<p>Let us come back to the lilies. Come out of -the fever-room into the garden.</p> - -<p>We once tried to make a field of lilies. Our -lowest garden has a different kind of soil -fortunately from the greensand which makes -the upper terrace beds such rapacious devourers -of manure and fertilizers, and all the other -necessary and unfragrant riches. The Signora<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[Pg 97]</span> -took thought with herself and made a kind of -nursery plantation at one end of the vegetable -garden, to the meek despair of our gardener, -who, like all other gardeners, cherishes a -cabbage-patch with a passionate preference. -She invested in a good three thousand bulbs, -among others, hundreds of Candidums. Was -it a punishment for her extravagance? Many -years of life and experience have taught her -that where we sin we are punished, by as -inevitable a law as that of cause and effect. Or -was it just the cursed spite of those wandering -devils who, Indian and Irish folk alike believe, -are always hovering ready to pounce upon -success? Whether justice or malice, it is immaterial; -the result was disaster. They had -sent up straight spikes of vivid green, untouched -by a trace of the horrible bilious complexion -that bespeaks the prevalent disease, -when the May frost came and laid them flat -and seared.</p> - -<p>After all, they would hardly have been much -use in that especial spot, as far as garden -perspective is concerned; and except for the -hall and staircase lilies are not indoor flowers. -The Signora loves the warm fragrance to gush<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[Pg 98]</span> -up diffused through the house, but in any -room it becomes overwhelming, almost gross. -She does not even care for them pictorially at -close quarters, meaning here the larger kind, -including Candidum. They are essentially -open-air flowers; they need the sun and the -wind about them, background and space. It -seems almost blasphemous to say so, but on -the nearer sight their appearance becomes like -their scent, a little coarse.</p> - -<p>On an altar, once again, they assume their -proper proportions; and, carved in stone, they -are decorative and satisfying. But the Arum -lily, which is not a lily at all, long-stemmed, in -a vase, with its own gorgeous leaves about it, -is something to sit and gaze at with ever-increasing -content!</p> - -<p>The nearest thing to a field of lilies the -Signora ever saw was a whole gardenful -at the back of a little house in Brussels. She -was only a child at the time, a weary, bored, -depressed small person at that, in the uncongenial -surroundings of a detested private -school. But one Sunday morning, for some -unremembered reason, she was taken after -Mass by the second mistress (an ugly, angry<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[Pg 99]</span> -woman, inappropriately baptized Estelle), and -brought out of the dust of the scorching street -into this, to all appearance trivial, not to say -sordid, little house.</p> - -<p>“Would Mademoiselle like to look at my -garden?” said its owner.</p> - -<p>She was old and wizened and yellow-faced; -but she had kind eyes, and it was certainly a -kindly thought.</p> - -<p>The whole of that garden, some forty by -twenty feet, was filled with Madonna lilies, -growing like grass in a field, with only a -narrow path whereby to walk round them.</p> - -<p>“Consider the lilies how they grow.... -Not Solomon in all his glory was arrayed as -one of these!”</p> - -<p>The child that saw them was too unyeared -and ignorant to apply these wonderful words -if she had ever heard them. She could not -feel her pleasure sharpened by the exquisite -sensation of having the vision phrased in -language as beautiful as itself. But she has -carried away the memory, as sacredly as -Wordsworth that of his daffodils—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“I gazed—and gazed—but little thought</div> - <div class="verse indent0">What wealth the show to me had brought:</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[Pg 100]</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“For oft, when on my couch I lie</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In vacant or in pensive mood,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They flash upon that inward eye</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Which is the bliss of solitude,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And then my heart with pleasure fills</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And dances with the Daffodils.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Wordsworth, notably among poets, has the -gift of expressing the inexpressible, of clothing -in language some fleeting sensation which -seems, of its exquisiteness and illusiveness, -undefinable. There are lines of his that follow -one like a phrase of music.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“The sounding cataract haunted me like a passion.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“The light that never was on sea or land.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“... Old, unhappy, far-off things,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And battles long ago.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The first effect of any sight of surpassing -beauty, indeed of any strong emotion of admiration, -is an instant desire of expression; then -comes the pain of inarticulateness to most of us—there -is a swelling of the soul and no outlet! -That is why, when someone else may have -perfectly said what for us is inexpressible, -there is a double joy in discoveries.</p> - -<p>To wander from our lilies to flowers of -speech and description: the perfect phrase has<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[Pg 101]</span> -in itself a delight that almost equals that of the -perfect thought.</p> - -<p>For those who, like ourselves, work in words, -however humbly—poor stone-breakers compared -to such as make the marble live—the -mere art in the setting of the words themselves -has a fascination of its own. It is -not only the idea—it is sometimes not even -the idea that enchants. There is a magic -of cadence alone. Sometimes, indeed, just -a conjunction of two words seems to make -a chord.</p> - -<p>To go further, a single word may ring out -like a note upon the mind. The Italian <i>Amore</i>, -for instance—who can deny that it echoes richly -and nobly? It is a sound of gravity and -passion mixed. It is like the first vibrating -stroke of a master-hand on the ’cello. Did not -the resonance of the word itself go as far -as the meaning to inspire Jacopone with his -ecstatic hymn wherein he plays upon it like -a musician upon a note which calls, insists, -repeats itself, for ever dominates or haunts the -theme?—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Amore, amore, che si m’hai ferito</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Altro che amore non posso gridare:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Amore, amore, teco so unito....”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[Pg 102]</span></p> -<p class="noindent">You could not take the word “love” and ring -the changes in this way, not even upon the -kindred-sounding <i>Amour</i>, losing in its “ou” -exactly the tone of solemnity that makes the -Italian equivalent so royal.</p> - -<p>In a delightful series of musical sketches -recently published, the author remarks, speaking -of Tschaikowski’s “Symphonie Pathétique”:</p> - -<p>“For those who have the score there is an -added joy in the titles, ‘Incalzando,’ ‘feroce,’ -‘affretando,’ ‘saltando,’ ‘con dolcezza e flebile,’ -‘con tenerezza e devozione’; it makes most -interesting reading. But the most splendid -title of all is that of the last movement, ‘Adagio -Lamentoso’—can’t you hear it? What a lot -our language misses by the clipped and oxytone -‘lament’! Even ‘lamentation’ is a mere shadow -beside the full roll of the Latin tongues, the -ineffable melody that sounds in ‘lamentabile -regnum.’”</p> - -<p>We do not, however, agree with this pleasant -writer on the subject of “clipped and oxytone -lament.” To us the English word is infinitely -keener reaching than any added vowel could -make it! “Lamentable” we grant to be pompous -and middle Victorian. It is eloquent of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[Pg 103]</span> -the conventional mourning of the funeral mute, -while <i>lamentoso</i> has to our ear a horrible wobble -like the howl of a lonely dog.</p> - -<p>We defy the most poetical and profound -scholar to render in any other tongue the <i>guai</i> -of Dante. Who could give the value of the -hopeless cry of sorrow culminating in that line -of which <i>guai</i> is the central wail!</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Cosi vid’ io venir, traendo guai</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ombre portate della detta briga.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>This is not to insist on the obvious that -Italian is a musical language and Dante a star -apart. Every language that has served literature -will be found to hold its own words of -magic. It is not the moment to quote German, -but we think <i>Trauer</i> tolls across the senses like -the passing-bell, while the French <i>Glas</i> falls -upon the soul with a frozen misery indescribable -outside itself.</p> - -<p>Those fortunate scholars who have mastered -as much of the secrets of Greek as the modern -can master, tell us that it is impossible to -convey in any other tongue the richness, the -value, the wide meaning and exquisite shades -of the ancient Greek language. We know that -they had words in each of which a whole<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[Pg 104]</span> -picture could be set before the mind. To read -Gilbert Murray’s fascinating “Ancient Greek -Literature” is, however, to find a revelation -which severer and more extensive writings -fail to convey. A poet, he alone has caught -and interpreted the echo of those lyres still -ringing across the ages. And he, too, computes -his impressions in terms of music. “Many -lovers of Pindar,” he says, “agree that the -things which stay in one’s mind, stay not as -thoughts but as music.”</p> - -<p>Of course, the Greeks wedded words and -music after a fashion unknown to us, who -merely set words to be sung to music in our -operas and songs. It is a lost art.</p> - -<p>But it seems conceivable that there may be -an actual music hidden in language itself, something -that the senses of the mind apprehend, -quite apart from the idea incorporated. The -late Sir Henry Irving, just before his famous -production of Macbeth, discussing his intention -of introducing music at the moments of crisis, -defended this much criticized point by saying: -“I mean to do it, because music carries the -soul beyond words, even beyond thought.”</p> - -<p>We are not sure that he was right, except in so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[Pg 105]</span> -far as the appeal to the gallery was concerned, -which, after all, every actor-manager, however -artistic and perceptive, is bound to consider -first of all. In fact, we are quite certain that -he was wrong. The music of Shakespeare -should not have been overlaid by any sound -of violin or trumpet.</p> - -<p>We can conceive no sorrow of muted strings -which could intensify the poignancy of Macduff’s -cry: “All my pretty ones, did you say all?” A -cry, too, so spontaneous in its truth and simplicity -that, according to a current phrase in -the theatrical profession, the part of Macduff -acts itself.</p> - -<p>Who would want to add more melody to the -following</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“That strain again—it had a dying fall:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet south</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That breathes upon a bank of violets,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Stealing, and giving odour....”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Will anyone deny that there is music in these -lines, that the singular impression produced by -them is due not only to the perfection of a -thought perfectly expressed, to the scent of -violets exquisitely and instantly evoked by the -cunning of genius, but to the actual words?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[Pg 106]</span> -The phrase rises and falls. Read or heard, -it is the same, a strain of melody.</p> - -<p>To one of the writers the two words, -“Scarlet Verbena,” have always produced the -impression as of a trumpet blast. Hoffmann -used to say that he never smelt a red carnation -without hearing the winding of a horn.</p> - -<p>No doubt the senses are indefinably intermixed.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Rings Eden thro’ the budded quicks,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O tell me where the senses mix,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O tell me where the passions meet”—</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">cries Tennyson to the nightingale.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, must one not believe that there -are distinct senses of the soul and mind which -are called into action by the spoken or written -word? It is trite to say there are moments -when one is gripped by the throat by a mere -phrase, not, mind you, because of its dramatic -force, but rather from some inherent spell of -beauty or sorrow. There are others when one -seems to lay hold of a set of words; as it were, -to be able to touch and feel them as though -they had been modelled.</p> - -<p>And again, who has not felt an actual pain, as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[Pg 107]</span> -of a delicate blade being thrust into the heart, -by some phrase of scarcely analyzable pathos. -Heine had that weapon. The art of it, we -suppose, is that of extreme simplicity combined -with selection, but the emotion is quite incommensurate -with the importance of the theme, -the value of the expressed idea.</p> - -<p>To use another simile, it is like a wailing air -on some primitive instrument, which by its -very artlessness pierces to the marrow of the -consciousness.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Ces doux airs du pays, au doux rythme obsesseur,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dont chaque note est comme une petite sœur,”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">as Rostand has it.</p> - -<p>Think of the effect in “Tristran” of the -shepherd’s pipe at the beginning of the last -act.</p> - -<p>It comes to this after all, that however one -may study, however perfect the technique of -writing, however one may inspire oneself from -the springs of genius, it is artlessness, not art, -that reaches home. It might be truer to say that -it takes a consummate art to touch the right note -of artlessness; yet we all know how curiously -we can sometimes be affected by the words -that fall from childish lips.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[Pg 108]</span></p> - -<p>A Belgian babe of two, a dimpled, radiant -creature, seemingly untouched by the storm -which had flung her from her own luxurious -nurseries into a bare English lodging, was -found, two days after her arrival in exile, kissing -and talking to the little crucifix which -hung round her neck. Her mother bent to -listen.</p> - -<p>“Dear Jesus,” the child was saying, “poor -wounded soldier!”</p> - -<p>The profound and mystic consolation of the -link between the human agony and the Divine -had somehow dawned upon the infant mind, -and found this tender expression.</p> - -<p>A little boy we knew said to his mother one -evening as she tucked him up in his cot:</p> - -<p>“Oh, mammie, I die a little every night, -I love you so.” Here, with an exquisite directness, -the inevitable pain of a deep tenderness -is laid bare by the lips of innocence.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It is this quality of simplicity and directness—yes, -we are not afraid to say it, of innocence—which -makes the stories of our soldiers so -infinitely touching.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[Pg 109]</span></p> - -<p>“Tell daddie and mammie,” said a dying -Irish lad to the comrade who bent over him -to take his last message, “’twas against their -will I ’listed; tell them I’m not sorry now I -did it.”</p> - -<p>No fine-sounding phrase, no stirring oration, -could more piercingly set forth the triumph of -the ultimate sacrifice of patriotism. <i>Dulce et -decorum est pro patria mori.</i></p> - -<p>Our men are like children in their gaiety—pleased -with little things as a child with a toy; -joking, making believe, making a game out of -their very danger; unconscious of their own -heroism, as the best kind of boy, who risks his -neck for a nest; blindly confident in their -leaders. If it had not been for this complete -trust in what their officers told them, could the -retreat from Mons have ended in anything but -disaster? Yet we know that—like children—whole -regiments burst into tears when ordered -to give up the positions they had won.</p> - -<p>A war correspondent ends a terrible account -of the further withdrawal from Tournai by a -description of a night in a barn where scatterers -had taken refuge.</p> - -<p>“And all night long,” he says, “there were<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[Pg 110]</span> -the sobs of a big corporal of artillery, weeping -for his horses.”</p> - -<p>In the throes of the great struggle, this side -of humanity—call it the childish, if you will, we -have Divine authority for believing that it is -akin to the spiritual—asserts itself, nay, becomes -paramount. To be more precise, the -real man is stripped of his conventions, sophistries, -and pretences. Only the things that -matter are the things that count.</p> - -<p>When the Emperor Frederick was dying, his -last message was this: “Let my people return -to their faith and simplicity of life.”</p> - -<p>If he had been spared to his own land, it -would be a different world to-day. Under the -dreadful test of war the German soldiery as a -mass, indeed the whole people, have sunk -below the level of the brute. It is the English -who have come back to faith and simplicity.</p> - -<p>The Rev. W. Forest, Catholic Chaplain of -the Expeditionary Force, writes: “It is true to -say that the German Kaiser is fighting a community -of saints—converted, if you like—but -with not a mortal sin scarcely to be found -among them.” The special correspondent of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[Pg 111]</span> -the <i>Sunday Times</i> has a touching testimony in -a recent issue to men of all denominations: -“To be at the front,” he declares, “is to breathe -the air of heroes. The Church of England -chaplains, in accordance with the general wish -among the men, are giving Early Communion -Services. It is a marvellous sight,” continues -the journalist, “to see the throngs of soldiers -kneeling in the dawn, the light on their upturned -faces. They go forth strengthened, -ready for anything, feeling that the presence of -Christ is amongst them.”</p> - -<p>With our French Allies, too, the spirit of -faith has reawakened. An English officer -writes to the <i>Evening Standard</i>: “The French -soldiers go into the trenches, each with his -little medal of Our Lady hung round his neck—they -pray aloud in action, not in fear, but -with a high courage and a great trust.”</p> - -<p>“On All Souls’ Day,” he adds, “I saw the -village <i>curé</i> come out and bless the graves of -our poor lads. The graves, mark, of rough -Protestant soldiers, decorated with chrysanthemums -by the villagers. These poor dead -were blessed, and called the faithful departed, -and wept over and prayed for.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[Pg 112]</span></p> - -<p>“And thine own soul a sword shall pierce, -that out of many hearts thoughts may be -revealed.”</p> - -<p>If one may reverently paraphrase Simeon’s -prophecy to the mother of the Man of Sorrows, -can one not say that the soul of the world -is pierced to-day, and the thoughts of the -nations revealed?</p> - -<p>A neutral diplomat, recently arrived in -England from Vienna, via Paris, has told us -of the singular indifference of the Austrian -capital to the tragedy in which her own sons -are taking part. “Vienna,” he says, “has -shown only one moment of emotion, and that -was when the little breakfast rolls were condemned. -No one cares in Vienna. Life is—how -shall I say?—it is all one ‘Merry Widow.’ -It is not that they have any confidence in their -own army. They shrug their shoulders and -spread out their hands, but in Germany—they -have the faith of the hypnotized! Nothing -can happen to Germany, therefore Austria is -safe.”</p> - -<p>Recently an order was issued to have the -cafés closed at one o’clock in the morning. It -was not agreeable to the public, but they have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[Pg 113]</span> -contrived a substitute for their <i>petits pains</i> -which is some slight compensation.</p> - -<p>“I shall return,” he added pensively—“I shall -return with how much regret to the indecent -carnival that is Vienna!”</p> - -<p>His impression of France was very different. -He could not sufficiently express his astonishment -at the change that had come over the -country. The dignity of France, the quiet -strength of France, the spiritual confidence of -France! In the army was only one apprehension: -lest they should not be upheld by -the civilians in their determination to fight to -the very end. The churches were crowded; men -and women have alike returned to the faith of -their fathers. There was no unseemly merrymaking -there, no unworthy attempt in café or -theatre to forget the agonizing struggle.</p> - -<p>At a recent entertainment in a very poor -quarter a pretty girl dressed as France appeared -arm-in-arm with an actor got up like a British -soldier, and there was immense applause; but -when she started the tango with her companion -she was hissed off the stage.</p> - -<p>As for Paris: “Tenez,” said our friend, in -conclusion, “I will give you a little instance.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[Pg 114]</span> -I was walking down the Rue de la Paix, when -I heard a woman laugh out loud. Everyone in -the street turned round to look at her.”</p> - -<p>Of the thoughts of Germany what can be -said? They need no pointing out. They are -written in blood and fire from end to end of -Belgium, and in a long stretch of once smiling -France; in Servia, carried out by Hungarians -and Austrians, under German orders; in -Poland. They are written in the German -Press for all the world to read: blasphemy, -brag, bluster, hysterical hatred, insanity of -futile threat, shameless asseveration of self-evident -falsehood. “Do nations go mad?” -an American paper has asked. Germany -presents the appalling spectacle of a nation -run to evil. It is not only the war party, the -soldiery, the press, the learned professors. It -is the very population itself. The soul of -Germany is revealing its thoughts.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The lily-garden in the little Brussels by-street -on the way to the Bois de la Cambre, if -it is still in existence, must have ceased blooming -before the Germans entered Brussels.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[Pg 115]</span> -Otherwise it is not likely that it should have -escaped the fury of destruction which seizes -them at the sight of anything pure and noble -and beautiful.</p> - -<p>“Consider the lilies.”</p> - -<p>We know how the Uhlan officers deliberately -rode backwards and forwards over the blooming -flower-beds in the great <i>Place</i> upon the -day of their entrance march.</p> - -<p>We know how they stabled their horses in -the world-famous conservatories of the Palace -of Laecken—a custom they have practised at -nearly every château in the country; how in -that orgy which will for ever disgrace the name -of the Duke of Brunswick the portrait of the -young Queen of the Belgians, that royal flower -of courage and devotion, was unspeakably insulted.</p> - -<p>We know how whole regiments have trampled -over straggling children in the village streets—these -little flower blossoms, as the Japanese -call them.</p> - -<p>And those humble lilies of the cloister that -have fallen into sacrilegious grasp, we know -how they have been considered; how Rheims, -with its hawthorn porch, blossoming in stone<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[Pg 116]</span> -flower of all the Christian shrines of all the -world, stately lily of the days of faith, has -fared at the hand of the German.</p> - -<p>“<i>Ich bin der Geist der stets verneint</i>,” says the -Spirit of Evil in Goethe’s “Faust.”</p> - -<p>It has always seemed a marvellous definition; -the negation of good, the spirit that ever denies. -But the demon of present-day Germany comes -from a deeper pit than Goethe’s intellectual -mocking devil. It is the spirit that forever -destroys.</p> - -<p>The struggle has not brutalized but spiritualized -our men. Through the appalling conditions -in which they fight they reach out to the -mystic side of things. When they speak of -death they call it “going west.” It is the old, -old Celtic thought of the Isle beyond the Sunset. -They “talk of God a great deal,” as the soldiers’ -letters tell us. The Irish Guards fell on -their knees at Compiègne before making their -famous attack up the hill. As they charged, -“our men crossed the plain, hurrahing and -singing, while many of them had a look of -absolute joy on their faces.” They have their -visions. A soldier lying wounded and helpless -on the field and gazing agonized on the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[Pg 117]</span> -breach in our line, saw the Germans rush and -then fall back; and beheld St. George standing -in his armour in the gap; then heard the Lancastrians -cry, as they dashed on: “St. George -for England!”</p> - -<p>What yet more august revelation did he -have, that dying French sergeant, who, looking -profoundly upon the surgeon who was ministering -to him, replied to his encouragement:</p> - -<p>“Mon Major, je suis déjà avec Dieu,” and -instantly expired.</p> - -<p>Every regiment must have its emblem; the -minds of the men turn naturally to the symbolic.</p> - -<p>“I’d like to look at the colours,” said a -mortally wounded gunner to his Captain.</p> - -<p>“Look at the guns, my man, those are the -gunners’ colours!”</p> - -<p>And the boy was uplifted to look, till his eye -glazed.</p> - -<p>We do not take the colours into action now, -but we know what the Standard means to our -Allies. It seems a pity that political revolution -should have displaced the ancient lilies of -France. There is something so grand in tradition. -Dignity of noble ancestry is not confined<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[Pg 118]</span> -to man alone. Houses possess it, and lands, -and surely nations. Are not our soldiers to-day -the heirs of the yeomen and bowmen of -Agincourt?</p> - -<p>“O God of battles, steel my soldiers’ hearts!” -is the prayer on the lips of all of us; and we feel -through all, even as Harry the King, the same -proud confidence in the good blood that cannot -lie. Shall not those who stay at home “hold -their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks” of -Mons, or Ypres, or—of those glories yet to -come?</p> - -<p>Thus, in a way, it seems to us that if France -fights in her body under the Tricolour, in her -soul she is fighting under the Lilies. It is the -old France again, the France of the days of -faith. In one of Joan of Arc’s visions she saw -Charlemagne and St. Louis kneeling before the -throne, pleading for the land they had loved -and served. She who carried the Oriflamme -may now form the third in that shining company -and look down, perhaps, considering the -lilies growing out of the field of blood. Perhaps -she may say: “Not Solomon in all his glory -was arrayed as one of these.”</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[Pg 119]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V<br /> -DEATH IN THE LITTLE GARDEN</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent34">“O Saul, it shall be</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A face like my face that receives thee, a man like to me</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Thou shalt love and be loved by for ever! A hand like this hand</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand.”</div> -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Robert Browning.</span> -</p> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="pfirst"><i><span class="smcap">March</span>.</i>—We bought the small place on the -Surrey highlands and furnished it out of Rome; -and set statues and cypresses and vases overflowing -with flowers about the quaint terraces -that run down to the valley; and we have a bit -of Italy between pine-woods and wild moorland. -We have called it the Villino.</p> - -<p>The idea started as a week-end cottage. -Gradually, however, we came to pay the flying -visits to the London house and spend the most -of our time in the country. Since the war -began we have settled altogether on the span -of earth which has become so endeared to us. -Never was any home established in such a -spirit of lightheartedness.</p> - -<p>The new property has been our toy; something -to laugh at while we enjoy it. It is absurd -and apart and beloved and attractive; and though<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[Pg 120]</span> -the great shadow that rose in August overcast -the brightness of the Villino garden and all its -prospects, we could yet look out upon the -peace and the fairness and take comfort therefrom; -turn with relief to the growing things -and all the innocent interests that surround -and centre in a country life.</p> - -<p>It never dawned upon us that the garden -itself could become a point of tragedy; that -every pushing spike of bulb and every well-pruned -rose-tree would have their special pang -for our hearts, yet so it is. Never again shall we -be able to look with the eyes of pure enjoyment -on terrace and border, rose-arch and woodland.</p> - -<p>Adam, the kindly gardener of our special -plot of earth, has been struck down; hurled, -by an inscrutable decree of Providence in the -zenith of his activities, from life to death.</p> - -<p>He was as much a part of the Villino as we -ourselves; a just and kindly man, not yet forty; -one of the handsomest of God’s creatures, and the -most gentle-hearted. We cannot see the meaning -of such a blow; we can only bow the head.</p> - -<p>“Doesn’t it seem hard,” cried the daughter -of the Villino, “that in these days there should -be one unnecessary widow!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[Pg 121]</span></p> - -<p>The last time the Signora saw him alive -was about a week before the tragedy. He -had come into the funny little Roman drawing-room—all -faint gay tints and flamboyant Italian -gilt carved wood—carrying a large pot of arum -lilies. He scarcely looked like an Englishman -with his dark, rich colouring and raven hair -prematurely grey; though he was so all-English, -of England’s best, in his heart and mind.</p> - -<p>A little Belgian child, on a visit to us, -rushed up to him, chattering incomprehensibly. -She is just three and very friendly; something -in Adam’s appearance must have attracted her, -for she left everything she had been playing -with to run to him the moment he appeared.</p> - -<p>This is how the Signora will always remember -him, standing, big and gentle, looking down -at the child with those kind, kind eyes.</p> - -<p>There was never anyone so good to little -animals. We used to say he was a true if -unconscious brother of St. Francis, and loved -all God’s small folk. Never was a sick cat or -dog but Adam would have the nursing of it.</p> - -<p>One would see him walking about the garden -wheeling his barrow, with a great black Persian -coiled round his neck like a boa. Nearly two<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[Pg 122]</span> -years ago a little daughter was born to him -here, to his great joy. She was always in her -father’s arms during the free hours of the day; -and not the least piteous incident of the tragedy -was the way this baby, just beginning to babble -a few words, kept calling for “Daddy, daddy,” -while he lay next door in the tiny sitting-room -he had taken such pleasure in, like a marble -effigy, smiling, beautiful, awful, for ever deaf -to her appeal.</p> - -<p>He had been slightly ailing since an attack -of influenza; but on the morning of his death -he said to his wife that he felt as if he could -do the work of six men that day. The kind of -cruel light-heartedness which the Scotch call -“being fey” was upon him. Like Romeo -before the great catastrophe, “his bosom’s -lord sat lightly on his throne.” Strange freaks -of presentiment never to be explained on this -side of the grave! There are those who feel -the shadow of approaching fatality cloud their -spirits—we have heard a hundred instances -of certain forebodings of death during the -present war—but this mysterious gaiety of -the doomed is rarer and more awful. Yet -Adam must have had his secret sad warnings<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[Pg 123]</span> -too, for his poor wife found, to her astonishment, -his insurance cards, his accounts made -up to the end of the week on the Thursday of -which he died, the ambulance badge he had -been so proud of—all laid ready to her hand. -He had set his house in order before the -summons came. We have every reason to -think that in a deeper, graver sense he was -equally prepared.</p> - -<p>“‘Whatever time my Saviour calls me, I shall -be ready to go....’ Often and often,” Mrs. -Adam told us, as her tears fell, “he has said -those words to me.”</p> - -<p>Like many another active, hard-working man, -the thought of failing health, debility, old age, -was abhorrent to him.</p> - -<p>“He never could have borne a long illness.” -Thus the widow tries to console herself—pitiful -scraps of self-administered comfort with which -poor humanity always attempts to parry the -horror of an unmitigated tragedy!</p> - -<p>There are strange secrets between the soul -and God. Among the many wonders of the -City of Light will be the simple solving of the -riddles that have been so dark and tormenting -to our earthly minds. From the very beginning<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[Pg 124]</span> -of the war this honest Englishman had wanted -to go out and serve his country. He was over -age. His wife and two children depended on -his labours, yet the longing never left him.</p> - -<p>“I doubt but I’ll have to go yet,” was a -phrase constantly on his lips.</p> - -<p>He had joined the Ambulance Corps and, -indeed, was on his way to that errand of mercy -when he was stricken. Did he in those inner -communes of the soul with God breathe forth -his desire to give his life for his country, and -was it somehow mystically accomplished? For -death smote him and he fell and lay in his blood, -as a soldier might. Who knows that the sacrifice -was not accepted?</p> - -<p>It was terrible for us—it seemed an unbelievable -addition to her burthen of sorrow -for the woman who loved him—but for him it -may have been the glory and the crown.</p> - -<p>When all human aid is unavailing, when -everything that science can do to assist or -relieve has been accomplished and fellow-creatures -must stand aside and watch the -relentless law of nature accomplish itself, then -the value of religion is felt, as perhaps never -before, even by the most devout.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[Pg 125]</span></p> - -<p>Had poor Adam but belonged to the Old -Faith the call for the priest would have been -more urgent yet than the call for the doctor; -we would have had the consolation of hearing -the last Absolution pronounced over the unconscious -form. The soul would have taken -flight from the anointed body, strengthened -by the ultimate rites; the child of the Church -would have gone forth from the arms of the -Church—from the arms of the earthly mother, -to the mercy and justice of the heavenly Father.</p> - -<p>We did what we could, his own clergyman -being away. Never were we more impressed -with the value of the Sacrament of Extreme -Unction. It is all very well to say that we -must live so as to be ready to die; that as the -tree grows so shall it fall. Here are trite -axioms that will not stand a moment before -the facts of life and the needs of humanity. -They make no account of the mercy of the -Creator on one side nor of the weakness of the -failing spirit on the other. They forget the -penitent thief on the cross, bidden to enter -into Paradise upon the merit of a single cry. If -the Church of our ancestors watches anxiously -over the whole existence of her children; if she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[Pg 126]</span> -hovers about the cradle, how does she not hang -over the deathbed to catch the faintest sigh of -repentance; nay, how does she not “prevent” -the least effort, pouring forth graces and supplications, -anointing, absolving, pursuing the -departing spirit beyond the very confines of -the world, sublimely audacious, to the throne -of God itself!</p> - -<p>She has caught the precious soul, for whom -the Lord died, before the infant mind was even -aware of its own existence. She is not going -to be robbed of her treasure at the end, if she -can help it.</p> - -<p>But our poor, dying Adam was not of this -fold, and could have no such aid and sanctification -for his passing. Even his afflicted wife -quailed from the fruitless agony of witnessing -his last moments. “Since I couldn’t do anything, -ma’am, it’s more than I can bear.”</p> - -<p>She went down to her cottage at the bottom -of the garden to prepare a fit resting-place for -the body, while in the garage the soul of her -dearest accomplished its final and supreme act -on earth.</p> - -<p>We read the great prayers to ourselves—those -wonderful prayers commensurate in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[Pg 127]</span> -dignity and grandeur to the awful moment. -We cried upon the Angels and Archangels, -upon the Thrones, the Cherubim and Seraphim; -we bade the Patriarchs and the Prophets, the -Doctors and Evangelists, the Confessors and -Martyrs, the Holy Virgins and all the Saints -of God to rush to his assistance. We supplicated -that his place this day should be in peace -and his abode in Holy Sion; we cast his sins -upon the multitudes of the Divine mercies, and -strong through the merits of Christ our appeal -rose into triumph. With confidence we summoned -the noble company of the Angels to -meet him, the court of the Apostles to receive -him, the army of glorious Martyrs to conduct -him, the joyful Confessors to encompass him, -the choir of blessed Virgins to go before him. -We conjured Christ, his Saviour, to appear to -him with a mild and cheerful countenance. -And, with this great name upon our lips, we -“compassed him about with angels, so that the -infernal spirits should tremble and retire into -the horrid confusion of eternal night.”</p> - -<p>All the household, except the very young -servants, knelt round him praying silently, -since we did not dare obtrude our own tenets<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[Pg 128]</span> -about the deathbed of another faith. The -Master stood with his hand on his dying -servant’s head; and so the end came very -peacefully.</p> - -<p>A belated curate appeared at the cottage as -the daughter of the house went down to tell -Mrs. Adam that all was over; but he fled -before the sad burthen was carried in.</p> - -<p>We had often noticed it before, but never so -forcibly, this shying away of some excellent -religious people from any contemplation of the -immediate experience of the soul after death. -Beyond sentences of comfort as stereotyped as -they are vague, which place the departed “safe -in the arms of Jesus,” one would almost believe -that the average man had no very vivid sense -of the future life at all. How otherwise explain -the remarks, so frequently heard, that a sudden -death is such a desirable end; that it was “such -a comfort so-and-so didn’t know he was going”; -how explain the attitude at the sick-bed, where -the sufferer to the last is deluded with false -hopes that he may be spared—what? the knowledge -that he is summoned to the house of God, -the last opportunity of preparation.</p> - -<p>Even when Mrs. Adam’s clergyman came to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[Pg 129]</span> -see her, chief among his consolations was the -remark, made in all sincerity: “That’s the kind -of death I should prefer to die.”</p> - -<p>Good Adam was ready to go, we know that; -but can any man with a true sense of his own -soul bring himself to wish to be taken in like -manner? It is, after all, to wish for one’s self -the death one would want for one’s dog. Without -even belonging to a Church where the last -stage is hallowed and made a culminating act -of precious resignation and the highest virtue, -it seems to us that the instinctive nobility of -man should rebel against the craven doctrine -that death is a thing to be huddled through, a -step to be taken drugged and blindfolded, that -the consciousness is to be chloroformed against -the anguish of dissolution. It is to rob -humanity of its supremest quality—the triumph -of the spirit over the flesh, the noble acceptance -of our lot, the dignity of the last renunciation.</p> - -<p>Browning, the most virile of our poets, cries:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The best and the last!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forebore,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And bade me creep past.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">The heroes of old.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[Pg 130]</span></p> -<p>Yet this curious evasion of the inevitable is -only the natural outcome of a looseness of -theology which, while it admits the dogma of -right and wrong, of free will and human responsibility, -hurls the perfect and the imperfect, -the saint and the sinner alike, into the same -heaven without an instant’s transition. As -very few now believe in hell, it is no unfair -conclusion to draw that the mere fact of death -seems, in the eyes of most people, to qualify -the soul for eternal bliss. It is idle to ask what -becomes of the generally accepted doctrine of -moral responsibility, why, if all are alike and -certain to be saved, anyone should put himself -to the disagreeable task of resisting temptation, -much less strive after perfection here below; -but failure to provide help for the dying is the -direct consequence of the denial of future -expiation.</p> - -<p>“What man is there among you who, if his -son shall ask bread, will he reach him a -stone?”</p> - -<p>The Viaticum, the bread of life, is denied to -the passing soul, and the draught of comfort of -devout prayer withheld from the beloved in -the fires of expiation; but the tombstone will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[Pg 131]</span> -be considered with loving thought, and erected -over the insensible dust.</p> - -<p>The Old Faith shows a profound knowledge -of and tenderness for the mere human side in its -hour of anguish, even while providing for the -paramount needs of the soul. There is one, -one only comfort for the bereaved—to be able -to help still, and of that they are deprived.</p> - -<p>“It isn’t as if I could do any good,” said poor -Mrs. Adam, when she turned away from her -husband’s deathbed.</p> - -<p>She had the power to do such infinite good if -she had only known it. What prayer could be -so far-reaching as that of the cry of the wife for -the chosen one, from whom God alone reserved -Himself the right to part her? What act of -resignation could be so meritorious as that of -her who was making the sacrifice of her all?</p> - -<p>“I sent down to tell them to ring the passing-bell,” -said the widow. She was eager to accomplish -every detail of respectful ceremony -that had been left to her.</p> - -<p>The passing-bell! Touching institution of -the ages of belief, the call for prayers for the -soul in its last struggle, the summons to friend -and stranger, kindly neighbour and stray<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[Pg 132]</span> -passer-by, the cry of the mother for the last -alms for her child!</p> - -<p>“Oh,” exclaimed our daughter that night, -reflecting on these things, “my heart burns -when I think how the poor have been robbed -of their faith!”</p> - -<p>And the mighty lesson which the ancient -Church taught by her attitude to the dying is -that by calmly turning the eyes of the faithful -towards the need for preparation, the duty of -warning the sick in time, the immeasurable -gain of the last Sacraments as compared to the -loss of an unfounded earthly hope, she is giving -the only possible comfort alike to the living -and the dying; she is placing within reach of -the mourners just the one factor that makes -their grief bearable—the power of being of use.</p> - -<p>Mrs. MacComfort, our Irish cook, who is as -near a saint herself as one can ever hope to -meet, said to us, the tears brimming in her soft -eyes: “Oh, doesn’t it make us feel ashamed of -ourselves when we see what our holy religion -is, and how little we live up to it!”</p> - -<p>And, indeed, that our poor fellow-countrymen -are so good without these helps is at once a -wonder and a rebuke to us. Mrs. Adam made<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[Pg 133]</span> -her sacrifice with a most touching submission: -“God must know best.”</p> - -<p>“When they came down and told me there’d -been an accident, my hands were in the washtub, -miss,” she told one of us later, “and as I -ran up the garden drying them in my apron, -I was praying God all the while that he would -give me strength to bear what I might have to -see.”</p> - -<p>God never refuses such a prayer as that. -Adam was an example. It is astonishing the -effect the death of this simple gardener has -made in the district, and the testimonies of his -worth keep coming in. It shows how wide the -influence one good man can exercise in any -class of life—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“The very ashes of the just</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>In a narrower sense we shall ourselves -always feel that something of him has gone -into the soil of our little garden, for which he -worked so faithfully. Some of the fragrance -of that humble soul will rise up from the violet -beds and hang about the roses.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>We have been the more disposed to draw -these parallels between the Old Faith and its<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[Pg 134]</span> -substitute because, by a curious coincidence, -Adam’s was the second death to fling sadness -over the Villino.</p> - -<p>The first was not a personal loss, like that -of a servant in the house. It concerned, indeed, -a being whom only one of us had seen. It -happened far away in the bloody swamps of -the Yser; yet, none the less, the tidings filled -the little household with mourning.</p> - -<p>Among the many exiles flying to our shores -from the horror of the advancing Hun were -two young mothers with their children—two -charming, delicately nurtured, high-born, high-minded -women, whose husbands were, one, an -officer in the Belgian army, the other, a volunteer -working in the ambulance at Calais. The -soldier’s wife, the niece of an old friend of ours, -a gay, courageous creature, who twice had gone -into the line of fire to see her husband, was -never tired of speaking to us of “Charley.” He -seemed in the end to have become almost a -familiar among us. We knew by his photographs -that he was handsome, and, by the -portions of his letters which she read to us, -that he was tender and deep-feeling and strong -of courage.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[Pg 135]</span></p> - -<p>Some weeks ago Charley’s wife left to live -with her sister; her cousin still remained with -us. It was the latter who was sent for to the -telephone that evening when the shadow of -death rolled up suddenly and hung over the -little house.</p> - -<p>An unforgettable moment when she turned -from the instrument, crying in accents that -pierced one: “<i>Charley tué! Mon Dieu, mon -Dieu, Charley tué!</i>”</p> - -<p>It was when we afterwards learnt the details -of the tragedy, which were piteous in the -extreme as far as it affected the wife, that the -noble consolations of our religion emerged in -all their beauty.</p> - -<p>The officer had announced an approaching -leave, and the joyful anticipation of his little -family was commensurate to the love they bore -him. As one instance of that love, let it be -noted here that his small son, only six years -old, could never hear the name of his absent -father without tears.</p> - -<p>The wife was alone in the garden, resting -from the fatigues of a morning spent in preparing -for that visit, when a telegram arrived, -badly transcribed, in French. She could at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[Pg 136]</span> -first only make out her husband’s name, her -brother’s signature, and the words, “Shall be -at Calais to-day.”</p> - -<p>She danced into the house in ecstasy, crying -to the children: “Papa is coming; papa and -Uncle Robert are coming.”</p> - -<p>And it was only on the stairs that a second -glance at the sheet in her hand revealed the -fatal word “<i>tué</i>.”</p> - -<p>A cousin—another young exiled wife and -mother—who lived in close proximity, was -summoned by the distracted maid, and writes -in simple language of the scene of agony: “As -soon as I got into the little house,” she says, -“I heard her dreadful sobs; I ran to her. -‘Charley is killed, Charley is killed!’ she cried -to me. I have never seen anyone in such a -state. She was almost in convulsions. I put -my arms about her. ‘Make your sacrifice; -offer it up for the good of his soul,’ I said to -her. ‘No, no! I cannot,’ she said. At first -she could not, but I held her close, and after -a little I said to her: ‘Say the words after me: -“O my God, I accept your will for the good of -his soul.”’ And once she had said it she did not -go back on it. From that moment she was calm.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[Pg 137]</span></p> - -<p>So calm, indeed, that the unhappy young -creature had the strength of mind to go in to -her children, terrified at the sound of her -weeping, and smilingly reassure them, talk -and play with them, till their bedtime. She -meant to start that night for Calais, and did -not wish her little ones to know of their loss -till her return.</p> - -<p>All her energies were strained to the single -purpose—to see him once again before he was -laid to rest. She had her desire. The journey -was an odyssey of physical and mental pain, -but by sheer determination she won through, -and found her brother, who had obtained leave -of absence from his regiment to meet her. By -him she was conveyed to a little village at the -back of the Belgian line, where, in a chapel -belonging to a convent, the dead man lay.</p> - -<p>It had been his last day in the trenches. The -next was to begin his brief holiday. He had -been posted in that celebrated Maison du -Passeur, among the slimy waters, destined to -be the scene of one more tragedy. There was -an alarm that certain enemy snipers were -lurking about, and a small patrol had been -ordered to take stock of them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[Pg 138]</span></p> - -<p>“I will not,” said the young officer, “allow -my men to go into danger without me.”</p> - -<p>It was not his duty—it was scarcely even -advisable—but he took up a soldier’s carbine -and went forth with it. He was actually taking -aim when the sergeant beside him saw him fail -and slowly collapse. There was, perhaps, a -noise of cannon to confuse the man’s senses, -for he heard no shot. There was certainly no -start or shock apparent. He called out: “<i>Mon -lieutenant, qu’avez vous?</i>” believing it was a -sudden attack of weakness. When he went to -his lieutenant he found that he was dead. He -had been struck by a bullet under the eye, so -well and truly aimed that it had instantly -ended the young, vigorous life, as far as this -world is concerned. The only mark on his -calm face, when his wife saw it, was that small -purple spot, where the wound had closed again.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as</div> - <div class="verse indent0">A church-door; but ’tis enough, ’twill serve.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>We have seen a snapshot taken of him as he -lay wrapped in his country’s flag. It is a noble, -chiselled countenance, looking younger than -the thirty-two years of his life, set in a great -serenity, with yet that stamp of austere renun<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[Pg 139]</span>ciation, -of supreme sacrifice, measured and -accepted, which we sometimes behold in the -face of the dead.</p> - -<p>The whole regiment congregated in the little -chapel the afternoon of the day which brought -the widow to her calvary. The building was -decorated with groups of flags, and about the -bier were heaped the wreaths of his brother -officers, dedicated nearly all in the same words:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“To the comrade fallen on the field of honour,”</p> - -<p>“To the comrade who has given his life for his country.”</p></blockquote> - -<p>In the midst of a profound silence the Colonel -read <i>L’Ordre du Jour</i>, which, by King Albert’s -command, conferred upon the fallen <i>Guide</i> the -Order of Leopold—for valour—and the bereaved -wife was given the decoration to pin -over the cold heart that had been so warmly -hers. There was a muffled roll of drum, and -all present sang the “Brabançonne.” So much -for the comfort which the world could still give.</p> - -<p>Next morning the funeral Mass was said at -the altar. The bier lay at the foot of the step, -so close that each time the priest turned round -to say <i>Dominus vobiscum</i>, his hands were uplifted -over the dead. And the widow and all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[Pg 140]</span> -the officers of the regiment kneeling round -received Holy Communion for, and in memory -of, the slain.</p> - -<p>It is not possible—although we know her -grief to be as ardent as was her attachment to -him—that this widow can mourn as those who -have no hope.</p> - -<p>The chaplain of the regiment told her that -her husband had been to Confession and Holy -Communion the morning he had entered into -the trenches, three days before. “Have no -fear, my child,” said the priest, “he made his -Confession as he did everything, with all his -heart.”</p> - -<p>Blessed religion, which across the deathbed -shows us the heavens opening for the departed -soul, and bids the holy angel guard even the -grave where rests the body, hallowed for the -resurrection!</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[Pg 141]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VI">VI<br /> -BABIES: CHINESE AND OTHERS</h2> -</div> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“In how several ways do we speak to our dogs, and they -answer us!”—<span class="smcap">Michel de Montaigne.</span></p></blockquote> - -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smcap">The</span> war-baby was very dear and downy when -we first saw her.</p> - -<p>She is the daughter of a Chinaman (an important -member of the household), and a neighbouring -lady. The Chinaman was, in fact, so -important that the usual matrimonial procedure -was reversed in his case; and the family of the -lady made unabashed and persevering advances -for his favour before he could be induced to -condescend to the alliance.</p> - -<p>Anyone familiar with Oriental calm will not -be surprised to learn that the potentate received -with imperturbability the announcement that -his lady wife was likely to present him with a -family. It was, however, perhaps pushing -Eastern reserve a little too far to walk away -from his infants with every appearance of disgust, -and to threaten to bite those officious -friends who sought to extract some show of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[Pg 142]</span> -parental feeling from him by turning him round -once more to confront the seething cradle-full.</p> - -<p>The cradle was a flat basket, in which the -babies maintained a ceaseless movement, crawling -one over the other, with a total disregard -of such sensitive portions of the anatomy as -eyes and noses. They were extraordinarily -ill matched as to size—we do not know if this -is usual with triplets—looking more like a job -lot of Teddy-bears than anything else. There -was one as large as the other two put together; -there was a very lively medium one; and a -very small third, who lay and feebly squirmed -under the others vigorous toes. They all had -beautiful black noses and little cream-coloured -tails tightly curled over their backs. The -intelligent reader will by this time have perceived -that we are not referring to mere -humanity. The war-babies belong to the race -of Pekinese, being, in fact, the offspring of the -celebrated and priceless Loki, master of the -Villino of that name, who fame has already -spread far and wide.</p> - -<p>His consort was Maud, a chestnut-haired -lady, who, we regret to say, had already contracted -a <i>mésalliance</i> with a highlander, to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[Pg 143]</span> -despair of her family. We are convinced that -the union is regarded by Loki as a mere matter -of politics, but what Western would ever dare -to penetrate the barrier of relentless reserve -which the Manchu raises between his domestic -affairs and the foreign devil? We fear, by his -expression and the looks of reproach with -which he has since regarded us, that we have -already gravely infringed his ideas of decorum -by bringing his daughter to dwell in his house.</p> - -<p>She is the only daughter of the trio, the two -extremes having run to the masculine gender. -We chose her on account of her perkiness and -her engaging manner of waving her paws in -supplication or allurement.</p> - -<p>These little dogs have all of them more or -less the gift of gesticulation. It is not necessary -to teach them either to beg or pray. The -puppy—Plain Eliza—will dance half the length -of the room on her hind-legs, frantically imploring -with her front paws the while, with a -persistency and passion that would melt a -heart of stone.</p> - -<p>The other day, when the butler walked on -the paw of Mimosa, the Peky nearest to her in -age, who rent the air with her yells, Plain Eliza<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[Pg 144]</span> -instantly rose on her hind-legs and added her -lamentations. One can truly say that at the -same time she wrung her paws in distress over -her playmate’s suffering. She has a very -feeling heart.</p> - -<p>These two adore each other, which is a very -good thing, because Mimosa is really a little -Tartar. She is the first fur-child to bring discord -into the happy family at Villino Loki, and -to break the Garden of Eden spell by which -cats and dogs of all sizes and tempers dwell -together in the most complete amity and sympathy. -A small, imperious person of a vivid -chestnut hue, with devouring dark eyes and -the most approved of snub noses, we flatter -ourselves that Mimosa will become a beauty -when she gets her full coat. But she will not -stand cats, still less a kitten, anywhere within -the kitchen premises, and Mrs. MacComfort, -the queen of those regions, has actually banished -the beloved Kitty and her offspring to the -greengrocer’s shop in order to pander to -Mimosa, who regarded them much as the -honest Briton the alien Hun—something darkly -suspicious, to be eliminated from the community -at all costs. Mimosa, indeed, has taken matters<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[Pg 145]</span> -into her own paws, as the man in the street -has done, and Mrs. MacComfort has acted like -the Government. Discovering the youngest -kitten completely flattened under Mimosa—the -latter, her mane bristling, endeavouring to -tear off all her victim’s fur—it was decided to -remove the alien element for its own benefit.</p> - -<p>Harmony is now restored to kitchen dominions. -The other morning the young lady -of the Villino found the two little dogs solemnly -seated each side of the hearth, their eyes fixed -on an infinitesimal earthenware pan which was -simmering on a carefully prepared fire.</p> - -<p>“They’re just watching me cooking their -breakfast, miss,” said Mrs. MacComfort in her -soft voice. “They’re very partial to chicken -liver.”</p> - -<p>It was sizzling appetizingly in its lilliputian -dish.</p> - -<p>From the moment of Plain Eliza’s entrance -upon the scene, squirming in a basket, Mimosa -showed a profound and affectionate interest in -her. We were, if truth be told, a little afraid -to trust these demonstrations, fearing they -might be of a crocodile nature, but never was -suspicion more unjust. The elder puppy has<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[Pg 146]</span> -completely adopted the younger one, and is full -of anxiety and distress if she is not in her -company. She will come bustling into the -room, talking in her Peky way, saying as -plainly as ever a little dog did: “Has anyone -seen Baby? It’s really not safe to let the -child go about by herself like that.”</p> - -<p>When she discovers her, the two small things -kiss and embrace; after which Mimosa abdicates -her grown-up airs, and romping becomes -the order of the day.</p> - -<p>The name of Plain Eliza is the one which has -stuck most distinctively to the great Mo-Loki’s -daughter. It seemed appropriate to her, in the -opinion of the mistress of the Villino, and arose -out of a reminiscence of her Irish youth. There -happened to be in Dublin society in those far-back -days a young lady of guileless disposition, -not too brilliant intellect, and what Americans -would call “homely” appearance. Presenting -herself at a reception at a house which boasted -of a very pompous butler, and having announced -her name as Eliza Dunn, he forthwith -attempted to qualify her with a title.</p> - -<p>“Lady Eliza Dunn?”</p> - -<p>“No, no,” quoth she. “Plain Eliza.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[Pg 147]</span></p> - -<p>Rumour would have it that he thereupon -announced in stentorian tones: “Plain Eliza.”</p> - -<p>It is not so much the uncomeliness of the -Baby’s countenance as the guileless trustfulness -with which she turns it upon the world -which seems to make the name appropriate. -Anyhow, it has come to stay.</p> - -<p>The little children that run about Villino -Loki these days—war-exiles, most of them—have -scarcely crossed the threshold before -their voices are uplifted, calling:</p> - -<p>“Plain! Plain! Where is Plain Eliza?” -And when the favourite is found there is much -cooing and fond objurgations of: “Darling -Plain! My sweet little Plain! Dear, darling, -Plain Eliza!”</p> - -<p>She is the only one of the Pekies that can -be allowed with perfect safety in the hands -of the children. Mimosa is uncertain, and may -turn at any moment with a face of fury, her -whole body bristling. She is secretly very -jealous of the children. And Loki is not uncertain -at all. He has never hidden his dislike -of them, and his lip begins to curl the instant a -small hand is outstretched towards him. But -Plain Eliza, if bored, remains patient and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[Pg 148]</span> -gentle; and however “homely” she may seem -to her attached family, she is all beauty and -charm in the eyes of their little visitors.</p> - -<p>Recently a most attractive child was for ten -days, with her charming young mother and -baby brother, the guest of the Villino. To console -her on departure she was promised another -Plain Eliza, should such a one ever be -vouchsafed the world. Her mother writes: -“She prays and makes me pray for the -new Plain Eliza every day, and I think fully -expects to see her come shooting down from -Heaven.”</p> - -<p>A very dear child this, with a heart and -mind almost too sensitive for her four years. -Many delicately pretty sayings are treasured -of her. She must have been about three when -her first religious instruction was given her. -It made a profound impression. For months -afterwards she would date her experiences -from the day of this enlightenment.</p> - -<p>“You know, mammy, that was before Jesus -was born to me!”</p> - -<p>Her father is at the front. He has not yet -seen his little son, the arrival of whom was -so much desired. This baby, an out-of-the-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[Pg 149]</span>way -handsome, healthy child, is a prey to the -terrors which it will be yet mercifully many -years before he can understand. He cannot -bear to be left alone a moment, and wakes from -a profound sleep in spasms of unconscious -apprehension. Then nothing can soothe him -but being clasped very close, the mother’s hand -upon the little head, pressing it to her cheek. -“He is nothing,” said the doctor, “to some -of the babies I have seen this year.” It is not -astonishing; but how pathetic! These little -creatures, carried so long under an anguished -heart, come into the world bearing the print of -the universal mystery already stamped on their -infant souls.</p> - -<p>When will the dawn arise over a world no -longer agonized and disrupted? When will -the wholesome joys and the natural sorrows -resume their preponderance in our existence? -Surely every man’s own span holds enough of -trouble to make him realize that here is not our -abiding-place, and long for the security of the -heavenly home. Perhaps it was not so. Perhaps -we had all fallen away too much from -faith and simplicity, and we needed this appalling -experience of what humanity can inflict<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[Pg 150]</span> -upon humanity, when Christ and His cross are -left out of the reckoning.</p> - -<p>“The world has become profoundly corrupt. -There will surely come some great scourge. -It will be necessary to have a generation -brought up by mourning mothers and in a -discipline of tears,” said a man of God in what -seemed words of unbearable severity, a year -before the war broke out.</p> - -<p>So it may be that we are not only fighting -for our children, to deliver them from the -intolerable yoke of the Hun, but that we are -also suffering for our children, to deliver them -from the punishment of our own sins.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>We meant to call this chapter “War-babies,” -only for the newspaper discussion which has -made even innocence itself the subject of -passionate and unpleasant discussion.</p> - -<p>There have been a good many war-babies in -the neighbourhood as well as Plain Eliza. The -Signorina of the Villino has already acted godmother -several times to infant exiles. These -little ones, we thank Heaven, have arrived -surprisingly jolly and unimpressed. Yet the -poor mothers had, most of them, fled from the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[Pg 151]</span> -sound of the cannon and the menace of the -shells, happy if they saw nothing worse than -the flames which were consuming their homes -and all that those homes held and meant for -them. The Signorina is very particular that -the girls should be called Elizabeth and the -boys Albert, with due loyalty to a sovereignty -truly royal in misfortune.</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle,” writes one young woman, -“I have the happiness to announce to you that -I have the honour to have become the mother -of a beautiful little daughter.”</p> - -<p>She meant what she said—marvellous as it -may seem not to regard the event in such -circumstances as an added anguish!</p> - -<p>We have heard of the birth of a child to -a widow of eighteen—a peasant girl in Brussels—who -was forced by the invaders not only to -watch her father and husband and both brothers -struck down under her eyes, but to assist in -burying them while they were still breathing.</p> - -<p>“It is a very ugly little baby,” writes the -kind lady who is its godmother, “and the poor -mother is very ill. When she gets better it -will be a comfort to her.”</p> - -<p>In these days, when the lid of hell has been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[Pg 152]</span> -taken off—as Mr. Elbert Hubbard, one of the -victims of the <i>Lusitania</i>, graphically declared—when -legions of devils have been let loose upon -an unsuspecting world, the case of the eighteen-year-old -peasant woman in the Brussels <i>asile</i> is -by no means the most to be pitied. Her child -will be a comfort to her. Not so will it be with -the many unfortunate Belgian village mothers—to -whom children are being, we hear, born -maimed in awful testimony of the mutilations -which the wives have been forced to witness -deliberately inflicted on their husbands. War-babies, -indeed! Stricken before birth, destined -to bear through a necessarily bitter existence -the terrible mark of the barbarian foe.</p> - -<p>Let us get back to the fur children. It is -such a comfort to be able to turn one’s eyes -upon something that can never understand the -horror about one.</p> - -<p>Plain Eliza’s only trick is to put her front -paws together, palm to palm, in an attitude of -prayer, and wave them. This is called in the -family “making pretty paws.” When the children -plunge for her and clasp her close, the -first cry is always: “Plain Eliza, make pretty -paws! Dear Plain Eliza, make pretty paws!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[Pg 153]</span></p> - -<p>She will not do it for them every day. Little -dogs know very well that human puppies have -no real authority over them. Perhaps it is -because of the rarity of her condescension in -this direction, or perhaps because of the -wonderful emphasis of her supplication when -she does so condescend, that the youngest of -the small exiles, three-year-old Viviane, regards -this accomplishment as the very acme of expression. -She is a pious babe, and is fond of -paying visits to the little Oratory in the Villino. -One day her governess observed her wringing -and waving her dimpled hands before the altar. -When she came out she confided in tones of -devout triumph: “I have been making pretty -paws to little Jesus.”</p> - -<p>Viviane, the most satisfactory type of sturdy -childhood it is possible to imagine, combines -a great determination, an understanding as -solid as her own little person, with an extremely -tender heart. She quite realizes the -advantages of the good manners which her -English governess inculcates, and she can -be heard instructing herself in a deep <i>sotto -voce</i> when she sits at tea with grown-up entertainers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[Pg 154]</span></p> - -<p>“Vivi not speak with her mouth full. Vivi -wait. Now Vivi can speak.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, my little girl,” said her mother -to her the other day, sending the child home in -advance to her early supper. “I hope you -will be good.”</p> - -<p>“Vivi good,” was the prompt response, “good, -obedient, nice manners at table.”</p> - -<p>She walked out of the room with her peculiarly -deliberate gait, murmuring the admonition -to herself.</p> - -<p>During the terribly dry weather in the -beginning of May we had a great fire on our -moor; whether caused by incendiarism or not -remains a moot point. The first hill that rolls -up from our valley is now charred half-way. -Viviane was much concerned.</p> - -<p>“Poor moor burnt! Poor moor burnt!” she -lamented. Then, with a delicious impulse -qualified by characteristic caution, “Vivi kiss -it where it is not black; kiss it and make it -well!”</p> - -<p>When her cousin and playmate’s father was -tragically killed on the Yser, the little creature, -who is devoted to her own father, was deeply -concerned. The latter is heroically devoting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[Pg 155]</span> -himself to ambulance work at Calais. For -many nights after the news of the young -officer’s death was received, Viviane would -anxiously inform everyone who came into her -nursery that Papa was quite safe, pointing out -his photograph on the chimney-piece at the -same time.</p> - -<p>“Vivi got her Papa quite safe,” in a confused -association of ideas.</p> - -<p>Though she has only seen him once for a -very short time all these nine months, the -child’s affectionate memory of him remains as -distinct as ever, and returning the other day -from a morning walk with a scratched knee, -she declared pathetically she wished it had -been a wound, for then Vivi’s father would -have had to come and nurse her.</p> - -<p>The spirit of the Belgian children is one of -the most remarkable things of the war. As -soon as they can understand anything at all -they seem to grasp the situation of present -valiant endurance and future glory. They -know what sacrifices have been demanded of -their parents. There is not a child that we -have seen but measures the cost and its honour.</p> - -<p>Upon the arrival of the <i>Faire part</i> of that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[Pg 156]</span> -same young officer above mentioned, with its -immense black edge and unending list of -sorrowing relatives, Viviane’s eldest brother, -a boy of nine, asked to read it. When he came -to the words: <i>Mort pour la patrie</i>, he looked up, -his face illuminated.</p> - -<p>“<i>Oh, Maman, comme c’est beau!</i>”</p> - -<p>Not the least among the miscalculations of -the Germans in Belgium has been their insane -attempt to stifle the courage of the little country -by ferocity. But Germany has never counted -with souls, and it is by the power of the soul -that this huge monster of materialism, with its -gross brutality and gross reliance on masses -and mechanism, will be overthrown. There is -not a <i>gamin</i> of the Brussels streets that does -not mock the German soldiery, finely conscious -that, by the immortal defiance of the spirit, -Prussian brutality itself is already vanquished. -Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings!...</p> - -<p>There was humour as well as heroism in the -heart of the oppressed Antwerp Belgian on -that afternoon of his King’s birthday, when he -sent the three little girls to walk side by side -through the streets dressed in black, orange, -and red. The Hun stood helpless before the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[Pg 157]</span> -passage of the living flag, not daring to face -the ridicule which would fall upon him all the -world over were the babes arrested and taken -to the Commandatur. It was a superb defiance, -flung in the face of the despot, flung by the -little ones! The whole history of Belgium’s -glory and Germany’s shame is in it.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It is just the feeling that they are blessedly -ignorant of the universal suffering that makes -the company of our pets so soothing to us -now.</p> - -<p>“My dog is my one comfort,” cried a friend -to us, surveying her Peky as he sat, fat and -prosperous, his lip cocked with the familiar -Chinese smile, triumphant after the feat of -having silently bitten his mistress’s visitor. -“He is the only person that hasn’t changed!”</p> - -<p>The bite of a Pekinese does not hurt, it may -be mentioned, and the visitor quite shared his -owner’s feelings.</p> - -<p>It may be something of the same sensation -that makes the wounded soldiers in the hospital -near us long for the forbidden joy of something -alive for a mascot. They picked up a very -newly hatched pheasant in the grounds the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[Pg 158]</span> -other day, and carried it home to share their -bed and board. It was fed on extraordinary -concoctions, and after three days was discovered -to have passed away. There was a strong -suspicion of the matron, who had not approved -from the beginning. They consoled themselves -by a military funeral. A very handsome coffin -having been made by an expert, they went in -solemn procession to lay the infant pheasant -to rest. Now there is always a wreath on the -grave.</p> - -<p>Invited to the Villino this week to see our -azaleas, they arrived, a batch of twenty, at the -odd hour of ten o’clock in the morning, to be -regaled with buns and lemonade, no tea-parties -being allowed. They enjoyed themselves very -much, but the feature of the entertainment was -Mimosa, the small ruby Pekinese. She passed -from embrace to embrace. She licked them so -much that they told the Sister they would not -need to have their faces washed any more. -This is the kind of joke that is really appreciated -in hospitals. When Mimi returned to -her devoted Mrs. MacComfort in the kitchen, -the latter remarked “she was so above herself -she couldn’t do anything with her.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[Pg 159]</span></p> - -<p>Unfortunately all little dogs are not happy -and protected like ours. Belgian friends who -passed through villages and towns after the -first wave of the invader had spread over the -country tell us of a horrible and singular byway -of wanton atrocity. The soldiery slaughter -the dogs wholesale, some said to eat them, but -that seems hardly credible. Most probably it -was part of the scheme of general terrorism. -To burn the houses and slay the husbands and -fathers, to spear and mutilate and trample down -the children, to insult the women, it was all not -enough. The finishing touch must be given -by the murder of the humble companion, the -faithful watch-dog, the children’s pet. Piles -and piles of dogs’ heads were at the corners of -the streets, our friend told us.</p> - -<p>We know they laid hold of the poor dogs to -experiment upon them with their diabolical -gas. But there was at least some reason in the -latter brutality.</p> - -<p>One hears many stories about the dogs of -war.</p> - -<p>At the beginning of the conflict the trained -ambulance dogs were reported to have done -splendid work in the French trenches. We do<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[Pg 160]</span> -not know if we have any such, but we do know -that the men have pets among them out there, -whether mascots brought out from England or -strays picked up from the abandoned farms. -The deserted dogs! A French paper published -an article upon these dumb victims, not the -least pathetic of the many side tragedies of this -year of anguish. It was a poor shop-keeper -who described what he himself had seen in -passing through a devastated town within the -conquered territory.</p> - -<p>“The dogs have remained in the town, from -whence the inhabitants have fled. The dogs -have remained where there is not left a stone -upon a stone. How they do not die of hunger -I cannot imagine. They must hunt for themselves -far out in the country-side, I suppose, -but they come back as quickly as they can and -congregate at the entrance of the suburb on -the highroad.</p> - -<p>“There are two hundred, or three hundred -perhaps—spaniels, sheep-dogs, fox-terriers, -even small ridiculous lap-dogs—and they wait, -all of them, with their heads turned in the same -direction, with an air of intense melancholy -and passionate interest. What are they wait<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[Pg 161]</span>ing -for? Oh, it is very easy to guess. Sometimes -one of the old inhabitants of the town -makes up his mind to come back from Holland. -The longing to see his home, to know what is -left of his house, to search the ruins, is stronger -than all else—stronger than hatred, stronger -than fear. And sometimes then one of the dogs -recognizes him. His dog! If you could see -it. If you could imagine it. All that troop of -dogs who prick their ears at the first sight of a -man coming along the road from Holland, a -man who has no helmet, a man not in uniform; -the instantaneous painful agitation of the -animals who gaze and gaze with all their might—dogs -have not very good eyes—and who sniff -and sniff from afar, because their scent is better -than their sight. And then the leap, the great -leap of one of these dogs who has recognized -his master, his wild race along the devastated -road, ploughed with the furrows by the passage -of cannons and heavy traction motors and dug -with trenches; his joyous barks, his wagging -tail, his flickering tongue! His whole body is -one quiver of happiness. The dog will not -leave that man any more, he is too much afraid -of losing him. He will follow close to his heels<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[Pg 162]</span> -without stopping to eat; one day, two days if -needful; and in the end he goes away with him.</p> - -<p>“But the others? They have remained on -the road. And when they see this dog depart, -having found at last what they all are seeking, -they lift up their muzzles despairingly and -howl, howl as if they would never stop, with -great cries that fill the air, and re-echo until -there is nothing more to be seen upon the road. -Then they are dumb, but they do not move. -They are there; they still hope.”</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[Pg 163]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII">VII<br /> -OUR GARDEN IN JUNE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Still may Time hold some golden space</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Where I’ll unpack that scented store</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of song and flower and sky and face,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">And count, and touch, and turn them o’er.”</div> -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Rupert Brooke.</span> -</p> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="pfirst"><i><span class="smcap">June</span> 1.</i>—The garden in early June! Like a -great many other things the idea is very different -from the reality. The first of June in -the garden represents to the mind’s eye bowers -of roses, exuberance in the borders, a riot of -colour and fragrance. As a matter of fact, with -us, in our late-blooming, high-perched terraces, -it means a transition stage, and is annually -very exasperating and disappointing to the impatient -spirit of the Signora. It is the time -when the azaleas look dishevelled, with their -delicate blossom hanging depressingly from -the stamens. The forget-me-nots have all been -cleared away, and in those places where bulbs -are preserved against the future spring, masses -of yellowing tangled leaf-spikes are an eyesore. -The bedding-out plants still look tiny on the -raw borders. All our roses, except those -climbers against the house, are yet in the bud.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[Pg 164]</span> -There are just the poppies that flaunt in the -borders; and even their colour becomes an -exasperation, because they would have done -so much better to wait and join in the grand -symphony, instead of blowing isolated trumpet -flourishes, prepared to relapse into sulky silence -when the delphiniums strike up their blue -music.</p> - -<p>There is also another frightful drawback to -this first week of leafy June, and that is that it -would be easier to separate Pyramus from -Thisbe than the gardener from the vegetables. -A constant enervating struggle goes on between -us on the relative values of cabbages and roses, -beans and poppies. We want the roses sprayed, -we want the borders staked, we want sustenance -in the shape of liquid manure and Clay’s -fertilizer copiously administered to our darlings; -and he wants to put in “that there other -row of scarlet runners and set out them little -lettuces.” And when it comes to watering: he -doesn’t know, he’s sure, how he’s to get them -cabbages seen to as they ought to be seen to; -a deal of moisture <i>they</i> want, if they’re to do -him any justice.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile our terraces are panting. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[Pg 165]</span> -climbing roses up the house—and this year -they would have been glorious—are pale and -brittle in petal and foliage, as if they had been -actually blasted.</p> - -<p>The master of the Villino, after due representations -from the Padrona, has seen the necessity -of sacrifice, and assiduously waters the garden -every evening—and himself! The hose is defective; -being war time we cannot afford a new -one. Two jets break out at the wrong angle -and take you in the eye and down the waistcoat -at the most unexpected moments; and -though amenable to persuasion, the Padrone’s -devotion has its limits, and he positively declines -the remanipulation of the tube which -will bring it—after having done service in the -Dutch garden—to the end of the Lily Walk. -So that, as it is two yards short, the deficiency -has to be made up by hand watering, and two -obsolete bath-cans are produced out of the -house, which seems, for some unexplained -reason, easier than using the proper garden -furniture. These cans are generally left, forgotten, -where they were last used, unless the -piercing eye of the mistress of the Villino -happens to dart in that direction.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[Pg 166]</span></p> - -<p>Yesterday we had visitors—in eighteenth-century -parlance, a General and his Lady—and -of course the two cans stood in the middle -of the path, confidingly, nose to nose. Being -war time nobody minded. It is the blessing -and the danger of war time that nobody minds -anything. And the General’s Lady, being -tactful, kept her eye on the buddleia.</p> - -<p>Death having come to the little garden and -taken Adam away; and greed of gain having -deprived us of Reginald Arthur in favour of -the post office; and patriotism having rendered -the local young man as precious as he is scarce, -we were five weeks—five invaluable, irreplaceable -weeks—gardenerless, odd-manless at the -Villino. Nothing this year will ever restore -the lost time. No amount of pulling and -straining will draw the gap together.</p> - -<p>Japhet, Adam’s successor, is worn, as the -Americans say, very nearly “to a frazzle.” -He is a deeply conscientious man, and peas -and beans and cabbages are to him the very -principles upon which all garden morality is -built up. He was much grieved the other day -when someone “passed a remark” on the -subject of weeds in the back-garden.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[Pg 167]</span></p> - -<p>Weeds! We should think there were! It -was so blatantly self-evident a fact that we -wondered that anyone should have thought it -worth while to pass a remark upon it. But -Japhet was hurt to his very soul: considering -his vocation, it would perhaps be more in keeping -to say—his marrow.</p> - -<p>Professional pride is a very delicate and -easily bruised growth. When the Padrona was -in her teens the whole of her mother’s orderly -establishment was convulsed one June—a -hot June it was too—because the professional -pride of the family butler had been wounded -by the footman’s presuming to hand a dish -which it was not his business to touch. His -sense of dignity was doubtless sharpened to a -very fine edge by the fact that, the June weather -being so hot, an unusual amount of cooling beer -had been found necessary. This may seem a -curious mixture of metaphors, nevertheless the -facts are exact.</p> - -<p>Reilly—that was his name—was very deeply -and, in the opinion of the rest of the household, -justifiably incensed when Edmund lifted the -entrée dish with the obvious intention of offering -it to his mistress; and though it was re<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[Pg 168]</span>garded -as an exaggeration of sensitiveness for -him to knock the footman down immediately -after lunch in the seclusion of the pantry, to -kneel upon his chest and endeavour to strangle -him with his white tie; and though the cook -deemed it incumbent upon her to draw the -attention of the authorities to the drama by -seizing a broom and brushing it backwards -and forwards across the row of bells; all the -sympathies of the establishment remained with -Reilly, and “the mistress” was regarded as -extremely hard-hearted for dismissing him -from her service. The footman was a shock-headed, -snub-nosed youth, and we will never -forget his appearance when, released from his -assailant, he burst into the dining-room, collarless, -his white tie protruding at an acute angle -behind his left ear, with a mixture of triumph, -importance, and suffering upon his scarlet -countenance.</p> - -<p>So we were compassionate with Japhet -when he waxed plaintive over his underling’s -house duties, and even forbore having the -windows cleaned for several weeks, and -endured tortures at the sight of her spattered -panes, out of regard for his difficulties.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[Pg 169]</span></p> - -<p>The underling is aptly named Fox. He -has red hair and long moustaches and a furtive -eye and a general air of alertness and -slyness which show that if he had ever belonged -to the animal kingdom in a previous -state of existence, Vulpus he certainly was. -But we did not expect him to develop garden -susceptibilities too. This, however, it seems -he has done.</p> - -<p>“I’ve very bad news for you,” said Japhet -sombrely to his master last week, when he -came into the long, book-lined room to receive -his Saturday pay. He has naturally a lugubrious -countenance.</p> - -<p>His master’s thoughts flew to Zeppelins, -spotted fever, and other national dangers.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, Japhet. What is it?”</p> - -<p>“Fox, he says, he can’t put up with the -couch-grass and the docks in the lower garden. -They seem to have got on his mind, like. He -don’t see how he can go on dealing with them. -They <i>’ave</i> got a strong hold,” concluded Japhet -with a sigh, as if he too were overwhelmed by -the enemy.</p> - -<p>Well, it was tragic enough, for the precious -Fox had been caught after long hunting, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[Pg 170]</span> -had made his own bargain—a foxy one—with -every eye to the main chance. We want to keep -him, but have a guilty sensation too, he being -young and strong, and obviously the right -stuff for enlisting; though, indeed, if docks -and couch-grass daunt him, how would he -stand shrapnel and gas?</p> - -<p>The daughter of the house, who is extremely -tactful, and who is generally trusted with -delicate situations, interviewed him on the -spot. She found him in a condition only to -be described as one of nerve-shock. His long, -red moustaches quivered. All he could reply, -in a broken voice, was:</p> - -<p>“It don’t do me no credit. It won’t never do -me no credit.”</p> - -<p>Japhet, consulted, gave it as his opinion that -it was not a question of his subordinate’s -bettering himself; but said “Fox had always -been a sensitive worker.” Nevertheless, we -should not be surprised to hear that war prices -have something to do with it.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It is only now, after nearly five years, that -we are beginning to reap some benefit of our -constant planting. The Signora wonders if<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[Pg 171]</span> -her irritable mind had allowed her to leave -undisturbed those divers perennials and bushes -which she had rooted up after a year’s trial -from beds and borders, how might she not now -be gathering the reward of longanimity.</p> - -<p>The Léonie Lamesche roses, for instance. -She hunted them out of the middle of the -Dutch garden; out of the beds before the -entrance arches into the rose-garden; into that -corner of the kitchen-garden where the derelicts -gather. And just now the child of the house -has brought into her bunch after bunch of little -orange-crimson pompoms, delicious and quaint -to look at, and delicious and quaint to smell, -with their faint tartness, as of apples, mixed -with an aromatic herbiness as of myrtles.</p> - -<p>“There’s quantities more,” says the Signorina. -Poor little things! they have been allowed to -settle and spread their roots, and one would -not know them for the nipped, disreputable, -guttersnipe objects that hitherto called down -the master of the Villino’s scorn.</p> - -<p>We do not regret them in the Dutch garden -after all. It is too near the house not to have -its garland for every season; and the forget-me-nots, -hyacinths, and tulips are too precious and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[Pg 172]</span> -beautiful in the spring. But under the rose-arches -now there are gaps; and this year, between -the loss of our poor Adam and war -scruples, these gaps have not been filled.</p> - -<p>If the Signora had left Léonie Lamesche -where she was, all those nice varnished green -leaves and all those darling rosettes of bloom -with their odd colour and fragrance would be -in their right place, instead of in the waste -ground from which Japhet, with the zeal of the -new broom, is already preparing to sweep them -next autumn—not, be it said, with any special -disapprobation for Léonie, but because he -declares he wants to get rid of all that there -stuff which hadn’t no right to be in a vegetable -garden at all.</p> - -<p>The moral is—as has been said long ago in -the “Sentimental Garden”—that chief among -the many virtues a garden inculcates is patience. -If the Signora had had patience, she would not -have turned all the Standard Soleil d’Or and -Conrad Meyers out of the Lily Walk, because -the shadow of the buddleias interfered with -their bloom. For behold! this winter’s snow -has cast the great honey-trees sideways, and -the united efforts of Japhet and Fox, who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[Pg 173]</span> -pulled and propped and strained in vain, have -left them sideways, and sideways, in the opinion -of these experts, they will for ever after remain. -And the Lily Walk is in full sunshine. Had -we but left the standards, who, of course, will -be sulky in their new positions for a couple of -years more!</p> - -<p><i>June 15.</i>—The complaint begun in the first -week of our transitional garden has already -been reproved by the mid-month’s splendours. -In spite of the drought and the desiccating -south-east winds (which by some inscrutable -decree of Providence have been sent to us this -year when so much depends upon field, orchard, -and garden), the roses are magnificent and of -unusual promise.</p> - -<p>Our peony beds—the mistress of the garden -did know that peonies are slow ladies and will -take their time—are beginning to reward her -forbearance. Such a basketful as came into -her bedroom to-day with the Polyantha roses!—those -large, pink, scented beauties which are -so satisfying to settle in big bowls. We have -put them in the chapel against boughs of the -service-tree. The effect is all one could wish.</p> - -<p>The service-tree bloomed this year as never<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[Pg 174]</span> -it bloomed before. It looked like the bridal -bouquet of a fairy giantess! We trust this -daring hyperbole will enable our readers to -represent to themselves something at once -immense and ethereal, misty grey, and delicate -silver-white. It is of huge size and -beautiful shape, and grows a little higher on -the slope than the greater of the two beech-trees. -For colour effect we know nothing more -soul-filling than the way it stands between the -ardent tawny glories of the Azalea Walk and -the young jewel green of its cousin—the beech -above mentioned. Put the shoulder of the -moor at the back in its May mantle of coppery -mauve heather not yet in bud—that is a -picture to gaze upon under a blue sky, thanking -God for the loveliness of the earth!</p> - -<p>This last May, which will be ever memorable -as one of the most tragic months of the war, -hazard—or that <i>slithy tove</i>, the alien Hun—provided -us with a background approximately -<i>macabre</i> for the radiant youthful joy. Our -moor has been burnt—five fires started simultaneously -one day of high east wind, and the -first great swelling hill is covered with a garment -as of hell. The scattered fir-trees here<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[Pg 175]</span> -and there are of a livid, scorched brown. To -look out on the scene and see them stand in -the slaty black, casting mysterious shadows -under the dome of relentless brightness we -have had of late, is like looking upon a circle -of Dante’s Inferno, out of one of the cool, -bowery regions of his upper Purgatorio. Our -daughter finds a wilder beauty in our blossom -and verdure against the savage gloom beyond; -but not so the Padrona. She laments the -tapestry of her peaceful, rolling heights. Now, -past mid-June, bracken is creeping slowly -through the charred roots of the heather, and -she does not want a bracken hill. It is spreading -democracy, taking the place of some royal -line; the rule of the irresponsible, the coarse, -the mediocre; though she grants there will be -beauty in the autumn when it all turns golden. -And perhaps there’s a lesson to be drawn -somewhere, but she will have none of it, for -there is nothing so tiresome as the unpalatable -moral.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Fox has condescended to remain another -week, so we need not feverishly search garden -chronicles for the quite impossible he, who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[Pg 176]</span> -shall be strong, sturdy, ineligible for the army, -and willing to take a place as under-gardener -at something less than the honorarium of an -aniline dye expert! All those who want places -are head-gardeners, “under glass”; except -“a young Dutchman speaking languages perfectly” -who fills our souls with doubt. In every -district it is the same story; we wish we could -think it was all patriotic ardour, but we are -afraid that the high wages offered by camps -and greengrocers are responsible for a good -deal of the shortage of labour in our part of -the world.</p> - -<p>One of the Villino quartette—we call ourselves -the lucky clover-leaf—writes from Dorset -that they have an aged man of past seventy-two -who comes in to help in the flowery, bowery -old garden of the manor-house where she is -staying. In justice to simple rural Dorset, it -may be mentioned parenthetically that there -the response to the country’s need has been -extraordinary in its unanimity. So the superannuated -labourers who have grown white and -wise over the soil, instead of sitting by the -chimney-corner and enjoying their old-age -pensions, come tottering forth to do their little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[Pg 177]</span> -bit, in the place of the young stalwartness that -has gone out to fight and struggle and perhaps -die for England.</p> - -<p>Our Dorset clover petal writes: “Old Mason -is very sad at having to water the borders. -‘Ye mid water and water for days and days,’ -he declares, ‘and it not have the value of a -single night’s rain. There, miss, as I did say -to my darter last night, my Father, I says, he -do water a deal better than I do.’”</p> - -<p>Yesterday there came a box of white pinks -from that Dorset garden; these have been put -all together into an immense cut-glass bowl, -with an effect of innocent, white, overflowing -freshness that is perfect of its kind. And the -scent of them is admirably fitted to the sweet -clean wonder of their looks. It is a quintessence -of all simple fragrance, a sort of intensified new-mown -hay smell. That is another thing the -heavenly Father has done very well—the -delicate matching of attributes in His flower -children. A tea-rose looks her scent, just as -does her deep crimson sister.</p> - -<p>“How it must have amused Almighty God,” -said our daughter one day last winter, lifting -the cineraria foliage to show the purple bloom<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[Pg 178]</span> -of the lining which exactly matched the note -of the starry flower, “how it must have amused -Him to do this.”</p> - -<p>And surely a violet bears in her little modest -face the promise of her insinuating and delicate -perfume.</p> - -<p>And if the big pink peonies had had bright -green instead of shadowy grey foliage they -might have been vulgar.</p> - -<p>And if you had put lily leaves to an iris -instead of their own romantic sword-blades, -how awkward and wrong it would have been; -whereas the lily-stalk, with its conventional -layers, is perfection in support of the queenly -head of the Madonna or the Auratum. It is -not association, but recognition of a Great -Artist, in all reverence be it said: “He hath -done all things well.”</p> - -<p>To come back to the walled enclosure about -the old Dorset manor house. Here, looking -down our wind-swept terraces, we sometimes -hanker for the sunny seclusion of that walled -garden, though apparently all is not perfect -even there, for the last message from it -says:</p> - -<p>“The strong sun takes all the strength out<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[Pg 179]</span> -of the pinks after the first day or two. It has -been very hot in the early afternoon, and as the -garden faces west all the poor little things are -drawn in a long slant towards the setting sun. -Some of the long-stemmed ones have got positive -wriggles in their stalks from so much -exercise; it is really bad for their systems.”</p> - -<p>In a previous letter she writes less pessimistically:</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell you the loveliness of the garden. -It is like Venus rising from the sea—Venus -and her foam together—roses, pinks, sweet-williams, -everything leaping into bloom and -over the walls. I have given up trying to -harmonize colours. There is nothing so wilful -as an old garden. The plants simply walk -about, much as our ‘Pekies’ do. I planted -nigella last year, which didn’t do very well; -however it skipped across a path of its own -accord this year, and there is a patch of it in a -forbidden corner which shames the sky. One -looks on and laughs helplessly, as one does -with ‘Pekies.’”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The Penzance briar hedge dividing the -new rosary from the reserve garden promises<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[Pg 180]</span> -very well. It is already breaking into many -coloured stars, carmine, pink, amber, and the -fashionable khaki. Is this the musk-rose of -the “Midsummer Night’s Dream”?</p> - -<p>To contradict our statement of a page or two -back, the Creator has made here one of the -exceptions to His rule of rich and delicate -balance, and it is the unsuspected fragrance of -the sweetbriar that adds so extraordinarily to -its attraction in a garden. No one would credit -it with the scent, its evanescent fragile bloom -gives no indication of it. And, like the perfectly -saintly, its fragrance has nothing to do -with youth or beauty. You pass an unimportant-looking -green bush, and all at once you -are assailed with the breath of Heaven. There -is a mystery, almost a mysticism, about the -perfection of this sweetness, this intangible, -invisible beauty. One is reminded of Wordsworth’s -lines:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent10">“quiet as a nun</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Breathless with adoration.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">It is the image of a pure soul exhaling itself -before God, in a rapture of ecstatic contemplation.</p> - -<p>The June scents of the Villino garden are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[Pg 181]</span> -very wonderful, peculiarly so this year, -under the searching brilliancy of the unclouded -heavens. There is the sweetbriar, and there -are the pinks, and there is one long border all -of nepeta—against the Dorothy Perkins hedge -still only green—with its pungent, wholesome -savour. And there is the gum cistus, that -smells exactly as did the insides of the crimson -Venetian bottles which stood in the great -white and blue and gold drawing-room in the -Signora’s Irish home. It was an old custom to -put a drop of attar of roses at the bottom of -these favourite ornaments in those days when -the Signora was a little girl, and it was one of -her great joys to be allowed to lift the stopper -and sniff. The strange far-off Eastern incense -that hangs about the rather uncomely straggling -shrub—another instance of the Almighty’s exceptions—brings -the mistress of the Villino -back with a leap to her childhood; to the late -Georgian drawing-room, with its immense -plate-glass windows hung with curtains of -forget-me-not blue brocade which cost a hundred -pounds a pair—people spent solid money -then for solid worth; the white marble chimney-piece, -with its copy of a fraction of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[Pg 182]</span> -Parthenon frieze—Phaeton driving his wild, -tossing horses; the immense cut-glass chandelier -sparkling and quivering with a thousand -elfin rainbow lights; the white and gold panels, -the plastered frieze of curling acanthus leaves; -and the smiling face of the adored mother looking -down upon the little creature in the stiff -piqué frock, who was the future Padrona. No -child analyzes its mother’s countenance. It is -only in later years that the beauty of that smile -was recognized by her. It was a beauty that -endured to the very last of those eighty-five -years of a life that was so well filled. It was -a smile of extraordinary sweetness and, to -that end, full of youth. That’s what the gum -cistus brings back; a fragrance of memory, -poignant and beloved. Everyone knows that -through the sense of smell the seat of memory -is most potently reached. The merest whiff -of a long-forgotten odour will bring back so -vividly some scene of the past that it is almost -painful. It is to be wondered why ghosts do -not more often choose this form of return to -the world. The story told by Frederick Myers -in his “Human Personality” of the phantom -scent of thyme by which a poor girl haunted<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[Pg 183]</span> -the field where she had been murdered is, -we believe, unique; but we know another -record. This was not the struggle of any -reproachful shade to bring itself back to human -recollection, but the ghost of a fragrance itself. -The late Bret Harte told the tale to a friend -of ours. On a visit to an old English castle he -was lodged in a tower room. Every afternoon -he used to withdraw for literary labours, and -at a certain hour the whole of the old chamber -would be filled with the penetrating vapour of -incense. He sought in vain for some explanation -of the mystery. There was nothing within -or without, beneath or above, which could produce -such a phenomenon. Then he bethought -himself of investigating the past, and found -that his room was exactly over what had once -been the chapel in the days of our ancient -Faith, and that it had been the custom to celebrate -Benediction at the hour when the incense—that -wraith of a bygone lovely worship—now -seemed to surround him.</p> - -<p>A few steps beyond the gum cistus the -buddleia trees this June have their brief splendour -of bloom and their intoxication of perfume. -It is as if all the honey of clover and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[Pg 184]</span> -gorse, with something of a dash of clove spice, -was burning in a pyre of glory to the sunshine. -What wonder that the bees gather there and -chant the whole day long! Happy bees, drunk -with bliss in the midst of their labour!</p> - -<p>It is all very well to speak of bees as a frugal, -hard-working community, to hold them up to -the perpetual emulation of the young. Few -people seem to remember how extremely -dissipated they become when they come across -a good tap of honey. Who has not seen them—so -charged with the luxuriance that they can -scarcely stagger out of the calyx—buzz away, -blundering, upon inebriated wing?</p> - -<p>Greatly favoured by Nature, the bees combine -the extreme of laudable activity with the -extreme of self-indulgence. Anyone who wants -to hear their pæan of rapture at its height, let -him provide them with <i>Buddleia globosa</i>.</p> - -<p>We have by no means exhausted the list of -scents in the June garden. There are the -irises! All Florence is in the sweetness that -flows from them: a sweetness, by the way, not -adapted to rooms, where, to be unpoetical, it -assumes something faintly catty. The way the -perfume of irises rolls over Florence in May is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[Pg 185]</span> -something not to be described to anyone who -has not breathed it. We were once the guests -of a kindly literary couple, who dwelt in one of -those charming, quaint, transmogrified farmhouses -outside the city that makes us—even -we who own the Villino Loki—hanker. It was -called Villa Benedetto. One drove out from -Florence along a road now only vaguely -remembered. It skirted the river, and there -were wild slopes on one side and poplar-trees; -then one darted aside into the Italian hills and -up a steep ascent—this vision is also vague; -but we remember the little garden-gate and -the narrow brick path and the irises! Irises -and China roses! It is a lovely mixture for -colour; and as for scent! anyone who knows -anything about scent (and we wonder why -there are not artists in it, as well as for music -and painting) anyone who knows anything -about scent, we repeat, is quite aware that -orris, the pounded iris root, is the only possible -fragrance to keep constantly about. It combines -the breath of the mignonette and the -subtle delight of the violet. It preserves, too, -its adorable freshness of impression. You -never sicken of it, you never tire of it. Of course<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[Pg 186]</span> -it has the fault of its delicacy, it is evanescent; -but, then, it is never stale. Any woman who -wishes an atmosphere of poetry should use -nothing but orris, the pure pounded root without -any addition, and that perpetually renewed. -Precious quality, it cannot be overdone.</p> - -<p>The odour of the flower itself in the sunshine -is a different thing, far more piercing and far -more pronounced. It must be enjoyed in the -sunshine, or after a spring storm. Those other -incomparable banquets to the sense which a -bean-field or a clover-meadow will spread for -you cannot be captured and refined in the same -manner. More’s the pity!</p> - -<p>Lafcadio Hearn declares that human beings -have lamentably failed to cultivate the rich -possibilities of the sense of smell. In this -respect, he says, dogs are infinitely superior. -Who can tell, he asks, what ecstasy of combination, -what chords, what symphonies of harmony -and contrast, might we not be able to serve -ourselves? But we do not think the idea will -bear development, and certainly many suffer -enough from an over-sensitiveness of nostril -already to prevent them from desiring any -further cultivation of its powers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[Pg 187]</span></p> - -<p>The Villino in June smells very good, however, -and that is gratifying. And to complete -the catalogue there are the new pine shoots -delicious and aromatic, stimulating and healthy; -a perfect aroma on a hot day.</p> - -<p>“Tell me your friends and I will tell you -what you are,” says the sage; it sounds like a -dog, but the Padrona feels that with one sniff -she can sum up a character.</p> - -<p>When Tréfle Incarnat, or its last variant, -takes you by the throat, you needn’t look to -see what kind of young woman is sitting beside -you at the theatre.</p> - -<p>And when a portly friend, resplendent in -gorgeous sables, heralds her approach with a -powerful blast of Napthaline, you know the -kind of woman <i>she</i> is, and that the word -“friend,” just written, is misapplied; for you -never could make a friend of anyone so stuffily -and stupidly careful.</p> - -<p>And when you go to tea with an acquaintance—probably -literary, living in Campden -Hill and fond of bead blinds—and the smell -of joss-stick floats upon the disgusted nostril -from the doorway, you know the kind of party -you are going to have. Your hostess will<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[Pg 188]</span> -have surrounded herself with long-haired and -dank-handed young men, the Postlethwaites of -the period, and brilliant young females who -wear a mauvy powder over rather an unwashed -face, and curious garments cut square -at the neck, and turquoise matrix ear-rings, -very much veined with brown! Besides the -joss-sticks there is cigarette smoke, and the -atmosphere, morally as well as physically, is -fusty!</p> - -<p>Then there is the female who produces a -bottle of Eau-de-Cologne on board ship. If -it isn’t a German governess, it is a heated -person with something purple about her and -kid gloves—why pursue the horrid theme!</p> - -<p>Let us end this divagation by a little -anecdote as true as it is charming. It -happened to a member of our own family. -She was hurrying along one foggy November -morning to the Brompton Oratory rather -early; and the dreadful acrid vapour and -the uncertain struggle of a grimy dawn contended -against the glimmer of the gas-lamps. -As she approached the steps of the church -somebody crossed her, and instantly the whole -air was filled with an exquisite fragrance as of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[Pg 189]</span> -violets. Involuntarily she started to look round, -and her movement arrested, too, the passer-by. -For a second they stood quite close to each -other, and to our relative’s astonishment she -saw only a small, meek-faced old lady in an -Early Victorian bonnet wrapped in a very -dowdy dolman.</p> - -<p>The old lady gave a little smile and went her -way. There was certainly no adornment of -real violets about her, and to look at her was -enough to be assured that artificial scents -could never approach her.</p> - -<p>The incident seemed strange enough to be -worth making investigations, and the explanation -was simple. The little old lady -was very well known; mother of priests, a -ceaseless worker among the poor; nearly -eighty, and every day at seven o’clock Mass. -Many people had remarked the scent of violets -about her, and her friends thought, laughingly, -it was because she was something of a -saint.</p> - -<p>This sweet-smelling saint died as she had -lived. She had received the Last Sacraments; -she knew her moments were numbered, but -she sat up, propped by pillows, and went on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[Pg 190]</span> -knitting for the poor till the needles fell from -her hands.</p> - -<p>If the story of the violets had not happened -to a member of the family, the Signora would -be quite ready to believe it on hearsay, because -of the delicious simplicity and certain confidence -of that placid deathbed.</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[Pg 191]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII">VIII<br /> -OUR BLUE-COAT BOYS</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Ils ont le bras en écharpe, et un bandeau sur l’œil,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Mais leur âme est légère et ils sourient ...</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Ils s’en vont, grisés de lumière,</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Etourdis par le bruit,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Traînant la jambe dans la poussière</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Le nez au vent, le regard réjoui....”</div> -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Cammaerts.</span> -</p> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smcap">We</span> asked them to tea; the Sister said that “the -Matron said they couldn’t do that”; but they -could come for morning lunch about half-past -ten o’clock, and have bread-and-butter and see -the garden. And they would like to come -very much indeed, preferably next day. The -Matron further opined about twelve would -feel well enough to avail themselves of our -hospitality.</p> - -<p>It gave us very little time for preparation, -and the baker declined to provide us with buns -so early. But it was very hot, fortunately; so -Mrs. McComfort set to work at dawn to prepare -lemonade and fruit salad, and immense -slices of bread-and-jam. And we were very -glad she had been so lavish in her Irish<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[Pg 192]</span> -generosity when we heard the sound of voices -and the tramping of feet in the courtyard: it -seemed as if there were a regiment of them! In -reality there were only twenty—twenty smiling, -stalwart “blue-coat boys.” Some with an arm -in a sling; two or three limping along with the -help of a stick; one with a bandaged head; -three, in spite of a brave front, with that look -of strain and tragedy in the eyes which stamps -even those who have been only slightly -“gassed.”</p> - -<p>They are very much amused at the little -outing, as pleased and as easily diverted as -children, not anxious to talk about their experiences, -but answering with perfect ease and -simplicity any question that is made to them -on the subject. They are chiefly excited over -our little dogs. We wish that we had twenty -instead of only three; or that we had borrowed -from a neighbour’s household for the occasion. -Every man wants to nurse a dog, and those -who have secured the privilege are regarded -with considerable envy by the others.</p> - -<p>The younger members of the <i>famiglia</i> are -in a desperate state of excitement, and there is -a great flutter of aprons, and cheeks flame<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[Pg 193]</span> -scarlet under caps pinned slightly crooked in -the agitation of the moment.</p> - -<p>Miss Flynn the housemaid, Miss O’Toole -the parlourmaid, are stirred to rapture to discover -an Irish corporal, wounded at Ypres. -We think they talk more of Tipperary—it really -is Tipperary—than of Flanders. Miss Flynn, -a handsome, black-eyed, black-haired damsel, -with a colour that beats the damask roses on -the walls of the Villino, has been born and -bred in England. She is more forthcoming -than Miss O’Toole, who has the true Hibernian -reserve; who looks deprecatingly from under -her fair aureole of hair, and expects and gives -the utmost respectfulness in all her relations -with the opposite sex.</p> - -<p>They say this lovely sensitive modesty of the -Irish girl is dying out. The penny novelette, -the spread of emancipation and education—save -the mark!—facilities of communication, -have done away with it. More’s the pity if -this be true, for it was a bloom on the womanhood -of Ireland no polish can replace; it added -something incommunicably lovable to the grace -of the girls, something holy, almost august, to -the tenderness of the mothers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[Pg 194]</span></p> - -<p>When the Signora was a child in Ireland the -peasant wife still spoke of her husband as -“the master”; and in the wilds of Galway, -quite recently, she has seen the women in the -roads pull their shawls over their faces at the -approach of a stranger. The humble matron -of the older type will still walk two paces -behind her husband. These are, of course, but -indications of the austere conception of life -which an unquestioning acceptance of her faith -kept alive in the breast of the Irishwoman. -When she promised to love and honour him, -the husband became <i>de facto</i> “the master.” -Yet the influence of the Irish wife and mother -in her own home in no way suffered from this -conception of her duty. She was as much -“<i>herself</i>” upon the lips of her lord as he -“<i>himself</i>” upon hers. It used to be a boast -that the purity of the Irish maiden and the -Irish mother was a thing apart, inassailable. -The Signora’s recollections of Ireland, of a -childhood passed in a country house that kept -itself very much in touch with its poor neighbours -and dependants, bring her back many -instances of drunkenness among the men, alas! -and the consequent fights and factions; of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[Pg 195]</span> -slovenliness among the women, and hopeless -want of thrift and energy; in one or two -instances, indeed, of flagrant dishonesty; but -she never remembers a single occasion marked -by the shocked whisper, the swift and huddled -dismissal, or any of the other tokens by which -a fall from feminine virtue is mysteriously -conveyed to the child mind.</p> - -<p>Among all the poor cottage homes, the -various farms, great and small, prosperous -or neglected, each with their strapping brood -of splendid youth, never one can she recollect -about whose name there was a silence; never -a single one of these dewy-eyed, fresh-faced -girls that did not carry the innocence of their -baptism in the half-deprecating, half-confident -looks they cast upon “the quality.”</p> - -<p>Naturally there must have been exceptions; -and naturally, too, this state of affairs could -not have applied to some of the more miserable -quarters of the towns. Nevertheless, the Ireland -of a quarter of a century ago had not forgotten -she had once been called the Island of Saints; -and her mothers and daughters kept very -preciously the vestal flame alive in their pure -breasts.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[Pg 196]</span></p> - -<p>Times have changed, and more’s the pity, as -we have said. But now and again a flower -blooms as if upon the old roots, and though -Mary O’Toole is transplanted to England, we -trust that she may keep her infantile innocence -and her exquisite—there is no English equivalent—<i>pudeur</i>.</p> - -<p>It was a picture to see her in her cornflower-blue -cotton frock, with her irrepressible hair -tucked as tidily as nature would allow beneath -her white cap, staggering under the weight of -a tray charged with refreshments for the -wounded. She is about five-foot nothing, with -a throat the average male hand could encircle -with a finger and thumb, but among the twenty -soldiers, all of different ages, classes, and, of -course, dispositions, who visited us that day, -there was not one but regarded her with as -much respect as if she had been six foot high -and as ill-favoured as Sally Brass—we hope, -however, with considerably more pleasure.</p> - -<p>When the blue-coat boys have been duly -refreshed, they wander out into the garden. -They remind one irresistibly of a school, and -there is something tenderly droll in their complete -submission to the little plump sister, who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[Pg 197]</span> -orders them about with a soft voice and certain -authority.</p> - -<p>“No. 20, come out of the sun. No. 15, I’d -rather you didn’t sit on the grass.”</p> - -<p>Then she turns apologetically to us: “It -isn’t that I don’t know it’s quite dry.” (We -should think it was, on our sandy heights, -after five weeks’ drought!) “But I never know -quite where I am with the gassed cases. That’s -the worst of them. They’re perfectly well one -day, and we say, ‘Thank goodness, <i>that’s</i> all -over,’ and the next day its up in his eyes, -perhaps!”</p> - -<p>“I’ll never be the same man again,” suddenly -exclaims a short, saturnine young Canadian, -who has not—a marked exception to the others—once -smiled since he came, and who keeps -a dark grudge in his eyes. He seems perfectly -well, except for that curious expression, to our -uninitiated gaze, but his voice is weak and -there is a languor about his movements extraordinarily -out of keeping with his build, which -is all for strength, like that of a young Hercules.</p> - -<p>“I’ll never be the same man again; I feel -that. It’s shortened my life by a many years. -So it has with them over there.” He jerks his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[Pg 198]</span> -thumb towards his comrades in misfortune. -“They’ll none of them ever be the same men -again.”</p> - -<p>The Signora tries feebly to protest, but the -nurse acquiesces placidly. It is the hospital -way, and not a bad way either; misfortunes -are not minimized, they are faced.</p> - -<p>The Signora has an unconquerable timidity -where other people’s reticences are concerned, -and was far from emulating the amiable -audacity of a close relative—at present on a -visit to the Villino—whose voice she hears -raised in the distance with query after query: -“Where was it? In your leg? Does it hurt? -Do you mind? Do you want to go back again?” -But when she sees that the men indubitably -like this frank attack, and respond, smiling and -stimulated, the silence of her Canadian begins -to weigh upon her. She tries him with a -bashful question:</p> - -<p>“Is your home in a town in Canada?”</p> - -<p>“No, not in a town. Three hundred and -eighty miles away from the nearest of any -importance.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear! Then it must take you a long -time to hear from your people.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[Pg 199]</span></p> - -<p>The young harsh face darkens.</p> - -<p>The post only comes to his home out yonder -once a week, anyhow, but he hasn’t heard but -once since he left. Not at all since he came to -England wounded.</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear!” exclaimed the Signora again, -scenting a grievance. “But if it’s so far away, -you couldn’t have heard yet.”</p> - -<p>The lowering copper-hued countenance—it is -curiously un-English, and reminds one vaguely -of those frowning black marble busts in the -Capitol: young Emperors already savagely -conscious of their own unlimited power—takes -a deeper gloom.</p> - -<p>He could have heard. No. 9 had had a letter -that morning, and <i>his</i> home was forty miles -further north.</p> - -<p>“Had No. 9 a letter?” asks the little Sister.</p> - -<p>She sits plump and placid in her cloak, and -looks like a dove puffing out her feathers in -the sunshine. We have said she has a cooing -voice.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he had,” says the Canadian, and digs a -vindictive finger into the dry grass.</p> - -<p>The Signora, fearing the conversation is -going to lapse, plunges into the breach.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[Pg 200]</span></p> - -<p>“What was your work at home? Farming, -I suppose.”</p> - -<p>This remark meets with an unexpected -success. The poor, fierce eyes—that seem -never to have ceased from contemplation of -unpardonable injury since that day at Ypres -when the fumes of hell belched up before -them—brighten.</p> - -<p>“Wa-al! I do sometimes this and sometimes -that. I can do most things. It’s just what I -happen to want to put my hand to. I’m master -of half a dozen trades, I am. I’ve been on the -farm, and I’m a blacksmith, and an engineer -on the railway; and a barber, and a butcher.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me!” says the little Sister.</p> - -<p>Her gaze is serenely fixed on the smiling -green path. From the shadow in which we -sit, it leads to a slope out into the blaze of the -sunshine, where a cypress-tree rises like an -immense green flame, circled with a shimmer -of light. But perhaps her tone conveys rebuke, -for our Canadian suddenly relapses into silence, -from which we cannot again entice him.</p> - -<p>A little further away a friend who is staying -with us, and the relative above mentioned, are -listening with intense interest to the talk of a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[Pg 201]</span> -tall, black-moustached soldier. His face is -very pale under its bronze; he is the worst -of the three gas victims who have come to-day. -It is only what are called the very slight cases -that are treated in the hospital close by.</p> - -<p>A much older man this, who has been many -years in the army and came over with the -Indian division. He has a gentle, thoughtful -face. There is no resentment in his eyes—only -the look of one who has seen death very -close and does not forget—and a great languor, -the mark of the gas. He is talking very dispassionately -of our reprisals.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, we have used our gas, the freezing-gas! -But it don’t seem hardly worth while. -It draws their fire so.” Then, with an everyday -smile and no more emotion in his tone -than if he were descanting on a mousetrap, he -goes on to describe the incredibly sudden effect -of what he calls the freezing-gas, which we -suppose to be the French Turpinite. “It -freezes you up, so to speak, right off on the -spot. You see a fellow standing, turning his -head to talk to a fellow near him. He lifts -his hand, maybe, in his talk like; then comes -along the gas, and there he stands. You think<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[Pg 202]</span> -he’s going on talking. He’s frozen dead, his -arm up, looking so natural-like, same as might -be me this minute. Oh, it’s quick! what you -call instantaneous. But it ain’t ’ardly worth -while. The Germans, you see, it draws their -fire so. Two or three times we got it in among -our own men—oh, by mistake, miss, of course!” -This in response to the horrified ejaculation of -his interlocutor. “And that didn’t seem ’ardly -worth while.”</p> - -<p>Beyond this group, again, the daughter of the -house, seated on a croquet-box, is surrounded -by three sprawling blue soldiers. One of them -is talking earnestly to her. The others are -so much engaged in a game of “Beggar my -Neighbour” with three-year-old Vivi, the -Belgian baby, that they do not pay the -smallest attention to their companion, and yet -what he is saying is horrible enough, startling -enough, God knows! The speaker is a fair, -pleasant-looking boy with a cocked nose, tightly -curling auburn hair, and an air of vitality and -energy that makes it difficult to think of him -as in anything but the perfection of health. -He is a territorial, and evidently belongs to -that thinking, well-educated, working class<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[Pg 203]</span> -that has made such a magnificent response to -the country’s call.</p> - -<p>“No, miss, we are not taking many prisoners -now. No, we’re not likely to. Well, think of -our case. Just one little bit out of the whole -long line. They caught our sergeant—the -sergeant of my company. We were all very -fond of him. Well, miss, they put him up -where we could all see him—top of their trench—and -tortured him. Yes, miss, all day they -tortured him in sight of us, and all day we -were trying to get at them and we couldn’t. -And when in the evening we did get at them, -he was dead, miss. We were all very fond of -him. We weren’t likely to give much quarter -after that. And our officers”—here he smiles -suddenly—“well, miss, we’re Territorials, you -see. Our officers just let us loose. We’re -Territorials,” he repeated. “They can’t keep -us as they keep the regulars. Not in the same -military way. No, miss, we didn’t give much -quarter!”</p> - -<p>Our daughter groans a little. She understands, -she sympathizes, yet she regrets. She -would like our men to be as absolutely without -reproach as they are without fear.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[Pg 204]</span></p> - -<p>“But you wouldn’t bring yourself down to -the level of the Germans,” she says; “you -wouldn’t cease doing right because they do -wrong?”</p> - -<p>He fixes her with bright blue eyes, and they -are hard as steel.</p> - -<p>“Your British blood will boil,” he says -slowly.</p> - -<p>It seems impossible to associate such a dark -and awful tragedy with this slim English boy -and his unconquerable air of joyous youth. -The Signorina remembers the repeated phrase, -“We were all very fond of him,” and she -sickens from the thought of that hellish picture -of cruelty and agony on one side, of the impotent -grief and rage on the other.</p> - -<p>To change the subject, she says:</p> - -<p>“How were you wounded?”</p> - -<p>And then it transpired he had been carrying -in the British wounded at the end of that -day. He had been hit in the leg without -knowing it, and just as he was starting off to -help to carry in the German wounded, he -collapsed.</p> - -<p><i>To help to carry in the German wounded!</i> -Those Germans who had tortured his own<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[Pg 205]</span> -comrade all day! Dear Tommy! Dear, -straight, noble, simple British soldier! How -could one ever have mistrusted your rough -justice or your Christian humanity?</p> - -<p>Real boy that he is, he warms up to the glee -of narrating his audacities when out at night -with a party on listening-post duty.</p> - -<p>“Rare fun it was,” he declares.</p> - -<p>He used to creep up to the enemy’s trench -and bayonet what came handy.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t fire, you see, miss, nor do anything -likely to make a noise, so it had to be -done on the quiet. But I got a good many -that way.”</p> - -<p>Baby Vivi is tired of her game of cards. For -a while past she has been amusing herself by -boxing the two sitting soldiers. Very well-delivered -vigorous thumps she applies on their -chests with her little fists, and they obligingly -go over backwards on the grass. She now -comes to exercise her powers on the Territorial. -He catches her in his arms.</p> - -<p>The men all look at the little girl with strange, -troubled, tender eyes. One knows what is at -the back of their thought. One of them expresses -it presently.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[Pg 206]</span></p> - -<p>“To think that anyone could ever hurt a -little creature like that!”</p> - -<p>Vivi’s young mother sits with her small -group further away. She has told them how -she has fled out of her castle in the Ardennes -at dawn, without having had time even to pack -her children’s clothes. They had thought -themselves safe with the pathetic hopefulness -that filled poor Belgium from the moment -when the French troops and the English appeared -in strength upon the soil. “Now all is -well,” they said; “now we are safe.”</p> - -<p>A French General and his staff lodged in the -château, and the men camped in the park. On -the vigil of the day fixed for their intended -advance, the General took her on one side. An -old man, he had been through the whole of the -war of ’70. He solemnly warned her of the -folly of remaining in her home, as she intended.</p> - -<p>“Madame, I know the Germans. I know of -what they are capable. I have seen them at -work; I have not forgotten.”</p> - -<p>Should the invader reach a certain point -within ten miles of the district she must fly.</p> - -<p>All that night the aviators kept coming -with messages, and in the early dawn they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[Pg 207]</span> -started. She was up and saw the cavalcade -winding away through the park. She stood in -the porch to wish them God-speed. The young -men were full of ardour. They were going -forth to meet the enemy. The General was -grave. When he had reached the public road, -he sent one of his aide-de-camps riding back at -a gallop. Was it a premonition of disaster, or -had secret news reached him by some emissary -from the field of conflict? The message to her -was, that she was to be gone at once with her -family. At once!</p> - -<p>The young husband had already departed at -break of day in their automobile. He and his -machine had been offered to the service of the -country and accepted. The mother, with her -four little children—among them the sturdy, -two-year-old Viviane—had to walk to the -station, with what luggage could be got together -and trundled down in a wheelbarrow. Luckily -it was not far—their own station just outside -the park-gates. They got the last train that -ran from that doomed spot. The German guns -were within earshot as they steamed away.</p> - -<p>In their hurry they had forgotten to bring -any milk or water for the baby girl. The heat<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[Pg 208]</span> -was suffocating. The only thing that could be -laid hold of was a bottle of white wine which -someone had thrust into a bag. Vivi clamoured, -and they gave her half a glassful in the end. -She enjoyed it very much, and it did not disagree -with her at all.</p> - -<p>The men in their blue garb listen to some of -this story with profound attention. They have -a very touching, respectful, earnest way of -talking to the Belgian lady, and are very -anxious to impress upon her that soon they -will have her country cleared of the enemy.</p> - -<p>“You tell her that, miss. She do believe it, -don’t she? We’re going to sweep them out in -no time. Tell her that, miss. That’s what -we’re over there for. She’ll soon be able to -get back there—back in her own home.”</p> - -<p>One of them gazes at her for a while in a -kind of brooding silence, and then says huskily:</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it a mercy you got away, ma’am—you -and your little children!”</p> - -<p>He knows. He has seen.</p> - -<p>Then Viviane is called upon to sing -“Tipperary.”</p> - -<p>Though only just three, this child, as has -been said before, she looks a sturdy four. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[Pg 209]</span> -most jovial solid, red-cheeked, blue-eyed, -smiling, curly-haired little girl that it is -possible to imagine. Her mother says that -she never lost her balance and tumbled down -even when she first began to toddle; and one -can well believe it. There is a mixture of -strength and deliberation in everything she -does that makes one regret she is not a boy. -But she has pretty, coaxing, coquettish ways -that are quite feminine.</p> - -<p>She now puts her head on one side, and -ogles with her blue eyes first one soldier and -another, and smiles angelically as she pipes -“Tipperary.”</p> - -<p>This is a favourite song among the infant -population these days. The child of a friend -of ours calls it her hymn, and sings it in -church.</p> - -<p>There is something really engaging in Viviane’s -roll of the “r’s.” Her Tipperary is very -guttural and conscientious, and her “Good-bye, -Piccadeely” always provokes the laughter of -admiration.</p> - -<p>Encouraged by applause, she bursts into, -“We don’t want to lose you, but we think -you ought to go.” And is quite aware, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[Pg 210]</span> -little rogue, of the effect she will presently -produce when, upon an incredibly high note, -she announces, “We will <i>keess</i> you.”</p> - -<p>After this, she breaks into piety with, “Paradise, -oh! Paradise.”</p> - -<p>The little plump nurse gets up and shakes -out her cloak. It is getting quite late, and they -must go back to the hospital. She marshals -her charges up on the terrace. They obey her -just as if they were very good little boys in -charge of their schoolmistress.</p> - -<p>“Now say good-bye, and thank you. I’m -sure you’ve all enjoyed yourselves. No. 20, -where’s your hat? Go down and get your -hat, No. 20. No; his poor leg’s tired. You -go down and get it, No. 13.”</p> - -<p>“I seen it a while ago,” No. 13 announces -obligingly.</p> - -<p>They say “good-bye” and “thank you” with -the conscientiousness of their simple hearts. -We shake, one after the other, those outstretched -hands that grip back so cordially.</p> - -<p>A guest of the Villino—an honoured guest, -who is not only one of the most distinguished -women artists of the day, but has lived all her -married life within sound of the drum; who<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[Pg 211]</span> -has been always inspired by the sights and -scenes, the high glories and noble disasters of -warfare—expresses the feeling struggling in -our hearts as she retains the hand of the last -of the file of blue-coats in hers: “What an -honour to shake the hand of a British soldier!”</p> - -<p>We hear them troop away through the little -courtyard, laughing and talking. We think, as -the small nurse said, that they have had a -pleasant time.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>One of the small side amusements in life is -to hear other people’s reflections upon experiences -that one has lived through together, -and to measure the distance that lies between -different points of view. It makes one realize -how extraordinarily difficult it must be to -obtain reliable evidence.</p> - -<p>A neighbour has obligingly come in to help -us with the entertainment. She is the pleasant, -middle-aged Irish widow of an Irish doctor, -and her good-humour is as pronounced as her -brogue. Finding herself alone on the terrace -with the Signorina after the departure of the -convalescents, she mystified her with the -following remark:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[Pg 212]</span></p> - -<p>“How frightened the poor old lady was!”</p> - -<p>The poor old lady? The Signorina was all -at sea. There was no one answering to such a -description among us to-day.</p> - -<p>“The poor old lady,” repeated the other -firmly. “Yes, Lady ——. I was talking to -her, and oh! anybody could see how terrified -she was. Nervous, you know; trembling at -the mention of the war, upset, shrinking away. -And no wonder, I’m sure,” she concluded -genially. “Hasn’t she got a son out there?”</p> - -<p>She betook herself down the steps towards -her cottage. Our daughter watched the purple-spotted -blouse meandering downwards from -terrace to terrace till it disappeared. She was -too astounded even to be able to remonstrate.</p> - -<p>And, indeed, of what use would it have been? -That Lady ——, distinguished, humorous, with -her figure erect and slender as a girl’s, and her -refined, delightful face stamped with genius on -the brow, and with the most delicate humour -about the mouth; that this incomparable -woman, actually in the zenith of her power, -personal as well as artistic, a being whom it -seems that age can never touch, to whom the -years have so far only brought a maturing of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[Pg 213]</span> -all kinds of excellence, should have appeared -to anyone as the <i>poor old lady</i>! And that she -should be further classed among the frightened! -She who more than any fighter of them all -sees the romance of war, the high lesson of -war; who only the day before, speaking of a -discontented soldier friend, had said to us in -tones of wonder:</p> - -<p>“He’s not enjoying war! It seems so strange.”</p> - -<p>There was nothing for it but to laugh. But -what an insight into the manner in which -“other people see us.”</p> - -<p>In the Signora’s early teens her family indulged -in a Dublin season, during which a -very worthy prelate, the Cardinal Archbishop -of her Church, died. He was full of years and -good works, but at no moment of his existence -remarkable for good looks.</p> - -<p>A sprightly housemaid of the establishment -demanded permission to go and visit the church -where he was laid out in state. On her return -the Padrona’s mother inquired how the sight -had impressed her, expecting a duly pious -response.</p> - -<p>Quoth the damsel, with her brisk Dublin -accent:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[Pg 214]</span></p> - -<p>“Well, really, ’m, I thought the Cawdinal -looked remawkably well!”</p> - -<p>As a rule, however, the Irish lower classes -are more quick to seize shades of feeling, refinements -of emotion, than the poor of other -races; especially—to hark back to a former -page—that peasantry of the older type in which -a vivid spirituality was kept alive by their -faith. A chaplain has written to us from the -Isle of Wight speaking of the immense consolation -he had had in the presence of some Irish -soldiers among the troops stationed there. -“Their faith made me ashamed.”</p> - -<p>But indeed the feeling of religion among all -our men, of whatever creed, and from whatever -part of the British Isles they have come, is not -one of the least remarkable manifestations of -the war.</p> - -<p>“I knew I would not be killed,” said a -wounded soldier beside whose bed we sat the -other day. “But I knew I’d come back a better -man, and I think I have.”</p> - -<p>Then he added that the only thing that -troubled them, lying in hospital, was the -thought of the comrades in the thick of it, and -not being able to help them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[Pg 215]</span></p> - -<p>“Of course,” he went on thoughtfully, “we -can pray. We all do that, of course; we do -pray, and we know that helps.”</p> - -<p>This man was neither Irish nor Catholic.</p> - -<p>Infinitely touching are the remarks they -make, these dear fellows; beautiful sometimes -in their unconscious heroism.</p> - -<p>“Well, at least,” said the Signorina to a man -permanently crippled by shrapnel, saddened -by the decision that he could never go back to -the front. “At least you know you’ve done -your little bit.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but you see, miss,” he answered in all -simplicity, “among us the saying goes, no one -has really done his little bit till he’s underground.”</p> - -<p>“Will you mind going back?” said a rather -foolish friend of ours to an exhausted, badly -wounded sufferer in a Dublin hospital. He -had seen Mons and its horrors, all the brutality -of war with little of its concomitant glory. -The eyes in his drawn face looked up at her -steadily.</p> - -<p>“If it’s my dooty, lady, I’m ready to go.”</p> - -<p>“I’d give my other leg to go back,” said a -maimed lad to Lady ——. He was in a hospital<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[Pg 216]</span> -at Lyndhurst, a fair, splendid boy, not yet -eighteen.</p> - -<p>“Don’t make me too soft, Sister,” pleaded -an Irish Fusilier with five bullet wounds in his -back, to his kindly nurse in the little convent -hospital near here. “I’ve got to finish my job -out there.”</p> - -<p>At a recent lecture delivered on “Five Months -with the British Expeditionary Force”—his -own experience—Professor Morgan made use -of these remarkable words: “Our men count -no cost too high in the service of the nation. -They greet death like a friend, and go into -battle as to a festival.”</p> - -<p>What wonder, then, that there should be -such an unshakable spirit of confidence -throughout the whole of our army, for with -conscience at peace, and eyes fixed on their -high ideal, they go forth to fight, knowing that, -as a great preacher has said, those who do -battle in a just cause already carry the flame of -victory on their foreheads.</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[Pg 217]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IX">IX<br /> -IT’S A FAR CRY TO PERSIA</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent12">“Come, my tan-faced children,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Follow well in order, get your weapons ready!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Have you your pistols?—Have you your sharp-edged axes?</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"> - -<hr class="tb" /></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">For we cannot tarry here—we must march, my darlings;</div> - <div class="verse indent4">we must bear the brunt of danger!</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0"> - -<hr class="tb" /></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">O resistless, restless race! O beloved race in all! O, my breast</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Aches with tender love for all!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">O, I mourn and yet exult. I am rapt with love for all!”</div> -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Walt Whitman.</span> -</p> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="pfirst"><span class="smcap">The</span> master of the Villino got the telegram -when he was shaving, that morning of October -26.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“Slightly wounded. Going London.—H.”</p></blockquote> - -<p>He came straight in to the Signora, who -instantly read all kinds of sinister meanings -into the reticent lines.</p> - -<p>Slightly wounded! H. would be sure to say -that whatever had happened. Even if he had -lost an arm or a leg he might very well try -and break it to us in some such phrase. There -were certainly grounds for consolation in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[Pg 218]</span> -fact that he should be “going London,” but -were not the papers full of accounts of the -felicitous manner in which the transport of -very serious cases was being daily accomplished?</p> - -<p>The only brother and very precious! Always -in the Signora’s mind—stalwart, middle-aged -man as he is—doubled by and impossible to -dissociate from a little fair-haired boy, the -youngest of the family, endeared by a thousand -quaint, childish ways. That he should be -wounded, suffering Heaven knew what unknown -horror of discomfort and pain, was -absurdly, but unconquerably to her heart, the -hurting of the child. Alas! if an elder sister -feels this, what must the agony of the mothers -be all through the world to-day!</p> - -<p>We telephoned to the clearing station at -Southampton, and found that the ambulance -train had already started. Then the master of -the Villino, and the sister whose home is with -us, determined to leave for London themselves -and endeavour to trace our soldier.</p> - -<p>It was late in the afternoon when a comforting -telegram came through to those left behind; it -told us that H. had been run to earth; that the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[Pg 219]</span> -wound was indeed favourable; that he was well -in health, and that we might expect him here -to be nursed in a couple of days.</p> - -<p>Very glad the Villino was to have him, very -proud of its own soldier, deeply thankful to be -granted the care of him!</p> - -<p>The Signorina immediately instituted herself -Red Cross nurse, the local lectures having -borne fruit after all. The wound was for us -and for him a very lucky one, but the doctor -called it dreadful, and, indeed, one could have -put one’s hand into it; and Juvenal, summoned -to assist at the first dressing, fainted at the -sight. But it had not touched any vital point, -and though the muscle under the shoulder-blade -was torn in two, it has left no weakness -in the arm.</p> - -<p>Like all soldiers we have met, he will not -hear of the suggestion that it was inflicted by -a dum-dum bullet. Nevertheless, it is a singular -fact that where the bullet went in the -hole is the ordinary size of the missile, and -where it came out it is the size of a man’s fist. -Something abnormal about that German projectile -there must have been. But we were -ready to go down on our knees and thank God<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[Pg 220]</span> -fasting for a good man’s life; and it was clear -that it would take a long time to heal!</p> - -<p>Anyone who knows our soldiers knows the -perfectly simple attitude of their minds as far -as their own share in the great struggle is concerned. -Further, they have an everyday, -common-sense, unexaggerated manner of speaking -of their terrible experiences which helps us -stay-at-homes very much—we who are apt to -regard the front as a nightmare, hell and -shambles mixed.</p> - -<p>“We were a bit cut up that day, but we got -our own back with the bayonet.”</p> - -<p>“Well, they took our range rather too neatly, -but man for man Tommy’s a match for the Hun -any day, even if we were short of shells.”</p> - -<p>“Poor lads! they had to trot off before they’d -had their breakfast—a six-mile walk and stiff -work to follow—after three days and three -nights of it below Hollebeke. We’d been sent -back for a rest when the message came; but -the men didn’t mind anything, only the loss of -the breakfast. ‘Such a good breakfast as it -was, sir,’ as one of them said to me. Six o’clock -in the morning and a six-mile march! A few -of the fellows clapped their bacon into their<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[Pg 221]</span> -pockets. The line was broken and the Germans -coming in. Someone had to drive them out, -and the Worcesters came handy.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, we did it all right; running like -smoke they were, squealing—they can’t stand -the bayonet!”</p> - -<p>That was the “little bit” where our soldier -got his wound.</p> - -<p>“It’s nothing at all, me child.”</p> - -<p>His sergeant dressed it first at the back of -the firing-line, then he walked into Ypres. He -went to the hospital, found it crowded—‘Lots -of fellows worse than I was’—so he strolled -away and had his hair cut!—“A real good -shampoo and a shave, and a bath, and then a -jolly good dinner!” And then he proceeded to -look up some nice fellows of the Irish Horse. -And in the end he went back to the hospital, -and they “did him up!”</p> - -<p>When one thinks that in peace time, if anyone -had accidentally received such a wound, what -a fuss there would have been! What a sending -for doctors and nurses! what long faces! what -lamentations, precautions, and misgivings! It -makes one understand better the state of things -over there. How splendidly indifferent our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[Pg 222]</span> -manhood has become to suffering! How -gloriously cheap it holds life itself!</p> - -<p>H. is happily not among those unfortunate -brave men who suffer nervous distress from -the sights, the scenes, and the strain of warfare, -but he has a keen, almost a poetic, sensibility -to the romance and tragedy of his -experiences.</p> - -<p>As he sat, those November days, in one of -the deep arm-chairs before the great bricked -hearth in the Villino library, a short phrase -here and there would give us a picture of some -episode which stamped itself upon the memory -of the listener.</p> - -<p>“Lord, it was jolty, driving along in the ambulance -to the station! The poor boy next to -me—badly wounded, poor chap! lost a lot of -blood—he got faint and lay across my breast; -went to sleep there in the end.”</p> - -<p>“Shells? ’Pon me word, it was beautiful -to see them at night! Oh, one’s all right, you -know, if one keeps in one’s trenches. One of -my subalterns—ah, poor lad! I don’t know what -took him—he got right out of the trench and -stood on the edge, stretching himself. A shell -came along and bowled him over. We dug<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[Pg 223]</span> -him out. He was an awfully good-looking -boy. There wasn’t a scratch on him, but he -was stone dead; his back broken. And there -he lay as beautiful as an angel. The Colonel -and I, we buried him. He was twenty-three; -just married. The Colonel and I used to bury -our men at night.”</p> - -<p>Suddenly the speaker’s shoulders shook with -laughter.</p> - -<p>“Those shells! One of my fellows had one -burst within a yard of him. Lord, I thought -he was in pieces! He was covered in earth -and rubbish! ‘Has that done for you?’ I -called out to him. ‘I think it has, sir,’ he said, -and you should have seen him clutching himself -all over! And then there was a grin. ‘No, -sir, it’s only a bruise!’ Oh, you get not to -mind them, except one kind; that does make -a nasty noise—a real nasty noise; it was just -that noise one minded. Ugh, when you heard -it coming along! Spiteful, it was!”</p> - -<p>In the private London hospital where he -spent three days the bed next to him was -occupied by a Major of Artillery, wounded in -the head.</p> - -<p>“There was not much wrong with him, poor<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[Pg 224]</span> -old chap! but he had got a bit of nerve-strain. -Lord, he never let me get a wink, calling out -all night in his sleep: ‘D—— that mist! I can’t -see the swine. A bit more to the left. Now, -now, boys, now we’ve got them! Oh, damn -that mist! Ha! we got them that time—got -the swine!’”</p> - -<p>The doctors who saw our soldier were rather -surprised to find him so calm in his mind. -They could scarcely believe he should sleep -so sound at nights—that the human machine -should be so little out of gear. Yet there were -days when he called himself “slack,” looked ill -enough, and one could see that even a short -walk was a severe trial of strength.</p> - -<p>We shall not lightly forget a funny little -incident which happened upon an afternoon -when he seemed peculiarly exhausted. He -was sitting in his arm-chair close to the fire, -looking grey and drawn, declaring that the -north-east wind never agreed with him. A -kindly clerical neighbour rushed in upon us. -He had just heard that fifty thousand Germans -had landed at Sheringham. All the troops -were under orders. Despatch riders had -galloped from Aldershot to stop the billeting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[Pg 225]</span> -of a regiment just arrived here. The men had -started up in the middle of their dinners and -begun to pack again. They were to go back -to Aldershot and concentrate for the great -move. Further—indisputable authority!—the -Chief Constable of the county had private information -of the invasion.</p> - -<p>You should have seen our soldier! He was -up out of his chair with a spring, his blue eyes -blazing. All the languor, the unacknowledged -stiffness and ache of his wound, were gone. -If ever there was a creature possessed with the -pure joy of battle it was he. How much the -womenkind miss who have never seen their -men leading a charge! What a vital part of a -man’s character lies dormant in times of peace!</p> - -<p>There is, we believe, a large number of -people who regard this fighting spirit as a -purely animal quality; recently, indeed, a -certain professor delivered a lecture on the -subject of wild dogs and wolves who fight in -packs, with special reference to the present -state of humanity. These thinkers, sitting at -ease in their armchairs, placid materialists, who -have never known their own souls, much less -do they know those of their countrymen.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[Pg 226]</span> -What we saw in our soldier’s eyes was, we -swear, the leap of the spirit—the fine steel of -the soul springing out of the scabbard of the -body, the fire from the clay. Carlyle has somewhere -a lovely phrase anent that spark of -heroism that will burn in the heart of the lowest -British soldier, the poorest, dullest peasant -lad, and make of him hero and martyr, enable -him to face long agony and death, endure as -well as charge.</p> - -<p>So H. flung off his languor and dashed out -of his armchair and sprang to the telephone to -order himself a car, and presently departed, -already invisibly armed, in search of—this time—an -invisible foe. For the foe was invisible!</p> - -<p>No one knew whence the scare had come; -whether there were any real justification for -the preparations which were certainly ordered. -The regiment which had had to pack up again -just as it had got into its billets, and go back -to Aldershot in the very middle of its dinner, -was kept under arms all night; but there was -never the point of a single <i>Pickelhaube</i> visible on -the horizon at Sheringham or elsewhere. And -on examination it turned out that the “Chief -Constable” of the county, that unimpeachable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[Pg 227]</span> -and alarming authority, had been none other -than the local policeman, which was a comedown -indeed! But the thrill was not altogether -unpleasant, and we like to remember the sick -soldier springing up, that St. Michael fire in -his blue eyes.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In a short account written for his school -magazine, H. summarizes the experiences of -his own regiment at Ypres thus:</p> - -<p>“All the officers in my company are wounded -or invalided. The men are very cheerful under -all the hardships and losses, and their behaviour -under fire is splendid. The Brigade (5th) has -been taken three times at least to ‘mend the -line’ where the Germans had broken through. -From October 24 to November 5 my regiment -lost about 450 officers and men—mostly, thank -God, wounded. The Germans can’t shoot for -nuts, but their artillery fire is accurate and -<i>incessant</i>, and the machine-guns very deadly.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>There is nothing more touching than the -devotion of the officers to their men. They -feel towards them truly as if they were their -children.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[Pg 228]</span></p> - -<p>“No officer,” said the widow of a great -general to us the other day, “ever thinks of -himself in action, ever casts a thought to the -bullets flying about him. Indeed, the officers -don’t seem to believe they can get hit; they’re -so occupied in looking after their men. All the -time they’re looking at their men.”</p> - -<p>Even as we write these lines we see the -death, in the Dardanelles, of a young officer -who had been under H. when he was training -reserves during his recent period of convalescent -home service. This youth was, in our -brother’s eyes, the perfection of young manhood. -He prophesied for him great things. -He told us many stories of his quaint humour -and incisive wit. One anecdote remains. -Among their recruits were between twenty -and thirty extremely bad characters—slack, -undisciplined fellows, worthless material belonging -almost to the criminal classes. After -working in vain with all his energy to endeavour -to put some kind of soldierly discipline -into them, young W. paraded them in the barrack -yard, and addressed them in the following -language:</p> - -<p>“His Majesty’s Government cannot afford<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[Pg 229]</span> -nowadays to spend money uselessly. You -are a dead waste to the nation. You are not -worth the food you get nor the clothes you -wear. It has been decided, therefore, to send -you to the front; and, as every man is bound to -do his utmost to help his country in the present -crisis, it is earnestly to be hoped that you will, -each one of you, endeavour to get himself shot -as soon as possible.”</p> - -<p>We understand that the result of this stringent -discourse on that “bad hat” squad was -miraculous, although the sergeant-major was -so overcome with mirth that he had to retire to -give vent to it.</p> - -<p>This boy had been serving in the East in a -wild and difficult district, and had distinguished -himself so remarkably that he was summoned -to the Foreign Office to advise upon an expedition -which it was proposed to send to -those regions. Never was there any life so -full of promise. Gay and gallant youth, it -seems a cruel decree that the bullet of some -vile Turk should have had the power to rob -England of a son so likely to do her signal -honour and service in the future. “It is the -best that are taken”—a phrase sadly familiar<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[Pg 230]</span> -just now that finds only too true an echo in -everyone’s experience.</p> - -<p>There was another, whom we had known -from the time when he was an apple-cheeked -little boy in petticoats—a sunny, level-headed -child, who gave the minimum of trouble and -the maximum of satisfaction to his parents from -the moment of his appearance on this earth. -All his short life always busy, always happy. -His mother said that she had never seen a -frown of discontent on his face. Head boy at -Harrow, where the authorities begged to be -allowed to keep him on another year for the -sake of the good example he gave; writer of -the prize essay three years running; winner -of all the cups for athletics; champion boxer -and fencer—with these brilliant qualities he -had—rare combination indeed!—a steady, well-balanced -mind. With high ideals he had a -sober judgment. He was but twenty. With -all these achievements—splendid lad!—he fell -leading his platoon of Highlanders at Aubers -upon that most ill-fated, most tragic 9th of May.</p> - -<p>“I always wanted my son to be just like -Keith”—more than one friend gave this tribute -to the stricken father.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[Pg 231]</span></p> - -<p>Characteristic of the unchanged romantic -mysticism that lies deep in the hearts of the -Scots—Scots of the glens and hills—are the -words in which the local paper refers to the loss -which had befallen the country in the death of -the gallant young officer: “He died like a -Stewart: he dreed his weird, he drank the cup -of his race!”</p> - -<p>It is the fine flower of our young manhood -that is being mown down. What is to become -of England, robbed of her best? It seems such -waste and loss; we who cannot fight feel at -times as if the pressure of such calamity “doth -make our very tears like unto bloode.” But we -must believe that it is not waste, but seed; that -the nations who sow in tears will reap in joy; -that each of these young lives, so gladly given, -shares in the redemption of the country; that, in -all reverence, in all faith, that they are mystically -united to Calvary; and that their glory -will be presently shown forth even as in the -glory of resurrection!</p> - -<p>A correspondent writing from the front -describes the expression in the eyes of the -friendly officer, who has been his guide, as he -pointed out the myriad crosses of the burial-<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>[Pg 232]</span>ground. -“He looked envious,” he says, and -adds that he noticed that all out there “speak -with envy of the dead.”</p> - -<p>Is not the nation’s honour sharpened to its -finest point when the ideal of its manhood is to -die for the country? <i>Dulce et decorum....</i></p> - -<p>We were very glad, nevertheless, when, in -spite of his repeated applications to return to -his own men, H. was ordered to take a command -in the Persian Gulf. The link that binds a man -to comrades with whom he has shared every -possible danger and hardship, to those who -have faced death with him, whom he has himself -led on to peril and agony, the while they -have been to him as his children—such a link -is indeed one that is hard to break! Their -peril has been his; their glory is his pride.</p> - -<p>“If I can single out one regiment for special -praise,” said the Commander-in-Chief, “it is the -Worcesters.”</p> - -<p>And again:</p> - -<p>“I consider the Worcesters saved Europe on -that day.”</p> - -<p>It is no wonder that H. should be proud of -them; that the thousand fibres should draw -him back to them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233"></a>[Pg 233]</span></p> - -<p>But, when the summons came, he was told -“to prepare for a hot climate.” And then, of all -strange things, or so it seemed to us, we found -that his destination was Persia. The Garden -of Eden! Further, it was rumoured, the -objective was likely to be Bagdad. It sounded -like a fairy tale. He promised us Attar of -Roses; and indeed, we think, carpets. And a -flippant niece wrote to him that she was sure -that by a little perseverance he could find a -magic one, and come sailing across the sky -some night after duty, like the merchant in the -Arabian nights. She added: “And do bring -me a hanging garden, if you can.” But when -the parting came it was a very cruel reality. -It’s a far cry to Persia!</p> - -<p>He started on the day of the sinking of the -<i>Lusitania</i>; a date branded on the history of -the world till the end of all time. The two -who had gone to fetch him and brought him -home—so contented in their tender anxiety -that he was safely wounded—saw him on -board the great liner.</p> - -<p>Many Indians returning to Bombay, a few -officers ordered to his own destination, a batch -of nurses for Malta, and one or two ladies<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234"></a>[Pg 234]</span> -hurrying to their sons wounded in the Dardanelles—these -were all his fellow-passengers.</p> - -<p>It somewhat restored our confidence, shaken -by the facile success of the monstrous crime, -to know that they were to be convoyed a -certain way, and that they had a gun on -board. Nevertheless, they were not to escape -menace.</p> - -<p>“The evening we started,” he wrote, “I -asked the steward if they had seen any submarines -about. ‘No, sir,’ he admitted reluctantly. -Then brightened up, anxious to oblige, -‘But we have seen a lot of luggage floating -about—trunks and clothes, sir.’”</p> - -<p>(It was obvious no passenger need give up -hope; and, indeed, the letter posted at Gibraltar -continues):—</p> - -<p>“I have had no occasion to use your lifesaving -waistcoat yet, though, as a matter of -fact, we <i>had</i> a small-sized adventure with a -submarine. At dinner on Monday we felt that -they had suddenly altered the ship’s course. -It appears that a submarine was spotted about -five hundred yards away. The captain slewed -the vessel round to bring our one gun to bear -on her. However, the smoke obscured our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>[Pg 235]</span> -view, and the submarine must have seen our -gun, as she disappeared.”</p> - -<p>Then comes an anecdote, dreadfully characteristic -of our happy-go-lucky English ways, a -comedy that might have been—for this house, -at least, God knows!—the direst tragedy.</p> - -<p>“Next day,” he continues, “we had gun -practice, but it turned out that none of the -gun’s crew knew how to work her; and after -fumbling for about two hours, a passenger -came along and showed them how to manage -her, and fired her off. We all cheered.”</p> - -<p>The next stage on that lengthening journey -that is to take him so unrealizably far away -from us is Malta. The place laid its spell upon -him, though at first he writes:</p> - -<p>“From the ship both islands looked most -unprepossessing: dry, arid, khaki-coloured -lumps, full of khaki-coloured buildings. Once -on shore one begins to love the place. The -buildings, fortifications, and general spirit are -most inspiring and grandiose. One expects to -see some proud old Templar riding down the -gay streets, looking neither to the right nor -left. I had no time to do any of the right -Cathedrals, where there are wonderful paint<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>[Pg 236]</span>ings -by Michael Angelo, etc., nor the Grand -Master’s Palace Armoury, with the knight’s -armour, nor the Inquisitor’s Palace. I went -off to look for wounded Worcesters from the -Dardanelles. I had no time to see anything -else as the hospital was a long way off.</p> - -<p>“Every hole and corner is turned into a -beautiful garden, with lovely flowers and -‘penetrating scents,’ fountains, and shady -palms and trees.</p> - -<p>“How you would revel in the churches! -They are more numerous than in Rome, and -quite beautiful. The people, too, are intensely -religious.</p> - -<p>“There are many French shops here, and -the French women look tawdry beside the -Maltese, with their wonderful black cloaks and -reserved aristocratic air.</p> - -<p>“I am sending you a weird map full of quaint -spelling, given to me by a wounded Worcestershire -(4th Batt.) sergeant, at the hospital at -Malta, and a rough idea of the difficulties of -the landing. Early on one Monday morning, -about 1 a.m., the ships got into position round -the promontory, with the troop lighters behind. -About 4 a.m. the latter were towed off during<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>[Pg 237]</span> -a bombardment such as never has been heard -or seen before in the history of the world.</p> - -<p>“The Turks did not reply till the boats got -quite close to shore and the ships’ guns could -not fire on the located maxims (which were -sunk in deep, narrow slips close to the shore). -As far as I gathered, the Lancashire Fusiliers -were the first actually to get on shore on the -extreme left at Tekki Barna, where they -charged with the bayonet and the Turks -retired. They were able to enfilade a good -portion of the ground, and enabled the Essex -and 4th Worcesters, both of whom had suffered -very heavily from Maxim fire, to land and drive -the Turks back. Three boatloads of Dublin -Fusiliers were wiped out by gun and Maxim -fire near Ish Messarer point. The Lancashire -Fusiliers suffered rather badly from the fire of -some of our ships’ guns, which, of course, could -not be helped.</p> - -<p>“The Worcesters were sent up to help the -Essex, and advanced against some barbed wire, -which a young subaltern called Wyse volunteered -to cut. He rolled over sideways till he -got under the wire and cut it from strand to -strand upwards. As he got to the last strand<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>[Pg 238]</span> -a sniper shot off two fingers in successive -shots.</p> - -<p>“The snipers had their faces painted green -to harmonize with the surroundings, and were -calmly surrendering as we advanced, having -picked off numbers of men. They were all -shot, however, <i>pour encourager les autres</i>.</p> - -<p>“My sergeant was shot in the hip that evening, -but he told me that by Wednesday the troops -had secured Envedos, a most important position, -and the safe landing of stores and guns was -thus secured.</p> - -<p>“He said the Turks either ran from the -bayonet or surrendered. The prisoners said -they did not want to fight, but were forced to -do so by the Germans.</p> - -<p>“The ships are in their more or less correct -position in the map, the sergeant says, as he -took trouble to find out from a naval chart.”</p> - -<p>From Malta to Alexandria, from Alexandria -to Aden, and from thence to Bombay. His -letters mark each point of his Odyssey. And -at Alexandria he is fascinated with the movement -and colour; he goes on shore and visits -the shops; he parts from the delightful American -lady who has been the life and soul of the ship;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>[Pg 239]</span> -she whose wounded son awaits her in Cairo. -At Aden, the heat striking at them from the -shore prevents him from landing; an unattractive -torrid spot. Here they take in a young -Indian Government official, who gives an interesting -detail upon his destination:</p> - -<p>“He knew Wilcox very well, the man who -was going to make the barrage on the Euphrates -and Tigris, and convert Mesopotamia into the -richest country in the world. Wilcox said he -found all the details given in the Bible about -the various depths and breadths of the rivers -absolutely accurate—curious after all these -centuries!”</p> - -<p>At Bombay he has a pleasant time; a brother -officer having wired to relations who take him -about and show him what is most worth -seeing in his short stay. He puts up at the -Bombay Yacht Club, “wonderful place, like -fairyland, with palms and fountains and music, -with cool, quiet rooms looking out over wide -and lovely views.” He goes on long drives -“under trees that grow for miles and miles -along the sea coast, where the graceful-moving -natives in their bright colours look awfully -picturesque.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>[Pg 240]</span></p> - -<p>He sees the famous towers of silence where, -with effective, but no doubt quite unconscious, -alliteration, he describes “the ghoulish vultures -sitting grimly in the glorious gold mohur -trees.”</p> - -<p>His last letter says: “I start on Sunday for -Bosra.”</p> - -<p>He believes that they will remain at Bosra, -and makes little of the fact that the heat is -terrible there just now.</p> - -<p>“We will live in cool underground rooms,” -he says, “and be all right!”</p> - -<p>And now we know that we shall not have -news of him again for a long time. A thousand -anxieties assail us, for which we can have no -reassurance. We picture him in that strange -region, but realize that of its strangeness we -can form no real image.</p> - -<p>He will see the dead cities and the great -desert wastes and the swamps—it is in those -swamps under the merciless sun that our terror -lies; he will deal with a fierce and treacherous -people whose thoughts are not as our thoughts, -whose motives and beliefs are irreconcilably -alien; and this dangerous race is fermenting -under the influences, the money, the lies, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>[Pg 241]</span> -ceaseless open and secret poison leaven of -a race more treacherous, more dangerous -still.</p> - -<p>Blinding sunshine, black shadows, arid -stretches of dried earth and mud and burnt -vegetation; the colour of the Eastern crowd, -the river waters and the harbour stretch; the -Arab and the Kurd, the Turk, the Armenian, -and the Jew, sights and scenes and creatures -that have been but as names to us, are about -him. He has followed the drum from Cape -Town to Magaliesburg, from Bloemfontein to -Bethlehem, from Gibraltar to Cork, from Soupir -to Ypres, from Ypres to Plymouth, and from -Plymouth to the Euphrates; he has left his -cool, green Ireland, his hunting and his fishing, -his own wide acres and the rural life among -his beasts for this picturesque, unknown, uncertain -destiny!</p> - -<p>Often in the long hot hours will not his mind -go back to those stretches of shady, luxuriant -park land where his cattle feed; to the great -lime avenue with the voice of the bees; the -circle of the purple hills, the woods, those -incomparable woods of our old home with -their cool depths of bracken, silver green; the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>[Pg 242]</span> -dells, the climbing roads, the view over the -“deer-park” to the sunset, which impressed -even our childish imaginations; the voice of -the wild pigeons through the trees; and the -immense white house—empty—which before -this war broke out, he was about to furnish; -the corridors, the vast rooms full of memories; -latterly, to us, of hopes. His heart will be -there, we know.</p> - -<p>And his home is guarded by his faithful -Spanish servant, who followed him, out of -love, from those far Gibraltar days of his -young soldier’s life; who, when a legacy made -of him a comparatively rich man, refused to -profit of it, and sent the money back to a distant -relative in Spain, saying: “What do I want of -it? You, my master, you, my father, you, my -mother, you, my country, you, all I want!” -Pedro, by a singular freak of fate, ruling this -Irish land with an equal zeal and ability, writes -to us: “I pray my dere master may come home -safe. I have great hope in Our Lady, the -Mother of God.”</p> - -<p>What is left to us, too, but a similar trust? -We can but commend him to the Father of -All that He may overshadow him with His<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243"></a>[Pg 243]</span> -shoulders; that the sun should not burn him -by day, nor the moon by night; that he may -be guarded from the arrow that flieth by day, -from the assault of the evil one in the noontide!</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[Pg 244]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="X">X<br /> -A THREE DAYS’ CHRONICLE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Happy in England! I could be content</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To see no other verdure than its own:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To feel no other breezes than are blown</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through the tall woods with high romances blent;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment</div> - <div class="verse indent0">For skies Italian....”</div> -<p class="right"><span class="smcap">Keats.</span> -</p> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="pfirst"><i><span class="smcap">June</span> 29, 1915.</i>—The feast of Peter and Paul -comes round with a new significance. In war -time we learn the meaning of so much that has -seemed unimportant; of things hidden away at -the back of our consciousness—things neglected, -unknown, or even despised—and we -learn, too, the worthlessness of so much that -has seemed paramount and necessary, desirable -and precious. War is a stern master. He -teaches above all the relative values; how to -weigh the greater against the less; how to -fling away with one superb gesture the whole -sum of human possessions for a single imperishable -prize.</p> - -<p>“What doth it profit a man if he gain the -whole world and suffer the loss of his own -soul?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[Pg 245]</span></p> - -<p>He who spoke these words gently to a -handful of poor Jews now seems to cry them -with a voice of thunder from end to end of the -earth.</p> - -<p>Thus, this, their festival day, brings the two -great champions of the Cross—and it is for -Christ and the Cross that every son of England -is fighting to-day—before our minds with a -singular vividness and nearness: Peter, type -of the natural man, untutored; sure of himself -and of his own good impulses, of the honest -purpose of his guileless heart; impetuous, -loving, weak, with all purely human weakness, -even to betrayal; and—divinely strengthened—Peter -the rock, Peter the fisherman who conquered -the world! Paul, the Patrician, the -apostle born out of due time, whose ardour -is all of the intellect, keen as a blade and burning -as a flame; the little man of Tarsus upon -whose spirit the teaching of all Christianity -reposes as firmly to-day as does the Church -upon the stone of Peter; Paul, whom the -Captain, Christ Himself, enlisted by the -miraculous condescension of a personal appeal. -Has not every Christian, whatever his creed, -vowed them reverence throughout all the ages?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246"></a>[Pg 246]</span> -To-day, may not the eyes of the believer look -up to them with a new confidence?</p> - -<p>The Signora, lying through a wakeful night -and thinking of these things, went with a rush -of memory back to Rome, to scenes and experiences -and thoughts dominated by the -memories of the two chief apostles.</p> - -<p>There is nothing more characteristic of their -lives than the different manners of their death. -Peter is Peter to the end; first yielding to the -natural impulse, then, by virtue of the grace -of God, returning upon himself and leaping to -the highest altitude of superhuman sacrifice. -In the whole tradition of the Church there is -no legend more touching than that which tells -us how Peter, flying out of Rome, met the -Christ carrying the Cross. It is the original -Peter in all his guilelessness who, unstartled -by the vision, with the perfect simplicity of his -faith, asks: “<i>Domine quo vadis?</i>” And it is -the sublime founder of the Church of God who, -unquestioning, accepts the Master’s rebuke, -and retraces his steps to face his Lord’s torment -with the added agony his own holy humility -demands.</p> - -<p>Every pilgrim to Rome has knelt or stood,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247"></a>[Pg 247]</span> -prayed or pondered at the tomb of Peter in -the golden twilight of the great Basilica, by -the vastness of which, as Marion Crawford -says, “mind and judgment are dazed and -staggered.” Who has not leant on the marble -balustrade of the confession and looked down -upon the ninety-five gilded lamps that burn -there day and night, upon the kneeling white -figure of the Seventh Pius?—a vision in which -the whole linked grandeur and piety of the -Church of Rome seems epitomized. In St. -Peter’s, Simon, the poor fisherman, is little -thought of; it is Peter, saint and pontiff, who -is paramount; he who has miraculously fed -the lambs and fed the sheep from that hour on -the sea of Galilee to this day. And very few -remember the old man, too weak and aged to -bear his cross, who had climbed half-way to -the Janiculum, when his executioners, seeing -that he could not advance any further, planted -his gibbet in the deep yellow sand and crucified -him then and there—head downwards, as he -begged them. This is the ancient tradition, -and it further tells us that he was followed -by but few of the faithful, who stood apart, -weeping.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248"></a>[Pg 248]</span></p> - -<p>Impressive as are these hallowed spots, -these glorious memorials of the Eternal City; -however full, to the believer, of the atmosphere -of the days of faith—oases in the great desert -of life, where the palms of the martyrs are still -green and throw a grateful shade—there is -nothing, to our minds, in all the grandeur of -Rome, even under the dome of Peter, comparable -to the effect produced upon the mind -by a visit to Tre Fontane.</p> - -<p>As Peter was led to die the death of the -lowest criminal—the death of his Master—Paul -was brought forth to the death of the sword, -reserved for the Patrician.</p> - -<p>To go to Tre Fontane and visit the spot of -his martyrdom is to return to the primitive -ages of the Church. The fisherman lies in -a tomb such as no king or emperor, no hero -or conqueror or best beloved of the world’s -potentates ever had. And Paul sleeps in that -great pillared church <i>fuori le mura</i>, in a severity -and dignity of magnificence very well befitting -the stern fire of the apostle’s zeal. But the -memory of his martyrdom is consecrated in -a curious isolation of poverty, one might almost -say, aloofness; an earnest purity that reminds<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249"></a>[Pg 249]</span> -one, as we have said, of early Christian times. -You have all the splendours; the golden glory, -the marble, the mosaic, the sculpture and the -jewels; the movement, the colour and the crowd -of Rome behind, and you come out into the -sweeping solitudes of the Campagna. For -those who know and love those strange, arid, -melancholy spaces, there is no more potent -spell than the hold they lay upon the spirit. -The gem-like distances of the mountains, the -radiant arch of the Italian sky, the movement -of light and shadow over the immense waste, -the romance of each of the historic ways, the -mystery of the secrets they hold—better pens -than ours have striven to embody the charm -and failed! Why should we try? It is like -a strain of music the meaning of which is lost -to us. We hear; we cannot understand. It is -too full of messages. It is sad and beautiful -and haunting, and withal intensely human. -Here you have nature at her wildest and most -untrammelled; and yet, never was city so -peopled, so thick with memories of all races -and all histories; endless streams of pilgrims -have traversed the long roads; the centuries -have come and gone upon them; the blood,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250"></a>[Pg 250]</span> -the tears, the strivings and hopes of all humanity -are here.</p> - -<p>One looks forward towards wave upon wave -of low-lying ground, bordered by the mountain -barriers; and each time one looks back, the -dome of Peter hangs pearl-like against the -sky.</p> - -<p>Speaking of the memory of our drive to Tre -Fontane, the Signorina is reminded that she -has jotted down her impressions in an old -diary.</p> - -<p>“We drove to the Trappist Monastery,” she -wrote, “where St. Paul was beheaded. His -head is said to have rebounded three times as -it struck the earth, and on each of those three -hallowed spots there sprang up a miraculous -jet of water. The first spring is still warm as -if with the glow of the great spirit that there -left its mortal frame; the second spring is -tepid; the third cold as death.</p> - -<p>“The drive is a beautiful one; through the -Campagna stretching wide and green on either -side, bounded by the mountains, some now -snow-capped. The first sight of the monastery -breaks on one from the top of a little hill. The -huddled buildings appear suddenly at the foot<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251"></a>[Pg 251]</span> -in a deep valley, shrouded by eucalyptus -groves. On the right of the convent the -ground rises again, covered with a perfect -forest of the same trees. It is one of the -saddest and most impressive places I ever -saw. It strikes chill, even when the rest of -the Campagna is warm, and the continual -shuddering of the eucalyptus leaves makes -an uncanny murmur. We drove through an -avenue of them, grey-green all over, trunks -and leaves; and then came to an arched gateway -closed by an iron gate.</p> - -<p>“We dismounted from our carriage, already -quite impressed, and pulled the bell, which -echoed with a deep and beautiful note through -the monastery grounds.</p> - -<p>“A porter opened and we walked into the -garden, still under the eucalyptus (mingled -here with palms and lemons), and made more -beautiful still by the fragments of antique -sculpture that border the walks—marble -capitols and broken acanthus leaves and -pieces of old pavements wonderfully worked -in scrolls and twists.</p> - -<p>“Papa particularly lost his heart to a lion’s -head, with a dear flat nose! He could not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252"></a>[Pg 252]</span> -tear himself away from it; he wanted it so -badly for our new little garden in Surrey!</p> - -<p>“As there are three fountains, so there are -three churches, but the miraculous springs are -all under one roof. This is a fine, comparatively -modern church, situated at the end of an -avenue of eucalyptus and marble fragments. -It has a classic pavement (pagan) representing -the four seasons.</p> - -<p>“Opposite the entrance are the fountains—built -in, now, and covered over, but each with -a little opening where the attendant friar will -let down a ladle and draw up the water for the -faithful. Over each fountain is an altar, with -the head of St. Paul, in bas-relief, sculptured -by Canova:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>“‘A la première, l’âme vient à l’instant même -de s’échapper du corps. Ce chef glorieux est -plein de vie! A la seconde, les ombres de la -mort couvrent déjà ses admirables traits; à la -troisième, le sommeil éternel les a envahis, et -quoique demeurés tout rayonnants de beauté, -ils disent, sans parler, que dans ce monde ces -lèvres ne s’entr’ouvriront plus, et que ce regard -d’aigle s’est voilé pour toujours.’</p></blockquote> - -<p>“In the right-hand corner of the first altar is -the pillar which marks the actual spot of the -martyrdom of the fiery-hearted saint. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253"></a>[Pg 253]</span> -ancient Via Lorentina passed along this very -place, and here stood the mile-stone, whereat -St. Paul was beheaded.</p> - -<p>“‘This is absolutely certain,’ said the monk -who conducted us. ‘Even protestants acknowledge -the death to have taken place here. For -the rest,’ indicating the three fountains, ‘there -is only the legend. You may believe it or not, -as you like.’</p> - -<p>“He looked so happy, this monk. He had -been thirty years at Tre Fontane, but there -was no sign of age on his face. It was, perhaps, -a trifle withered, like a ripe apple that -has lain long on a shelf, but that was all. And -yet he said that, for the first fifteen years, he -had suffered continuously from malarial fever. -He had superintended, and even worked at, the -planting of the eucalyptus groves which have -so purified the district that there has not been -one case of the sickness since.</p> - -<p>“The other two churches are close to one -another. The first is very old and utterly bare, -and, in a strange, mournful way, deeply impressive. -It dates from the sixth century, and -is lofty and vaulted and almost Gothic in its -spirit. It has several rose-windows, and there<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254"></a>[Pg 254]</span> -are many round holes in the walls also. These -are now either empty or fitted with common -glass, but they were once filled with thin slices -of alabaster, or other precious transparencies. -At present it seems the embodiment in stone -of the Trappist order, ‘la piu severa ordine -della chiesa Cattolica,’ as our monk described -it. The church is as cold as a well.</p> - -<p>“The last of the three churches is of a much -gayer mood: quite Romanesque, perched on a -pretty flight of rounded steps. It has a crypt -over the bodies of St. Zeno and two thousand -and more companions, martyred Christians, -who built the Baths of Diocletian.”</p> - -<p>The drive through that eucalyptus wood -here described remains one of the most curious -impressions of those Roman days. It was like -passing through a Dante circle—the first circle -of all, of Limbo, where Virgil met the poet; an -unsubstantial wraith-like world, full of a perpetual -whisper and murmur:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Non avea pianto, ma che di sospiri,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Che l’aura eterna facevan tremare:</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">E cio avvenia di duol senza martiri,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ch’avean le turbe, ch’eran molte e grandi,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">E d’infanti, e di femmine e di vivi.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255"></a>[Pg 255]</span></p> -<p class="noindent">Whether the sky became really overcast as we -entered into these mysterious precincts, or -whether the height of the trees shadowed the -narrow way, certainly there was a dimness -about us; not a positive darkness but a negation -of light, even as the chill that enfolded us -was not so much a cold as a cessation of heat.</p> - -<p>But through the gates of the monastery -courtyard we saw sunshine again, and white -pigeons strutting about the cobbles, picking -and preening themselves—a wonderful picture -of peace. It is a consecrated spot; a place the -most aloof, the most severe, the most denuded -of all earthly joys that we have ever seen; a -stage on the arid way of pilgrims forging determinedly -by the shortest cut to heaven. And -yet it is full of sweetness. As from a mountain -ledge, the world must lie so far below these -Trappists that it is no longer seen, scarcely -divined behind its own vapours. No use looking -down: looking up—there is the blue sky, and -there are the peaks pointing heavenward, still -to be conquered. There is very little comfort -for the traveller, but he has a strange gladness. -He is cradled in ethereal silences. The balm -of majestic solitude bathes his soul; his spirit<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256"></a>[Pg 256]</span> -is cheered by an air as pure as it is vivifying, -and he knows that he will climb the peaks.</p> - -<p><i>July 4.</i>—Mrs. McComfort, our cook, has a -brother on the Clyde. He writes an extraordinary -account of the effort expected of, and -given by, the able workman.</p> - -<p>“It may be, miss,” says Mrs. McComfort to -the Signorina, her chief confidant, “he’ll be -called up for a job on a ship that’s just come in, -and that’ll mean that he and the rest of them -will be at it from seven in the morning till eight -the next morning. Yes, miss, all night, as well -as all day. And then they’ll come home, and -it’s too weary to eat they are, and they’ll just -roll themselves up and fall asleep, as tired as -dogs; and when they’ve slept a bit, maybe -they can get a little food down. And then it’s -off back again to work! And that’ll go on till -the job’s done. And when the battleships -come in, the steamers do be waiting all night -upon the Clyde, to take the men up to them, -it’s that urgent. And, oh, miss, how they do -love the ships they’ve built! And when one is -lost, you’d never believe the grief there is, with -the men crying and saying: ‘It’s my old lady’s -gone, my poor old lady!’”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257"></a>[Pg 257]</span></p> - -<p>They need no comment, such stories as these. -Here are humble heroes, martyrs of duty; here -is the poor heart of humanity, with its infinite -power of attachment. We have scarcely heard -of anything more touching than the tears of -these rough men for their “poor old lady.”</p> - -<p>We saw a letter the other day from a transport -driver describing, to a relative in England, -the meeting with an old friend on the bloodstained, -shell-battered road at the back of -Arras. This man had been the driver of -a motor omnibus in a country district at -home.</p> - -<p>“What do you think?” he writes. “You’ll -never believe! If I didn’t come across old -Eliza! Me that drove her for more than three -years. I knew her at once, poor old girl! -knocked about as she was; I’d have known her -anywhere, by the shape of her, knowing her in -and out as I did those years, every bit of her. -She was a bit the worse for wear, but she was -fit for a lot yet; a trifle rattley; but there’s a -deal of life in her. I can’t tell you what I felt -when I came across her so sudden. There, I -couldn’t help patting her and patting her! -Poor old Eliza! To think of her and me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258"></a>[Pg 258]</span> -meeting again like that, both of us doing our -bit, like!”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>This fourth day of July brings us the third -of the rain and thunder squalls which have -followed the great drought.</p> - -<p>Japhet says, relaxing to something approaching -a smile, that he doesn’t see why this -should not end by being a nice garden, and -that the earth is in very good heart.</p> - -<p>Dear English earth, it has need to be in good -heart! Who knows what it may yet have to -bear and give?</p> - -<p>The Villino garden wears the war-time -stamp, at least to its owners’ eye! The -Signora, who has always hitherto plunged at -a horticultural list the moment there was a gap -in her borders that needed filling or a mistake -that needed repairing, which could not be done -to her sense of perfection “out of stock,” has -had to teach economy to wait on necessity, -and ingenuity on both. The result is not -really gratifying. In all her long experience -economy has never been gratifying in any -branch of life. But even if the money were -there for extravagance—which it isn’t—thrift<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259"></a>[Pg 259]</span> -has become a positive instead of a negative -virtue.</p> - -<p>“Thou shalt not spend” is now nearly as -urgent a commandment as “Thou shalt not -steal.”</p> - -<p>It has set her mind to work more and more, -however, upon the desirability of permanence -in the garden.</p> - -<p>In the borders of the terraces round the -house she has decided to put a foot-deep -edging of Mrs. Simkins pinks. These are -adorable in their time of bloom, and the grey-green -foliage is tidy, and a pretty bit of colour -all the year round.</p> - -<p>This year the lobelia, scantily planted, and -the climbing geraniums, pathetically subdivided, -will take considerable time before -forming the show of flower and foliage without -which the Villino garden is a failure. But it is -a very good thing for individuals as well as -nations to be forced to stop and examine their -manner of life. Hideous as the struggle is—dead -loss of life and happiness and money—good -comes out of the evil at many points. Not the -least beneficial lesson is that which teaches us -now what an extraordinary amount of money<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260"></a>[Pg 260]</span> -and energy one has frittered away by easy-going -ways, the amount of items one can put -down in a household without being the worse—rather, -indeed, the better! Even in a little -household, what waste, what excess, what -follies of mere show! And if this seems a flat -contradiction to the remark upon economy -passed a little while ago, let it be noted that -conscience and inclination are for ever waging -war, and that conscience, as is proper, must -have the last word. Moreover, once the domination -of conscience is established, the results are, -in nine cases out of ten, surprisingly bearable. -Frugality combines very well with refinement, -and simplicity with dignity. One can be as happy -with a three-course lunch and a three-course -supper-dinner as one was with an endless -array of dishes—those dishes which took so -much time and material to prepare, and were -so often barely touched! The contents disappeared—thrown -away, perhaps, or, what was -certainly the case in our household, disposed -of as <i>hors d’œuvres</i> between the dining-room -and the pantry.</p> - -<p>“Why does your butler always come in -chewing?” asked an observant relative.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261"></a>[Pg 261]</span></p> - -<p>Juvenal, indeed, despite a certain foreign -disregard for his meal-times, made such a practice -of snatching morsels in transit that the -sixteen-year old footman—chief of the many -grievances which determined our separation—who -outstayed him, has had to be severely -reprimanded for making a clean sweep of the -dishes that caught his young fancy, with a -special partiality for roast chicken.</p> - -<p>The new regimen—agreeable this hot weather—of -soup, one cold-meat dish, salad, vegetable, -sweet, and dessert—supper, in fact, instead of -dinner—has, besides its intrinsic economy, the -further advantage of diminishing the expenditure -of kitchen coal to an almost incredible -degree.</p> - -<p>We who have to render an account hereafter, -even of every idle word, shall we have to -answer, we wonder, for all that unconscious -waste which mere convention has induced in -our homes? How many poor families might -have been fed from the agglomeration of the -Signora’s years of housekeeping! She did not -think. No one thought. It has taken this -scourge to make us stop in our easy course, -to make us look into ourselves, into our ways.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262"></a>[Pg 262]</span></p> - -<p>“What can we do? What can we do without?” -These must be now the mottoes written -large round our house of life; and, indeed, the -first includes the second, for it takes considerable -energy to abstain.</p> - -<p>“There is none that thinketh in his heart, -therefore they shall go down alive into hell.”</p> - -<p>A very disagreeable text, which comes disagreeably -to the mind this Sunday morning, -for the <i>famiglia</i> have just come back from -church, where what is vulgarly called a “hell-fire -sermon” was delivered by a Welsh -preacher, who, though a Franciscan, is, one -of his congregation declared, a revivalist lost -to his native hills.</p> - -<p>“You ought to go down into hell in spirit -every day, me brethren,” he thundered, “or -ye’ll very likely find yourselves there in the end. -And what an off-ful thing that ’ud be! And -there’s thousands and thousands of soa-ouls -there this minute, better than you are!”</p> - -<p>This was neither comforting, nor, we believe, -theological, for the congregation was small, -and, on the whole, devout. But no doubt -there is a type of mind before which it is necessary -to hold up a threat of everlasting punish<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263"></a>[Pg 263]</span>ment; -the type of person whom conscription -alone can move to serve his country before it is -too late.</p> - -<p>Not the least remarkable result of the German -brutality is that the great majority of its opponents -find themselves forced back into the -old simplicity of belief. We can no longer -afford to deny the existence of demons and -their power; and if reason is to keep her -balance and the soul her ultimate faith in Divine -justice, acceptance of the doctrine of hell and -adequate punishment must logically follow.</p> - -<p>A celebrated, if rather medievally minded, -preacher, whom we once heard lashing the -vices of the day, cried sarcastically: “You’ll -meet the very best society in hell.”</p> - -<p>Holy man, we doubt if he would have made -the same remark to-day! The resort in question -must have become so overwhelmingly -German.</p> - -<p><i>July 8.</i>—The Signora had been a whole year -at the Villino—perhaps the longest time in all -her life in one place—but circumstances had -summoned her family to London for a few -days, and she could not contemplate their being -exposed to Zeppelins without her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264"></a>[Pg 264]</span></p> - -<p>The little London house which was our home -so long, and—to use nursery parlance—the -nose of which has been so completely put out -of joint by the Villino, seemed glad to see -us again.</p> - -<p>How curious is the atmosphere of place! -These walls that enfold us, that have seen our -swift joys and our great sorrows, our merry -hours and our sad ones, become fond of us, as -we of them. We are convinced that there is -a spirit in inanimate things, something that -gives back, that keeps. Do not old places -ponder? Are they not set with memories? -Do they not know their own? Do they not -withhold themselves and suffer from the -stranger? Who has not seen the millionaire -striving to make himself at home in the great -house that will have none of him? Who has -not felt what an accident he is, how little he -belongs, how little he or his race will ever -belong to the stones he has bought, and which -he will never own?</p> - -<p>And even a little London house in a street -may become individual to oneself; and you -may feel as the Signora did, that it has missed -you, that through long absence you have been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265"></a>[Pg 265]</span> -unkind; that if you finally separate yourself -from it, it will always want you, and you it. -And, after all—it is with houses, as with -people—the link is not necessarily that of the -blood relationship or long acquaintance. You -need not have inherited your affinity. You are -in sympathy, or you are not. The Villino -claimed us upon our first meeting, but we -impressed ourselves upon the town dwelling. -It is still home to us; not <i>the</i> home, <i>a</i> home.</p> - -<p>We sat in the high-ceilinged drawing-room, -with its rather delicate Georgian air, and found -old familiar emotions waiting for us. And we -thought of all the kind and dear friends we had -seen between these walls; of our gay little -parties and the music-makers who had made -music to us; hours that seemed to belong to -another life. Here the great Pole, whose magic -hands have refused themselves to the notes ever -since his people have been in anguish, made -the night wonderful with his incomparable art. -We do not think the small London house can -ever forget the echoes of that music. It was -always a feast for it when he, with whose -friendship we feel ourselves so deeply honoured, -came to its board. Loki—he was in his puppy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266"></a>[Pg 266]</span>hood -then—decorated with the Polish colours, -would dance towards him on his hind-legs. -The genius would come in like sunshine, happy -himself in the immense pleasure his presence -gave. Certainly this rare being seemed to give -forth light.</p> - -<p>“When he leaves the room,” said a friend of -his to us, “it is as if the light went out.”</p> - -<p>If one had the gift of beholding auras, what a -halo of fire would one not have seen about that -wonderful head? We once said this to him.</p> - -<p>“Do you believe in it?” we asked.</p> - -<p>He smiled. “I think everyone has got his -flame to cultivate. I think I have cultivated -mine.”</p> - -<p>Most truly, indeed, has he done so; and not -only in the divine way of his art, for year by -year the selflessness and the magnanimity of -his character seem to deepen and extend; and -so, too—inevitable tragedy of years—the sadness. -Impossible for any perfectly noble mind -not to gather melancholy as life goes on!—a -melancholy culminating in his case with the -burthen of agony which the present sufferings -of his own race have laid upon his shoulders.</p> - -<p>Therefore these memories of the days when<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267"></a>[Pg 267]</span> -he was as a young god, the days when a celebrated -painter could find no truer way of expressing -him than by flinging on the canvas -the radiant vision of an Apollo, are poignant -memories. We are glad that we should have -them, yet they bring a stab of pain for that lost -high spirit which life inevitably dashes.</p> - -<p>With us all, the good ship Youth sets forth -merrily with sails taut and pennons fluttering, -filling to the wind and breasting the waves! -We know that inevitably the storm winds must -catch her; that she will be beaten by breakers; -drawn out of her course by false currents; that -if she become not a derelict, if she does not -founder with all hands, she must—too often—cast -much of her treasure overboard, furl her -white wings, and come creeping into a cold -harbour. Even those who, like our rare and -wonderful friend, have gathered glory and -dignity and power, as they plough a mighty -course, have passed from under radiant skies -into the gloom of the storm. A sombre thing, -the human span, at the best, and most blest -nowadays.</p> - -<p>What can we say of the fair craft that founders -almost as soon as launched? Ah! the young<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268"></a>[Pg 268]</span> -ghosts in that London drawing-room! The -sound of the children’s voices yet ringing in -our ears! There is “Mustard-Seed,” the -splendid little fair boy, who had been the -favourite of our Shakesperian revels nine years -ago—not yet nineteen, not a month a soldier—shot -through the head on that Flanders field, -the graveyard of England’s choicest! And the -little Scotch lad, who used to prance about in -his black velvet suit, with cheeks that shamed -the apple—no one knows where he lies to-day; -only two or three saw him fall. And his graver, -gentler brother—a prisoner, even as we write -in the first agony of the grief which has -befallen him in the loss of his life-companion!</p> - -<p>And out of a merry group of Irish children, -irresponsible, high-spirited, noisy, two brothers -sleep in that alien earth—now for ever English—“where -their young dust lies,” as the poet -who wrote so prophetically of his own fate has -beautifully said. And yet another is wounded, -and another invalided; and the once merry -sister, whose gallant husband was left wounded -on the field and was missing long weeks, still -mourns him as a prisoner.</p> - -<p>Of the rest of the company, those companions<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269"></a>[Pg 269]</span> -of our daughter’s own unclouded childish days, -some are widows; and some can scarce meet -the morning for apprehension of its news, or -return to their homes for fear of that orange -envelope that may lie on the hall table, or sleep -in the night for listening for the sound of the -bell. And some are in the Dardanelles, under -skies of brass, treading on earth of iron, and -some are in those trenches, deep-dyed and -battered a hundredfold. Two more brothers—the -elder twenty and the younger nineteen—fell -within a month of each other. A few are -still on English soil, light-heartedly preparing -for the great fray, straining like hounds at -the leash, staring with bright, impatient eyes -towards that goal with its unknown and terrible -possibilities; cursing the slow flight of time. -Of these one thinks, perhaps, with a heart more -tightened than of all the rest!</p> - -<p>The reaper has come forth to reap out of -season, and the young corn is mown down in -the green ear, and all the poppies and the -pretty flowers go down with it.</p> - -<p>Sitting in rooms which we had not revisited -since before the war, these are sad thoughts -that the crowded recollections bring.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270"></a>[Pg 270]</span></p> - -<p>London itself, however, seemed little changed; -even that much-discussed night-darkness -hardly noticeable. Driving in the daytime we -instinctively counted, with frowning glance, -the number of stalwart young men out of -uniform, and wondered how any girl could -walk with them, much less smile upon them. -And our eyes followed the soldiers with pride -as they marched by, singing popular catches -to inspire themselves in default of the band -which the stern necessities of this war forbid. -What fine fellows they are—so well set up, -looking out with such steady vision upon the -future which they have chosen! And the lilt -of the merry tune, with what a deep note of -pathos it strikes upon the ear!</p> - -<p>Of course there are a great many soldiers -about London, yet no more than in Jubilee -time, and there is no greater excitement among -them, and a good deal less among those who -watch them pass, than in the days when it was -all pomp and circumstance, and no warfare.</p> - -<p>London does not carry the stamp of war -about her, but we carry it each one of us in our -hearts. That is why we sicken from the music-hall -posters; why wrath and grief mingle in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271"></a>[Pg 271]</span> -our minds at the sight of that bold-eyed community -with its whitened face, its vulgar exaggeration -of attire, and its unchecked and -unashamed hunting of its prey; a prey sometimes -visibly unwilling, sometimes pathetically, -innocently flattered!</p> - -<p>The Zeppelin menace has created no sense -of apprehension in the town. The first night -of our arrival we conscientiously prepared -amateur respirators for ourselves and such -of the <i>famiglia</i> as accompanied us. Pads of -cotton-wool, soaked in a strong solution of -soda, were placed within easy reach of the bedside. -The next night we said “Bother!” and -the third night we forgot all about it. Though -the Signora, lying awake, had occasionally a -half-amused speculation whether the throbbing -passage of some more than usually loud traction-engine, -or the distant back-firing of a -belated taxicab, might not be the bark of the -real wolf at last!</p> - -<p>Our little white-haired housemaid, generally -left alone to mind the London house, possesses -this philosophic indifference. She made herself -a respirator. We doubt whether she ever -thinks of placing it handy. We believe she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272"></a>[Pg 272]</span> -shares the view of the old nurse of a friend of -ours into whose garden a bomb really and truly -did drop during the recent raid on Southend.</p> - -<p>“Frightened, miss? Lord bless you, no! I -knew it was only them Germans!”</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, though London is neither -alarmed nor depressed, we set our faces towards -the Villino again with a sense of relief. -These days it is better to be in one’s own -place; and in London we feel only visitors -now. Yet, strangely, the country is far more -full of the war than the town.</p> - -<p>Beginning at Wimbledon, we meet motorcars -filled to overflowing with bandaged, bronze-faced -young men, who smile and wave their -hands as we whizz by. Dear lads! Some -from that greater England beyond the sea, -more closely our brothers now than ever -before, with ties cemented by the shedding of -blood. <i>Blut-Bruderschaft</i>, indeed, you have -pledged with us: a Teutonic rite put into -practice after a fashion our enemies thought -out of the range of possibility.</p> - -<p>And presently we come to the camps. Here, -where the pine-woods solitary marched, where -the heather was wont to spread, crimsoning<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273"></a>[Pg 273]</span> -and purpling to the line of blue distance—a -wonderful vision of wild scenery—here is a -brown waste, peopled with a new town. Rows -and rows of wooden huts run in parallel lines. -Where the trees stood you cannot even guess; -but once and again there is the smell of the -raw wood, and you see a giant lying lopped of -his branches. And the whole place swarms in -activity. We pass hundreds of ammunition and -gun carriages—the two-wheeled carts for the -new howitzers—some already with the guns in -place; long sheds where half a dozen smiths -are busy shoeing, with groups of patient horses, -shoulder by shoulder, waiting outside; we hear -the clank of iron upon iron from within; we -catch the vision of red fire upon the sleek flank -and the brawny arms wielding the hammer. -Horses everywhere, it seems—lines of them, -picketed; horsemen coming and going: detachments -riding up and down among the -thickest dust that you have ever imagined; -and waggons lumbering, some charged with -fodder, some, as we pass, with loaves fresh -from the baking. And now a traction-engine, -filling the air with noise and smoke, driven by -two grimy Tommies who shout at each other<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274"></a>[Pg 274]</span> -as they throb and bumble along, has to be -dodged and left behind.</p> - -<p>This is an artillery camp—a marvellous place -which gives one a more vivid impression of -England’s strength, of England’s new army, -than any words can describe. These splendid, -happy, vigorous, busy men; these rows of -howitzer and ammunition carts; these thousands -of sleek, lively horses; this untiring, determined -movement of work and preparation ... all for -the Dardanelles, we hear.</p> - -<p>We get out of the dust and the noise and the -gigantic stir, and along the green roads again; -and then into another camp. A curious stillness -here: the myriad huts are all shut up, the -sheds empty, even the new shops seemingly -untenanted; only here and there stands a stray -khaki figure to emphasize the loneliness. They -left for the front the day before yesterday. -To-morrow twenty thousand new men are -expected, like a new swarm of bees, to take -their place in the vacated hives.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Home again in the Villino, with all the fur -babies washed and waiting for us. Rather a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275"></a>[Pg 275]</span> -silent group of dogs, a little offended because -we went away. Loki, who generally screams -with rapture, has certainly a reservation in the -ecstasy of his greetings; but Mimosa clings to -us with two little paws, like a child hugging a -recovered treasure, and offers kisses, of which -she is not generally prodigal. Plain Eliza is -shy. She has grown perceptibly in three days.</p> - -<p>The garden is full of sweet scents. The -dawn, the coronation, and the crimson ramblers -are bursting into lovely bloom beside the blue -of the delphiniums.</p> - -<p>There was always a special kind of joy in -the old days about home-coming to the Villino. -We used to go from room to room, taking stock -of the dear, queer little place; greeting the -serene, smiling Madonnas; the aloof angels -folded into their prayers; pagan, pondering -Polyhymnia in her corner of the drawing-room, -brooding upon the glory of times that will -never be again.... It is all just as it used -to be: bowery, without and within, as usual.</p> - -<p>Everything is scrubbed to the last point of -daisy freshness and polished to spicy gloss -against the Padrona’s return, and smiling -damsels await compliments on the stairs.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276"></a>[Pg 276]</span> -Other years, as we say, these were moments -of unalloyed light-heartedness. It was always -unexpectedly nicer than we had imagined.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it dearer than ever?” we would say, -then, to each other. “Don’t you love it? -Aren’t we happy here?”</p> - -<p>This year it is another cry that rises to our -lips.</p> - -<p>“Oh, how happy we might be, if only——”</p> - -<p class="p2 center small">BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND</p> - -<div class="transnote"> -<h3>Transcriber's Note:</h3> - -<p>Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as -possible.</p> - -<p>A larger version of the frontispiece may be seen by clicking on -the image.</p> - -<p>The following is a list of changes made to the original. -The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.</p> - -<p>Page 13</p> - -<p> -by Mrs. MacComfort as <span class="u">umistakably</span> Mimi’s<br /> -by Mrs. MacComfort as <span class="u">unmistakably</span> Mimi’s</p> - -<p>Page 21</p> - -<p> -<span class="u">surrounted</span> with politely assisting Hoheiten.<br /> -<span class="u">surrounded</span> with politely assisting Hoheiten.</p> - -<p>Page 46</p> - -<p> -“<i>Ah, voilà qui m’est bien <span class="u">egal</span>!</i> That is my own<br /> -“<i>Ah, voilà qui m’est bien <span class="u">égal</span>!</i> That is my own</p> - -<p>Page 70</p> - -<p> -up, Birdie’--he calls me ‘Birdie,’--<span class="u">but</span> I can<br /> -up, Birdie’--he calls me ‘Birdie,’--<span class="u">‘but</span> I can</p> - -<p>Page 130</p> - -<p> -<span class="u">ontclusion</span> to draw that the mere fact of death<br /> -<span class="u">conclusion</span> to draw that the mere fact of death</p> - -<p> -<span class="u">cheem</span>, in the eyes of most people, to qualify<br /> -<span class="u">seems</span>, in the eyes of most people, to qualify</p> - -<p> -<span class="u">ses</span> soul for eternal bliss. It is idle to ask <span class="u">whaf</span><br /> -<span class="u">the</span> soul for eternal bliss. It is idle to ask <span class="u">what</span></p> - -<p> -becomes of the generally accepted doctrine <span class="u">fo</span><br /> -becomes of the generally accepted doctrine <span class="u">of</span></p> - -<p> -certain to be saved, anyone should put <span class="u">himselt</span><br /> -certain to be saved, anyone should put <span class="u">himself</span></p> - -<p>Page 151</p> - -<p> -of a beautiful little <span class="u">daughter.</span><br /> -of a beautiful little <span class="u">daughter.”</span></p> - -<p>Page 178</p> - -<p> -Artist, in all reverence be it <span class="u">said.</span> “He hath<br /> -Artist, in all reverence be it <span class="u">said:</span> “He hath</p> - -<p>Page 191</p> - -<p> -<span class="u">Trainant</span> la jambe dans la poussière<br /> -<span class="u">Traînant</span> la jambe dans la poussière</p> - -<p>Page 197</p> - -<p> -there is a <span class="u">langour</span> about his movements extraordinarily<br /> -there is a <span class="u">languor</span> about his movements extraordinarily</p> - -<p>Page 206</p> - -<p> -<span class="u">To</span> think that anyone could ever hurt a<br /> -<span class="u">“To</span> think that anyone could ever hurt a</p> - -<p>Page 224</p> - -<p> -the <span class="u">swine!”</span><br /> -the <span class="u">swine!’”</span></p> - -<p>Page 225</p> - -<p> -blazing. All the <span class="u">langour</span>, the unacknowledged<br /> -blazing. All the <span class="u">languor</span>, the unacknowledged</p> - -<p>Page 240</p> - -<p> -terrible there just <span class="u">now</span><br /> -terrible there just <span class="u">now.</span></p> - -<p>Page 265</p> - -<p> -It is still home to us; not <i>the</i> home, <i>a</i> <span class="u">home</span><br /> -It is still home to us; not <i>the</i> home, <i>a</i> <span class="u">home.</span></p> - -<p>Page 269</p> - -<p> -bell. And some are in the <span class="u">Dardenelles</span>, under<br /> -bell. And some are in the <span class="u">Dardanelles</span>, under</p> -</div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Little House in War Time, by -Agnes Castle and Egerton Castle - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE HOUSE IN WAR TIME *** - -***** This file should be named 63618-h.htm or 63618-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/6/1/63618/ - -Produced by Clarity, Paul Clark and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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