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| author | pgww <pgww@lists.pglaf.org> | 2025-07-13 11:22:04 -0700 |
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| committer | pgww <pgww@lists.pglaf.org> | 2025-07-13 11:22:04 -0700 |
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diff --git a/76494-h/76494-h.htm b/76494-h/76494-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1952cf6 --- /dev/null +++ b/76494-h/76494-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9856 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Twenty-five | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; +} + + h1,h2 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +h1 {font-weight: bold; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 4em; + word-spacing: 0.3em; + letter-spacing: 2em; + } + +h2 {font-weight: normal; + font-size: 130%; + margin-top: 2em; + word-spacing: 0.3em; + } + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p6 {margin-top: 6em;} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.full {width: 95%; margin-left: 2.5%; margin-right: 2.5%;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} +.tdc {text-align: center;} +.tdrb {text-align: right; vertical-align: bottom;} +.tdcp {text-align: center; + padding-top: 1em;} +.tdlt {text-align: left; + vertical-align: top;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + +.big {font-size: 600%; + margin-bottom: 0em;} +.xlarge {font-size: 140%;} +.large {font-size: 120%;} +.less {font-size: 90%;} +.more {font-size: 80%;} + +.c {text-align: center;} + +.sp {word-spacing: 0.3em;} + +.lsp {letter-spacing: 0.2em;} + +.ph2 {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; + font-size: 140%; + margin-top: 1em; + word-spacing: 0.3em; + letter-spacing: 0.2em;} + +.dropcap {float: left; width: auto; padding-right: 1px; font-size: 300%; line-height: 73%;} + +.dropcap1 {float: left; width: auto; padding-right: 5px; font-size: 300%; line-height: 73%;} + +.r {text-align: right; + margin-right: 2em;} + +.gtb +{ + letter-spacing: 3em; + font-size: 90%; + text-align: center; + margin-right: -2em; + font-weight: bold; +} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} +img.w100 {width: 100%;} + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + + +/* Footnotes */ + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 75%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; font-size:90%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + margin-top:3em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; + border: .3em double gray; + padding: 1em; +} +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} +.poetry .indent1 {text-indent: -2em;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76494 ***</div> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover"> +</div> + + +<h1>TWENTY-FIVE</h1> + + +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="c sp large"><i>By Beverley Nichols</i></p> +</div> + +<p class="c less"> +PRELUDE<br> +PATCHWORK<br> +SELF +</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="c big lsp"> +25</p> + +<p class="c sp"> +BEING A YOUNG MAN’S CANDID RECOLLECTIONS<br> +OF HIS ELDERS AND BETTERS +</p> + +<p class="c sp p2"> +<i>By</i><br> +<span class="xlarge">BEVERLEY NICHOLS</span></p> + +<p class="c sp lsp p6 large"> +NEW YORK<br> +GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY +</p> +</div> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="c sp more"> +COPYRIGHT, 1926,<br> +BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY +</p> + +<p class="c sp more p6"> +25<br> +—B—<br> +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA +</p> +</div> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span></p> + +<p class="ph2">CONTENTS</p> +</div> + +<table class="less"> + +<tr> + <td class="tdc"><a href="#c1">CHAPTER ONE</a></td> + <td class="tdr"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">IN WHICH SOME ENGLISH GENTLEMEN SET OUT<br> +ON A STRANGE JOURNEY</td> + <td class="tdrb">11</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c2">CHAPTER TWO</a></td> + <td class="tdr"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">PRESIDENTS—LEAN AND FAT</td> + <td class="tdrb">21</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c3">CHAPTER THREE</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">CONTAINING A FRUITLESS SEARCH FOR AMERICAN<br> +VULGARITY </td> + <td class="tdrb">31</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c4">CHAPTER FOUR</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">JOHN MASEFIELD, ROBERT BRIDGES, W. B. YEATS</td> + <td class="tdrb">36</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c5">CHAPTER FIVE</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">IN WHICH MR. G. K. CHESTERTON REVEALS HIS<br> +FEARS AND HIS HOPES</td> + <td class="tdrb">50</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c6">CHAPTER SIX</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">IN WHICH MRS. ASQUITH BEHAVES WITH CHARACTERISTIC<br> +ENERGY</td> + <td class="tdrb">56</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c7">CHAPTER SEVEN</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">IN WHICH MR. WINSTON CHURCHILL LOSES HIS<br> +TEMPER, AND MR. HORATIO BOTTOMLEY WINS<br> +HIS DEBATE</td> + <td class="tdrb">62</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c8">CHAPTER EIGHT</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">BEING AN IMPRESSION OF TWO LADIES OF GENIUS</td> + <td class="tdrb">73</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c9">CHAPTER NINE</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">IN WHICH WE MEET A GHOST</td> + <td class="tdrb">84</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c10">CHAPTER TEN</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">IN WHICH I JOURNEY TO GREECE</td> + <td class="tdrb">99<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c11">CHAPTER ELEVEN</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">CONCERNING THE CONFIDENCES OF A QUEEN</td> + <td class="tdrb">112</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c12">CHAPTER TWELVE</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">STRANGE TALES OF A MONARCH AND A NOVELIST</td> + <td class="tdrb">120</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c13">CHAPTER THIRTEEN</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">FROM THE REGAL TO THE RIDICULOUS</td> + <td class="tdrb">133</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c14">CHAPTER FOURTEEN</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">IN WHICH SIR WILLIAM ORPEN AND MRS. ELINOR<br> +GLYN REVEAL THEIR SOULS</td> + <td class="tdrb">146</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c15">CHAPTER FIFTEEN</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">CONCERNING TWO ARTISTS IN A DIFFERENT<br> +SPHERE</td> + <td class="tdrb">156</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c16">CHAPTER SIXTEEN</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">HANGED BY THE NECK</td> + <td class="tdrb">165</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c17">CHAPTER SEVENTEEN</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">TWO PLAIN AND ONE COLOURED</td> + <td class="tdrb">174</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c18">CHAPTER EIGHTEEN</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">A LAMB IN WOLF’S CLOTHING</td> + <td class="tdrb">183</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c19">CHAPTER NINETEEN</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">TWO BIG MEN AND ONE MEDIUM</td> + <td class="tdrb">189</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c20">CHAPTER TWENTY</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">A MEMORY—AND SOME SONGS</td> + <td class="tdrb">201</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c21">CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">HICKS—HICKS—AND NOTHING BUT HICKS</td> + <td class="tdrb">210<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c22">CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">SHOWING HOW A GENIUS WORSHIPPED DEVILS IN<br> +THE MOUNTAINS</td> + <td class="tdrb">218</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c23">CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">A DEFENCE OF DRAMATIC CRITICS</td> + <td class="tdrb">224</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c24">CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">IN WHICH WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM MAKES<br> +A DELICATE GRIMACE</td> + <td class="tdrb">232</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c25">CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">IN WHICH MICHAEL ARLEN DISDAINS PINK<br> +CHESTNUTS</td> + <td class="tdrb">240</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c26">CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">CONTAINING THE HIDEOUS TRUTH ABOUT NOEL<br> +COWARD</td> + <td class="tdrb">248</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdcp"><a href="#c27">CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN</a></td> + <td class="tdrb"></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl">IN WHICH I ALLOW MYSELF TO BE ENTIRELY<br> +SENTIMENTAL</td> + <td class="tdrb">255</td></tr> + + +</table> + + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="c"> +<i>to</i><br> +<span class="large">GEORGE AND BLANCHE</span> +</p> +</div> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span></p> + +<p class="ph2">FOREWORD</p> +</div> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">wenty-five</span> seems to me the latest age at which +anybody should write an autobiography. It has +an air of finality about it, as though one had clambered +to the summit of a great hill, and were waving +good-bye to some very distant country which can +never be revisited.</p> + +<p>A delicious age, you may agree, but an age too +irresponsible for the production of autobiographies. +Why, I ask you? The bones of a young man of +twenty-five (according to the medical profession) are +duly set, his teeth are ranged in their correct places, +and many arid pastures have been made beautiful by +the sowing of his wild oats. Why then, not write +about some of the exciting people he has seen, while +they still excite him?</p> + +<p>That is the essence of the whole matter, to write of +these things before it is too late. This is an age of +boredom, and by the time one is thirty, I am terribly +afraid that the first flush of enthusiasm may have +worn off. It is quite possible that by then I shall no +longer be thrilled by the sight of Arnold Bennett +twisting his forelock at a first night, and that the +vision of Elinor Glyn eating quantities of cold ham at +the Bath Club (a sight which, to-day, never fails to +amuse) will not move me in the least.</p> + +<p>It is also possible that my indignations will have +suffered a similar cooling, that I shall no longer feel +faintly sick at the sight of the new Regent Street, and +shall be able to view the idolization by the British +people of Mr. George Robey, if not with approbation, +at least with tolerance.</p> + +<p>It is to be hoped that this will not be the case, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> +you must admit, from your own experience of young +men who have grown up, that it is quite on the cards. +They are faithless to their first hates, they have forgotten +their first loves. They turn from the dreams +of Oxford to the nightmares of the city, just because +the dream is difficult, and the nightmare is so easy. +In fact, they grow old.</p> + +<p>That is why I have written this book. And from the +decrepitude of thirty I shall write another on the +same lines. It will be called ‘Making the Most of +Twenty-Eight.’</p> + +<p class="r large">B. N.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c1">CHAPTER ONE</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c less">In which some English Gentlemen set out on a Strange<br> +Journey</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">H</span><span class="smcap">ad</span> one been a Prime Minister there would be +every reason for talking of one’s first tooth and +devoting a chapter or two to its effect upon the +history of our times. There would then follow, in +succeeding volumes, sketches of the youthful genius +from every aspect, with appropriate legends at the +top of each page, such as ‘Backward at School,’ ‘A +Daring Frolic,’ ‘Visit to the Tomb of William Pitt.’</p> + +<p>But since one has not been a Prime Minister, and +since all first teeth greatly resemble one another, and +since most small boys are very much alike (for if they +aren’t, they are horrid)—since, in fact, there is no +excuse for being dull, we must begin by making +things happen. And I can think of no better moment +for ringing up the curtain than when, at the +age of nineteen, two months before the Armistice, I +was given leave to go to America as Secretary to the +British Universities Mission to the United States.</p> + +<p>It sounds deadly, but it was really exceedingly +amusing, for this mission, before it finished its tour +(which was largely for propaganda purposes), was +to come in touch with most of the leading men in +America, from President Wilson downwards. Even +in England, there were celebrities hanging round us, +all telling us with various degrees of pomposity the +sort of things which Americans expected Englishmen +to do, and the best way not to do them.</p> + +<p>Ian Hay was the first man who gave me any information +about America that was worth having. I +can see him now, standing against a window in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> +Ministry of Information, a tall, slim figure, in a +rather shabby uniform, saying:</p> + +<p>‘Whatever else you do, don’t refer to the Americans +as “children.” It’s such a damned insult.’</p> + +<p>I demanded further suggestions.</p> + +<p>‘Dozens, if you want them. Don’t leave your boots +outside the hotel door. Don’t get ruffled if a porter +slaps you on the back and calls you “boy.” Don’t be +surprised if they refer to their country as the peculiar +property of the Almighty. For all you know they +may be right. It’s a marvellous country. And the +people! Lovable isn’t the word for them. They’ll +kill you with kindness.’</p> + +<p>All this I had heard before, but from Ian Hay it +sounded different. It is not surprising that he was a +success in the States. He is very like his own heroes, +who, even when they are talking fourteen to the +dozen, give one the impression of being strong and +silent. Add to this quality a charming smile, the +faintest possible flavour of a Scottish accent, and an +air of modesty which is not usually associated with +the Creators of best-sellers, and you will have +the main ingredients of one of our most typical +authors.</p> + +<p>If Ian Hay had accompanied us on our Mission he +would have had material for a comic masterpiece +of English literature. There was the representative +of Oxford, who was to lose his boots in every American +hotel we were to frequent. There was dear old +Sir Henry Jones, whose Scottish-Welsh accents, combined +with a heavy beard, an almost complete lack of +teeth, and a heavenly smile, were so to intrigue +American audiences; Professor J—, the brilliant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> +Irish scientist, who was our official pessimist, and +foretold shipwreck, train-wreck, and motor-wreck +with unfailing hope; Sir Henry Miers, from Manchester, +cool, calm, and capable, who found the +Oxford representative’s boots for him and helped to +interpret some of Sir Henry Jones’s more obscure +utterances; and last, but certainly not least, Sir +Arthur Shipley, the urbane Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge, +who never lost his boots, who spoke perfect +English, who had always exactly the right word to +say to exactly the right person, and without whom +we should all probably have been arrested within +twenty-four hours of our arrival as a band of undesirable +mountebanks.</p> + +<p>I wonder if all the English missions which tour the +United States, which march in dignified processions +through the streets, which blink up at the skyscrapers, +which sneeze over the grape-juice and +stagger back from the serried headlines of the newspapers ... I +wonder if they are all made up from +such human and fallible men as was ours.</p> + +<p>Take the case of Sir Henry Jones, one of the +sweetest characters and the most generous men I have +ever met. He had, in his head, a tooth. One tooth, +and no more. The first memory I have of him was in +the early morning, when we were ploughing our way +through a choppy sea, with the coast of Scotland +misty to the starboard. He put his head through my +porthole, and complained bitterly that there was no +fresh water in his cabin. ‘What did he want fresh +water for?’ I asked, looking sleepily at his flowing +beard. He waved his toothbrush through the window, +and I gave him my carafe. I wish we were all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> +such optimists. And I hope this story is not too +impertinent. A very faint hope, I fear.</p> + +<p>Again, Professor J—. It is with no lack of respect +that I refer to the more humorous side of his character. +Any scientist, from San Francisco to Petrograd, +will tell you what the world of astronomy owes to +his researches into the theory of the Martian canals. +Anybody but a fool would pay homage to his intellect. +None the less, for sheer pessimism I have never +met his like.</p> + +<p>‘I took a bath this morning,’ he said to us, one day +at breakfast, ‘and I did it at the peril of my life.’</p> + +<p>We wondered what made him think that a bath was +so particularly perilous. He explained. In taking his +bath it had been necessary for him to take off his +patent waistcoat. It had also been necessary for him +to take off his clothes. In view of the fact that we +were at the moment, in a part of the ocean which was +regarded with particular affection by German submarines, +both actions had been highly inadvisable. +The patent waistcoat for obvious reasons. The dangers +of the state of nature, however, he described at +greater length. ‘If a body enters the water,’ he said, +‘death takes place by chill just as often as by actual +drowning. I have made researches into the matter +and I find that a body covered with clothes does not +chill so fast as a body with nothing on. Hence the +danger of baths in a situation such as this. Supposing +a torpedo had hit us while I was in my bath!’</p> + +<p>While we were on the water, a torpedo did actually +hit a liner off the Coast of Ireland, though it was not +our own vessel. As soon as the news came through, +J— was convinced that one of his own relatives, an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> +aged aunt, must have been on board. The fact that +she had been bedridden for eight years, the fact that +there was no conceivable reason why she should +have got up at all, far less have ventured across the +Atlantic, weighed with him not at all. He was born +like that, and I think he even took a certain grim +pleasure in it, realizing the futility of human +existence.</p> + +<p>When I add that there were in our Mission two +ladies, Miss Spurgeon and Miss Sedgwick, the introductory +passage to this book is complete.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>Have you ever noticed—you who have crossed the +Atlantic—the extraordinary effect that the Statue of +Liberty has upon those who pass for the first time +beneath its shadow? It brings out all sorts of hidden +traits in even the most secretive of the passengers. +Men who have spent the entire voyage in the bar, +whom nobody would accuse of sentimentality, rush +out and stand strictly to attention, chin well out, eyes +fixed on that impressive brazen lady, much as a dog +would fix its eyes on its mistress. Young and flapping +ladies, who have lain on the decks in attitudes which +they apparently consider seductive, stand with open +mouths and unpowdered noses, trying to remember +the date of the American Declaration of Independence. +Fathers bring out their children and regard +the statue with an air of proprietorship as though +they themselves had been largely responsible for its +erection. And as for the poets....</p> + +<p>We had on board one rather celebrated young poet +who I am sure will never forget the Statue of Liberty—whether +or no the statue will ever forget him is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> +another question. His name was Robert Nichols, +and he was being sent out by the English Government +as the most accomplished of all our war poets. +He had created rather a sensation at home by his +volume, <i>Ardours and Endurances</i>, which contained, in +the opinion of the critics, much the best war poetry +which had been produced. During the voyage over I +fear he had not been much in the mood for writing +poetry, unless it were of the style of Rupert Brooke’s +dreadful ‘Channel Crossing,’ for he had been groaning +with sea-sickness in his cabin. But the statue +cured him of all that. As soon as he heard that we +were about to pass under it, he emerged pale but +determined and came up to me, where I was standing +by the railings.</p> + +<p>‘I’m going to salute the statue,’ he said.</p> + +<p>‘Well, hadn’t you better get your hat?’ I asked. +‘You can’t salute without a hat on.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t care a damn about the hat,’ replied Robert, +and without any more ado, swung his hand behind +his ear, where it remained quivering like any guardsman’s. +Further conversation under these circumstances +would, I realized, be sacrilege not only on the +spirit of liberty but on the spirit of poetry as well, +and so I held my peace. But it was a pity that +Robert had somewhat miscalculated the distance we +still had to run, for after a few minutes he was +forced, from sheer cramp, to lower his arm again. +It would have been better if he had got his hat.</p> + +<p>I fear that Robert Nichols did not greatly enjoy +himself in the States. He could not get that ‘platform’ +which had been anticipated for him, and he +always looked a little afraid, when one saw him on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> +Fifth Avenue, as though a skyscraper would fall on +him before he had finished his last sonnet. He might +indeed have been reading a Keats poem:</p> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When I have fears that I may cease to be</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Before high-piled books, in charact’ry</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hold like full garners the full-ripen’d grain ...</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>All of this, however, is not getting us to America, +to Presidents and millionaires, and all those other +engaging things.</p> + +<p>Landing in America in this autumn of 1918, for an +Englishman at least, was exactly like a page out of an +H. G. Wells novel. The aeroplanes circling round us, +the little pilot boat coming with newspapers that told +us the end of the war was in sight, the sudden glimpse +of a new radiant continent, with houses sparkling +with a million lights—it was the lights that we found +most surprising. After stumbling about in darkened +streets at home, after being given hell by the police if +we so much as allowed a chink of light to escape +through the window (for fear of air raids, of course), +it seemed almost indecent to see this blaze of light +coming from every window. In absolute exultation, +as soon as I reached my room (we were staying at +the Columbia University Club), I turned on all the +lights, drew the curtain, and threw open the window, +thinking—‘there, look at that, and be damned to +you,’ the remark being addressed to imaginary +zeppelins, thousands of miles away.</p> + +<p>And then—the banquet that night! There was +butter. Lots of it, making the pale wisps of grease on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> +which we had lately fed seem like some loathsome +memory of a nightmare. There was sugar, not done +up in little bags, and shrunk to the size of a pea, but +fat, glistening sugar, shining and sparkling like any +diamond. There was meat, not brought to one in +exchange for a coupon, but perched on the plate, +proud and abundant. Sir Henry Jones’s one tooth +was working overtime that night.</p> + +<p>At this dinner I met my First Great American—Nicholas +Murray Butler—President of the Columbia +University.</p> + +<p>For the benefit of English readers I should here +point out that the Presidents of great American +Universities occupy far more prominent positions in +the life of the nation than the Vice-Chancellors of +Oxford or Cambridge. These latter gentlemen are +hardly known to the public at all. The only Vice-Chancellor +of Oxford of whom the newspaper-reading +public has ever heard is Ex-Vice-Chancellor +Farnell, who set the whole University on edge by +medieval restrictions, and who has now retired to the +obscurity from which his faintly ridiculous personality +should never have been dragged. Apart from +this regrettable exception, English Vice-Chancellors +have usually figured only in small paragraphs at the +bottom of the sober columns of <i>The Times</i>, when +they are reported as having given degrees to various +earnest youths and maidens.</p> + +<p>In America it is very different. Here, when the +President of a great college delivers himself of an +utterance, great treble headings announce the fact in +all the principal newspapers. He is given almost as +much publicity as a successful horse. His judgments<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> +are made the subject of leading articles, his portrait is +almost as well known as that of the baser type of +politician in England. I do not know whether this is +because knowledge is more venerated in the United +States than in England. It just happens to be the +case.</p> + +<p>Well, Nicholas Murray Butler was a super-President, +and, next to President Wilson and Charlie +Chaplin, he was the most ‘talked-of’ man in the +States. As I said before, he was the First Great +American I met, and it is with a feeling of regret that +I have to admit that I was not in the least impressed. +He struck me as the epitome of the commonplace. +Charming, yes—a dear, kind smile, a loud and penetrating +voice, but—my God! what a mind! It was +stocked with every platitude that has bored us since +Adam first yawned into the disillusioned face of Eve.</p> + +<p>He made a speech. Such a speech. It was filled +with tremendous pauses, in which the hand would be +raised, and the finger held aloft, and then, like the +booming of a gun, the platitude. For example. +Silence. A row of expectant faces, and eager eyes. +A row of set mouths (except of those who were +munching salted almonds). And then ... ‘I say to +you, and I say it as my considered opinion, that War +is a terrible thing. It is a cruel thing, ladies and +gentlemen, a brutal thing. But ...’ again the silence, +and the munching mouths are stilled ... +‘wars happen. They occur. They break out. They +are declared. They exist. They ...’</p> + +<p>Oh dear, I thought. If all American speeches are +like this, I am in for a bad time. Of course, we were +very soon to discover that they weren’t, and that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> +American oratory is among the finest in the world. +But Nicholas Murray Butler was a bad beginning. +It is a matter of absolute mystery to me how people +listen to such things, or how they read his books. +For example, I picked up, the other day, a book by +him called <i>Is America Worth Saving?</i> It was incredible. +It contained page after page of the dullest +moralization, page after page devoted to the proving +that black is generally black, and that white, more +often than not, is white. And yet, when you get him +by himself, Butler is better. When we went to see +him at Columbia University he kept Sir Arthur +Shipley and myself giggling faintly for twenty +minutes over his description of some of the difficulties +of the educational career. I remember in particular +one reply he made which was typical of a certain +broad, dry humour. Sir Arthur had asked him, +with reference to a little party of English boys who +had gone out west, if they were still at San Francisco.</p> + +<p>‘Not always so very still,’ replied Butler with a +smile.</p> + +<p>I had a long talk with Nicholas Murray Butler, but +I gained no enlightenment from it. He told me that +the young had a great advantage over the old because +the young had longer to live, but after all the old had +an advantage over the young because they had lived +longer. Or some equally penetrating generalization. +After talking to him for ten minutes, in an atmosphere +of linked Star Spangled Banners and Union +Jacks, I came to the conclusion that he probably had +so original and destructive a mind that he was forced +to send out this smoke-barrage of commonplace in +order not to be arrested as a revolutionary.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c2">CHAPTER TWO</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Presidents—Lean and Fat</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">f</span> you wish to sip the very essence of democracy, +you must pay a visit to the White House and talk +with the President of the United States. The more +urgent your business, the more stirring the occasion, +the more completely unpretentious will be your +reception.</p> + +<p>We arrived in Washington in late October, already +somewhat battered by an existence in which every +meal was a banquet, and on the day after our arrival +found ourselves drawing up at the gates of the White +House, duly attired, cleaned and brushed, in order to +make the most favourable impression on President +Wilson.</p> + +<p>The simplicity of the first home of America is, in +some ways, more alarming than the pomp of an +ordinary Court. There were no beautiful footmen, +no drifting diplomats to waft us higher and higher +until we were at length admitted into the presence. +Indeed, it was more like going to see a dentist than a +President.</p> + +<p>We were shown into a pleasant white room, with +the usual dentist’s array of newspapers and periodicals, +slightly soiled by many democratic thumbs. At +this point it might be mentioned that the pet mascot +of the Mission also entered the White House with +us, concealed in an overcoat. This was Cuthbert, a +stuffed rabbit, which had been presented by a +frivolous friend to the Mission on our departure +from England. Cuthbert had been a sure help in +trouble and had grown more than human. When the +sea was rough, he would be propped up on the edge,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> +looking over, in case he might be overcome. When +it was calm he would be allowed to bask in the sunshine. +And when we were passing under the Statue +of Liberty he was stood to attention until the statue +was passed. He couldn’t salute, because toy rabbits +aren’t made that way.</p> + +<p>Cuthbert was adored by every member of the +Mission, except the representative of Oxford, who +thought that such things were naughty. He was +taken to the tops of skyscrapers to survey New York +by night. He was taken on the Hudson to survey +New York by day. And I was damned if I was going +to allow Cuthbert to depart from America without +entering the White House. And so, he was carefully +stuffed into the capacious pocket of Sir Arthur’s +overcoat (unknown, one must in fairness admit, to +Sir Arthur). He was not taken, however, to see the +President. There are limits.</p> + +<p>Mr. Lawson, the Secretary for the Interior, was +with us when we entered, but the real thrill of the +morning was to come when a manservant poked his +head through the door and said, ‘Are you men waiting +to see the President?’ We all bridled slightly at +this historic question. ‘How divinely American!’ we +thought. Were we ‘men’ waiting to see the President? +Men. <i>Men</i>, if you please. The world’s greatest +authority on bugs. A man. The world’s greatest +authority on the canals of Mars. A man. The +world’s greatest authority on Greek something or +other. A man. Men—all men. Except, of course, +the women. We said, yes, we were waiting to see him.</p> + +<p>‘Then you’d best come along with me,’ said the +manservant.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span></p> + +<p>We came along with him. We came along through +a passage, from which outside you could see the +short drive, the white buildings of Washington, the +bustling life of the city passing by, and we stepped +through some folding doors, on to a great space of +highly polished floor, in the centre of which, like a +waxwork, was standing the world’s most important +figure—President Wilson.</p> + +<p>The first thing that struck me was that he looked +very clean. Immaculate. Not that I had expected to +find him dirty. But there was something about the +stiff white cuffs, the gleaming collar, the sparkling +pince-nez, the beautifully pressed trousers, that suggested +he had dressed in a disinfected room with +the assistance of a highly efficient valet, who had +put on his clothes with pincers. Again the dentist +feeling. He <i>was</i> like a dentist. Or a distinguished +surgeon.</p> + +<p>In silence we were introduced, and slid over the +polished floor until we were grouped round him in a +sort of semicircle. I had a ridiculous feeling that we +were all going to sing ‘Here we come gathering nuts-in-May.’ +Everything was suddenly so dignified. No +question now of being mere ‘men.’ We were all +diplomats, in the centre of the universe.</p> + +<p>And then Wilson began to speak, quietly and +calmly, weighing his words, telling us exactly what +was passing in his mind. I remember being struck +by two things—foolish, no doubt. The first was a +feeling of strangeness that he should speak with an +American accent. One had imagined him as belonging +to the world, forgetting that after all, he only +belonged to America. The second was that he was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> +just an ordinary man, in a hideously difficult position, +applying the ordinary standards of decent conduct to +the world situation.</p> + +<p>He talked about affairs in France, compared them +with that of last year, and drew conclusions. And +then he said something extraordinarily interesting:</p> + +<p>‘My principal difficulty,’ he remarked, ‘is that we +are dealing with people whom we can’t trust. I +wonder if you can understand how baffling that is, +when one is honestly trying to find a way out? If +Germany were like any other country, if we could +count on certain promises, certain assurances being +fulfilled, then we should know where we are. But +we can’t count (he almost shouted the last words) on +that. I write a note. I receive an answer. I write +another note. I receive another answer. I <i>go on +writing notes</i>. And I am left in exactly the same situation +as before, because I have learnt, from bitter +experience, that the promises contained in that +answer will be broken as soon as the first convenient +opportunity presents itself.’</p> + +<p>All the time he spoke he stood looking straight in +front of him, with his hands behind his back. He +looked terribly tired. I gathered afterwards that he +had scarcely time to sleep, that often he would be up +all night trying to unravel the hopeless tangle of lies +and evasions which was almost daily served up for +him.</p> + +<p>He continued in this strain for some time, until +there suddenly came into his voice a note of passion, +‘America is not going to leave the Hohenzollerns in +power. It would mean leaving a running sore in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> +heart of Europe.’ He made a little grimace of +disgust.</p> + +<p>I won’t attempt to give any long précis of his +remarks. Generalizations are never interesting, and +even if they were, you can discover all of them in the +newspapers of the period. Sir Arthur had a talk +with him on the way out about his life at Princeton, +and with his usual genius, managed to smooth the +wrinkles out of his face and to make him laugh. The +last words I heard him say were in reference to the +Princeton professors. ‘They kicked me upstairs,’ he +said. A very long way upstairs, most people would +think.</p> + +<p>That was one of the most interesting mornings of +my life. I only wish that Cuthbert could have been +concealed behind the curtain.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>Where Wilson impressed one with a feeling of +respect (if not reverence), Taft filled one with a +bouncing spirit of good will—a sort of ‘Pippa +Passes’ spirit—that as long as Taft was in being, all +must be right with the United States.</p> + +<p>I met him at a dinner given about this time in +Washington, and was at once captivated by him, +because he seemed to make a point of being particularly +charming to the people who didn’t matter. +There was a tremendous reception after dinner, and +half the time Taft was standing, a round Colossus, +talking to persons of no importance, and ignoring the +crowd of millionaires and diplomats who clustered +round him.</p> + +<p>Somehow or other, I found myself talking to him. +He said:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> + +<p>‘Well, young man, and aren’t you getting rather +sick of trotting round with a lot of old professors?’</p> + +<p>I indignantly disclaimed any such suggestion +(which happened to be quite untrue).</p> + +<p>However, Taft only winked, and said Englishmen +were always so tactful, weren’t they, winked again, +heaved his shoulders, and shook. Then, apropos of +nothing he said:</p> + +<p>‘I heard a wonderful story yesterday about a Scotchman.’</p> + +<p>One has always just heard wonderful stories about +Scotchmen, but not always from Ex-Presidents of +the United States, so I listened politely.</p> + +<p>‘A Scotchman,’ said Taft, speaking in a loud +whisper, and keeping one eye on the crowd of +millionaires behind him, ‘went out one cold day on +the links, did the whole eighteen holes, tramped +back, and at the end of it all gave his caddy threepence.’</p> + +<p>Here he heaved again. I wondered if that was the +end of the story, when Taft continued:</p> + +<p>‘The caddy looked at the man and said, “D’ye ken +I can tell yer fortune by these three pennies?”’</p> + +<p>(Heavens! I thought. He can speak Scotch. No +wonder they made him President of the United +States.)</p> + +<p>‘The man shook his head,’ said Taft, ‘and the caddy +looked at the first penny.</p> + +<p>‘“The fir-r-rst penny,” he said, “tells me that +you’re a Scotsman. Eh?”</p> + +<p>‘“Yes.”</p> + +<p>‘“The second tells me that you’re a bachelor.”</p> + +<p>‘“Yes.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span></p> + +<p>‘“And the thir-rd penny tells me that yer father-r +was a bachelor too.”’</p> + +<p>And with that Taft turned on his heel, roaring with +laughter, leaving at least one young Englishman a +staunch Anglo-American for the rest of his life.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>It was also in Washington that I first met Elihu +Root. Everybody, ever since my arrival had said, +‘Ah! but you must meet Elihu Root,’ rather in the +same sort of way as Sydney people say, ‘Ah! but you +must see our harbour,’ or Cambridge people, ‘Ah! +but you must see our Backs.’ He seemed to have a +quite unique reputation—the reputation of being a +thoroughly honest politician. I used to ask, ‘Why in +that case is he not made President?’ And the reply +invariably was, ‘He is too good, too honest, too +impeccable.’ All of which seemed very strange.</p> + +<p>However, when one met him, the mystery was +explained. Elihu Root struck me as ‘a very parfit +gentle knight.’ His conversation was like a man +thinking aloud. He shut his eyes and frowned and +then spoke, and you knew that the man was telling +you what he really thought. It was at one of the +inevitable banquets that he first appeared, and after +it was over I boldly went up to him and asked him +some sort of question about Anglo-American friendship.</p> + +<p>‘That rests with you, young man,’ he said, and shut +his eyes. ‘Youth to youth, young heart to young +heart’—and he sighed a little sentimentally.</p> + +<p>I asked him the usual stock question which one +asks on these occasions—if there was no means of +dissipating some of the ridiculous clouds of mistrust<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> +and delusion which still hung over the Atlantic, +blotting out the true features of each nation from one +another; if there was no means of bringing the Press, +at least, to realize the importance of the Anglo-American +ideal.</p> + +<p>‘Ah—the Press. Did you ever study the question +of sovereignty at college?’ he said.</p> + +<p>‘Yes.’</p> + +<p>‘Have you ever tried to put your finger on a certain +monarch, a certain body of men, a certain institute +and say, “Here is sovereignty—here is the ultimate +authority”? And have you, when you have decided +that sovereignty lies here, or there, suddenly realized +that the true power still eludes you? Have you +realized that those men are elected by the people and +that in consequence sovereignty lies in the people? +And have you, going even further, realized that the +force that makes the people vote, i.e., the force that +moulds the people’s wills, is really the true +sovereign? Think about it. And then you will realize +the true importance of the remark you made to me +just now.’</p> + +<p>All this was delivered with eyes shut and with head +tilted back. A very straight and honest man, Mr. +Root, typical of all that is best in American life.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>From Washington we travelled to Boston, staying +with President Lowell of Harvard. Harvard made +us all feel a little depressed. It was so very rich, so +very efficient, so very prosperous, so entirely different +from the bankrupt universities of England. I looked +with green eyes on undergraduates’ rooms fitted +with telephones and bathrooms, and served with a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> +central heating apparatus that made the frozen apartments +of Balliol seem a little torturous.</p> + +<p>And then, after Boston, Chicago. Our arrival in +Chicago was sensational. Mr. Hearst, the newspaper +proprietor, had declared the war to be over, although +it was still raging gaily, and had another forty-eight +hours to run. As a result of Mr. Hearst’s enterprise, +all the country people within a hundred miles of +Chicago had come to ‘celebrate,’ and they travelled +with us, dressed in their best, and taking liberal +swigs of whisky. When we actually arrived, we +found a mad city. Paper littered the streets, bells +clanged everywhere. And when we came to the club +(decency forbids me to mention which one it was) +every waiter in the place was drunk, and we had to +tread our way upstairs over recumbent figures, while +our bags remained in the hall.</p> + +<p>‘Terrible,’ said the representative of Oxford. ‘I am +beginning to understand why the Americans have so +urgent a need for Prohibition.’</p> + +<p>I am afraid I did not agree with him. It all seemed +to me very jolly. For one thing, all the telephone +books in the club had been taken to the roof where +they had, throughout the day, been slowly torn into +little pieces by intoxicated fingers, in order that the +streets might have a festive and confetti-like appearance. +As a result, though we could be rung up, we +could not ring up, and that, for the secretary of an +educational mission was, I assure you, a blessing not +at all in disguise.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>However, that was one of the only two occasions +when I ever saw anybody intoxicated in America.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> +The other was some weeks later when we were down +in Texas. We had been travelling all night, and we +emerged, one cold morning before breakfast, at the +town of—(I had better leave it blank), to visit the +local university. Half the professional staff were +lined up on the platform to meet us, and they certainly +had the warmest ideas of hospitality, for from +the overcoat pockets of at least half a dozen of the +more venerable members of the staff protruded the +neck of a bottle of rye whisky. Now rye whisky is, at +all times, a potent drink, but taken before breakfast, +on a cold morning, it is not only potent, it is deadly. +Nor was this all. For when we had driven to the +university, we were greeted by a festive board at +which the chief item of diet appeared to be egg-nog, +well flavoured with rum. However, we all enjoyed +ourselves very much, though I fear that this part of +the tour cannot have been very fruitful from the +educational point of view, however much it may have +strengthened the Anglo-American ties of friendship.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c3">CHAPTER THREE</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Containing a Fruitless Search for American Vulgarity</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap1">I</span> <span class="smcap">noticed</span> more and more in America that vulgarity +(which one finds, of course, all over the world, +even in the South Sea Islands), seemed to be in inverse +ratio to wealth. The people who were really +tiresome, who talked about their automobiles and +their incomes, and their emeralds, and their trips to +Europe, were nearly always the people with comparatively +small incomes. They might be rich, but they +weren’t ‘rolling,’ like the Goulds or the Vanderbilts.</p> + +<p>For example, a perfectly appalling little woman to +whose box at the opera I was once unwillingly lured, +suddenly, during an <i>entr’acte</i>, produced from her +stocking a cheque for a hundred thousand dollars, +and waved it in my face, saying, ‘Say, what d’you +think of that for a birthday present?’ A most unsavoury +proceeding, and as I afterwards discovered, a +complete fake. The woman’s husband had not a +hundred thousand dollars in the world, and went +bankrupt only a few weeks later.</p> + +<p>How entirely different are the super-millionaires! +They have enough money to roof their houses in +gold and diamonds, but they behave with the simplicity +of an English parson. It seems foolish to have +to say it, and one’s only excuse is that there is +still in England a ridiculous prejudice against rich +Americans.</p> + +<p>It would be a good thing if people who have such +a prejudice could meet a man like, for example, Jack +Pierpont Morgan. No nicer creature ever trod the +earth, in spite of his mansions in New York, Grosvenor +Square, Scotland, Cannes, and a few other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> +places. He was one of the last people I saw in New +York, and one of the best.</p> + +<p>One cannot think of Jack Morgan, of course, +without thinking of his library, although it is somewhat +depressing for an Englishman to think of it, +since so vast a multitude of English treasures have +found their way there. When he showed me over it +I was absolutely staggered by the collection of our +manuscripts which he has amassed. There is hardly +a novelist or poet of any repute whose faded pages +are not treasured in this house. And not only their +manuscripts, but their portraits, their personal belongings, +in fact anything of interest that is even +vaguely connected with them.</p> + +<p>I was browsing round among these treasures when +I suddenly saw, under a glass case, a thrilling object. +It was a little lock of hair, bound together with a +piece of ribbon, and underneath was a label which +read: ‘A lock of the hair of Keats. Given to Shelley +by Keats’ friend—’ And then there was a description +of the time and place at which the lock had been +given.</p> + +<p>This object so excited me that I could not drag +myself away from it.</p> + +<p>Jack Morgan came up.</p> + +<p>‘What are you looking at?’ he said. ‘Keats’ hair? +Like to hold it for a minute?’</p> + +<p>He produced a key from his pocket, undid the +case and put the precious thing into my hand. I +felt an almost schoolboy emotion at the thought that +this hair had grown from the head in which the Ode +to a Grecian Urn had been conceived.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Morgan said, ‘Give it to me for a moment.’<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> +Reluctantly I handed it over. And then, +marvel of marvels, he extracted a single hair from the +lock—(a long, curly one) put it on a piece of paper, +dropped a spot of sealing wax on one end of it and +then wrote, as a sort of testimony:</p> + +<p>‘Keats’ hair. From a lock in my possession. J. P. +Morgan.’</p> + +<p>This hair he gave to me, and, as all writers of +autobiographies so constantly assert, ‘it is one of my +most treasured possessions.’ After he had done that, +he took off the key from its ring, handed it to his +secretary and said:</p> + +<p>‘That’s the last hair from that lock that I give away. +If we take any more we shan’t have a lock, we’ll have +a bald patch. Don’t you let me have that key—not if +a dozen young Englishmen come along and beg for +it on their bended knees.’</p> + +<p>Morgan is like a father among his children when +he moves among these marvels. He pretends to know +nothing very much about them, but he knows a great +deal. He knew, for example, what I had never quite +understood—the exact sequence in which Poe had +written ‘The Bells.’ Poe’s manuscripts seemed to +convey a special charm for him, as indeed they +might, since Poe was incomparably the greatest creative +genius that America has produced. His manuscripts +were the very reverse of what one would have +expected. There were no wild scrawls, no blotches, +no hasty writing. On the contrary, they were all +beautifully transcribed on clean paper, in a hand that +would have won a prize in the copybook of a schoolboy.</p> + +<p>I fell quite in love with American newspapers—bad<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> +taste, I suppose—but quite comprehensible if you +have strength enough to survive the first shock of +them. Everybody has written everything that there +is to be written about American journalism, and I +won’t add to it. But one episode does deserve to be +recorded as a classic example of New World enterprise.</p> + +<p>The two ladies of our Mission, after a few weeks of +racket and bustle and sleeping-cars, arrived at Detroit +in such a state of exhaustion that they retired straight +to their rooms, refusing to see anybody, whether they +were professors, or journalists, or presidents, no +matter, in fact, how distinguished they might be. +There arrived on the scene a young man with a +speckled face who demanded an immediate interview +with these ladies.</p> + +<p>‘Impossible,’ I said.</p> + +<p>‘I’ve got to get it.’</p> + +<p>‘Can’t help that.’</p> + +<p>‘I <i>shall</i> get it.’</p> + +<p>‘You won’t.’</p> + +<p>Pause. The speckled gentleman spat on the floor, +sniffed, and then said, ‘Well, we shall see.’</p> + +<p>What he meant I did not even guess. But the next +day there appeared an immense interview, together +with pictures of the two ladies in question, under a +head-line that informed all and sundry that ‘Dishpans +Lose Their Lure For Female Sex in England +Say Prominent British Women Educators.’</p> + +<p>To an American reader, this must sound quite dull. +Its only value, as a story, is that, to an Englishman, +it sounds almost impossible. The ladies, rising +refreshed, and eating a hearty breakfast, looked up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> +from over their grape-fruit to see this astounding +account of the interview which they had never given, +and choked with fury.</p> + +<p>‘How dare they?’ said one.</p> + +<p>‘How monstrous!’ said the other. ‘Barbarism, +savagery!’ they cried.</p> + +<p>‘Not at all.’ It was imperative to soothe the ladies +a little. ‘Don’t you see that it’s really extraordinarily +funny? A speckled young man demands an interview +and doesn’t get one. He therefore invents it. You +ought to feel flattered that your views are so much +sought after.’</p> + +<p>They did not feel flattered, however.</p> + +<p>‘Besides,’ I added, ‘it is probably perfectly true that +Dishpans have Lost their Lure. Haven’t they?’</p> + +<p>‘Dishpans have no more to do with the case than +the flowers that bloom in the spring,’ said the ladies.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>And there, I am going to leave America. I am well +aware that these few pages represent only a very +small and quite superficial fragment of a great many +exciting happenings. The truth, however, is that I +was too young to pick out what Americans call the +‘high spots.’ The rest of this book will, I trust, be +different.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c4">CHAPTER FOUR</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">John Masefield, Robert Bridges, W. B. Yeats</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">n</span> January, 1919, I went to Oxford. That seems +about the shortest way of relating a fact that is of +singularly little interest to anybody but myself. +What <i>is</i> of interest is that Oxford, at that time, was +a regular nest of famous singing birds gathered together +in the aftermath of the War, choosing Oxford +as a sheltered resting-place, as though their wings +were a little weary and their feathers rather draggled.</p> + +<p>W. B. Yeats had come to rest from the storms of +Ireland in a quiet, green-shuttered house in Broad +Street; John Masefield was writing his marvellous +sonnets in a cottage on Boar’s Hill; Robert Bridges, +the Poet Laureate, was near by, occasionally producing +a few lines of verse which had more satire in them +than poetry, to say nothing of such young men as +Aldous Huxley, Robert Nichols, and Robert Graves. +I must also pay tribute to Leslie Hore-Belisha, who +is now perhaps the most brilliant of our younger +M.P’s. He did not write poetry, but his quite +unmatched eloquence at the Union will always +linger as one of my keenest intellectual (I almost +said emotional) pleasures.</p> + +<p>Of all these men, by far the greatest, to me, at least, +was John Masefield. He was the strangest blend of +passion, and ethereality. He was, moreover, the most +generous of men. As soon as I went to Oxford I +decided, in company with a little band of equally +impertinent young men, that what Oxford needed +was a new literary magazine which should reflect +the new spirit of the university after the War. Delicious +innocence! One really was under the impression<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> +that one was doing something, not only terribly +important, but quite new.</p> + +<p>After endless cigarettes and a quantity of mulled +claret we decided on two things—the title and the +price. It was to be called <i>The Oxford Outlook</i>, and +people were to pay half a crown for it. It is still +called <i>The Oxford Outlook</i> to this day, which must +be something of a record for ’varsity papers. The +price, however, is only a shilling.</p> + +<p>Now came the question of contributors. Although +we were properly idealistic we were also shrewd +enough to realize that unless we got some big names, +apart from those of the undergraduates, our publication +would stand little chance of creating any very +great stir in the world outside, which was what +we secretly desired. Somebody therefore suggested +Masefield. And that night I sat down and wrote to +Masefield, telling him what we were doing, and +asking him if he could possibly send us a few lines +for our first number.</p> + +<p>By the next post came a most charming letter from +Masefield, wishing us all good luck, and enclosing +two of the best sonnets he has ever written—poems +which any editor of any country in the world would +have been proud to publish. Here is the first of +them, which has since been included in the collected +edition of his works:</p> + + +<p class="c large sp">ON GROWING OLD</p> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">My dog and I are old, too old for roving;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></div> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I take the book and gather to the fire,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Turning old yellow leaves. Minute by minute</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The clock ticks to my heart; a withered wire</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.</div> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Your mountains, nor your downlands, nor your valleys</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ever again, nor share the battle yonder</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Where your young knight the broken squadron rallies,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Only stay quiet, while my mind remembers</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>And that he sent to somebody whose name he had +never even heard, knowing full well that we could +not afford to pay for them.</p> + +<p>A few weeks later I met Masefield himself. He had +promised to read some of his poetry to a little literary +society which we had gathered together, and we all +assembled in my rooms to await his arrival. It was a +bitterly cold night, with driving snow, and he lived +some eight miles out of Oxford, in a region where +there were neither taxis nor buses, so that he would +have been perfectly justified in ’phoning us to say +that he could not come. However, he turned up +only a few minutes late, having bicycled all the way, +in order not to disappoint us.</p> + +<p>One never forgets Masefield’s face. It is not the +face of a young man, for it is lined and grave. And +yet it is not the face of an old man, for youth is still +in the bright eyes. Its dominant quality is humility. +There were moments when he seemed almost to +abase himself before his fellow-creatures. And this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> +humility was echoed in everything he did or said, in +the quiet, timid tone of his voice, in the way in which +he always shrank from asserting himself.</p> + +<p>This quality of his can best be illustrated by his +behaviour that night. When the time came for him +to read his poems, he would not stand up in any position +of pre-eminence but sheltered himself behind +the sofa, in the shade of an old lamp, and from there +he delivered passages from ‘The Everlasting Mercy,’ +‘Dauber,’ ‘The Tragedy of Nan,’ and ‘Pompey the +Great.’ He talked, too, melodiously, and with the +ghost of a question-mark after each of his sentences +as though he were saying ‘Is this right? Who am I +to lay down the law?’ And when it was all over, and +we began to discuss what he had said, all talking at +the top of our voices, very superficially, no doubt, +but certainly with a great deal of enthusiasm, it was +with a sudden shock that I realized that Masefield +had retired into his shell, and was sitting on the +floor, almost in the dark, reading a volume of poems +by a young and quite unknown writer.</p> + +<p>I saw a good deal of him after that. He lived in a +little red house looking over the hills and valleys +about eight miles out, and on fine days one could +see from his window the grey spires and panes of +Oxford glittering in the distance.</p> + +<p>‘Oxford is always different,’ he said to me once. +‘Always I see her in a new mood of beauty from these +hills.’ We were looking down on the city from the +distance and I too knew how he felt. Oxford from +the hills is a dream eternally renewed. Under the +rain, when only a few spires and towers rise above the +driving sheets of grey, on an April morning, when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> +the whole city is sparkling and dappled with yellow +shadows, by moonlight when it is a fantastic vision +of the Arabian Nights.</p> + +<p>Like many other literary geniuses, Masefield is +clever with his hands. He will, with equal complacency, +make a model of a ship or mend a garden +gate. But since he was himself a sailor—since he has +himself known the sea in every mood of loveliness +or of terror, it is only natural that, when he does +model, he should turn, by instinct, to ships. He +showed me, at his house, a most exquisite model in +wood of an old sailing vessel of the eighteenth century. +There was nothing of the dilettante about that +work. Every spar, every rope, every mast, every tiny +detail was there, modelled to scale. It would have +satisfied the most ardent technician, and yet it had a +grace and a poetry that only Masefield could have +given it.</p> + +<p>‘You must keep this in a glass case,’ I said to him. +‘It’s far too precious, too dainty, to knock about +like the other things.’</p> + +<p>He shook his head. ‘She’s not going to stay here,’ +he said. ‘I made her for a friend who has been very +kind to me.’</p> + +<p>That was like Masefield, I thought, to spend weeks +and weeks of labour to please ‘a friend who had been +kind to him.’</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>Anybody more different from Masefield than the +Poet Laureate, Robert Bridges, it would be difficult +to imagine. One was always longing to put him on +a pedestal, to thrust a sceptre into his hand, and a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> +crown on his head, and then to wait for the lightning. +A most leonine and noble gentleman. Even when he +wandered round the streets of Oxford clad in shabby +knickerbockers, with a large, dirty satchel full of +books on his bent back, it was impossible to forget +either his great height or the immense head, modelled +after Meredith, with a snowy beard and silvery locks, +flowing with just that touch of abandon which made +one wonder if, after all, Nature had not been a little +improved upon.</p> + +<p>Just as Masefield’s favourite word was Beauty, so, +according to popular tradition, Bridges’ favourite +word was Damn. We all know his celebrated retort +to Horatio Bottomley, who had suggested in the +House of Commons that in view of the exceedingly +limited output of the Poet Laureate, it might be +advisable to grant him, instead of his salary, the +ancient Poet Laureate’s privilege of an annual cask +of wine, in order that his tongue might be a little +loosened. Bridges, in reply to all these criticisms, +merely wrote and said, ‘I don’t care a damn.’ It was +typical of him, but most of us thought that the +criticism was justified, for, at the time, there <i>was</i> a +war on, he <i>was</i> Poet Laureate, and he <i>wasn’t</i> writing +a word.</p> + +<p>The only time I ever heard Bridges deliver himself +of this word was at a tea-party at his house on Boar’s +Hill. He damned the Press, he damned the university, +he damned, also, more than one of the modern +poets whom we were so ill-advised as to mention. +When I mentioned Masefield he was most generous +to him, which made me realize how little truth there +was in the story which some wit had sent round the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> +university at the time, concerning Bridges’ criticism +of Masefield. However, though fictitious, it is +amusing enough to recall.</p> + +<p>‘“Masefield’s Sonnets”?’ he is alleged to have said. +‘Ah! yes. Very nice. Pure Shakespeare. Masefield’s +“Reynard the Fox”? Very nice too. Pure Chaucer. +Masefield’s “Everlasting Mercy”? Mm. Yes. Pure +Masefield.’</p> + +<p>The other literary celebrity who at this time had +chosen Oxford for a home was the Irish poet, W. B. +Yeats. Yeats always seemed to me to move in a mist.</p> + +<p>He was like ‘men as trees walking.’ He certainly did +not do it on purpose, as Bridges may have done. He +would wander along the street with his head in the +air and his hands behind his back, always wearing +an overcoat, even in the warmest weather, with a +long loose bow, and a mouth perpetually open. To +walk behind him was in itself an adventure, for when +he crossed the street he never took the faintest notice +of any traffic that might be bearing down upon him, +but dawdled over oblivious of the stream of cars, +bicycles, horses and motor-lorries that were rushing +past.</p> + +<p>A lovable man, Yeats, but, I should imagine, that +some people would have found him a trying fellow to +live with. When I left my college rooms I went to a +divine old house with a rickety staircase, and low +ceilings, which looked out on to one of the fairest +views in Oxford, the Sheldonian library. To this +house after a little time, drifted Yeats, complete with +his wife and his baby. It was a time when the servant +problem was at its height, and occasionally, if the +house was more than usually under-staffed, all the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> +undergraduates and other occupants of rooms, +including Yeats himself, used to gather to eat a +communal luncheon.</p> + +<p>On the first of these luncheons, Yeats arrived very +late, and after absently toying for a few moments +with a little cold asparagus, turned to me and +said:</p> + +<p>‘Were you at the Union last night?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, what did you think of it?’</p> + +<p>It was difficult to say what one thought of it. The +debate had centred round the ever-green subject of +Ireland. There had been a great deal of bad temper, +and not very many arguments. Before I could reply +Yeats said:</p> + +<p>‘I thought it was terrible. The appalling ignorance +of English Youth about anything remotely connected +with Ireland. I was astonished. Why, they don’t +know the first thing about us.’</p> + +<p>He darted a limp stick of asparagus into the +open mouth, looked away for a moment and then +said:</p> + +<p>‘Why can’t they understand that the Irish people +are Irish, and not English? Why can’t they realize +that over there they’ve got a race of peasants who +believe in fairies, and such-like, and are quite right +to do so? Why, I’ve seen myself the saucers of milk +which the Irish peasants have put outside their doors +for the pixies to drink.’</p> + +<p>He talked absently for a little longer, and then said, +in a dreamy voice:</p> + +<p>‘<i>If the English could only learn to believe in fairies, +there wouldn’t ever have been any Irish problem.</i>’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p> + +<p>However, Yeats was not made entirely from dreams. +He had a good business streak in him as well. He +knew to a ‘T’ the best market for his poems, although +like all poets he also knew from bitter experience +that verse as a means of livelihood was impossible.</p> + +<p>‘America pays best for poetry,’ he said to me once; +‘but even America pays badly. They will give you +twice as much for a poem in America as in England. +But for an article they will give you three times as +much. I wonder why?’</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>Among the most entertaining people in Oxford at +this time (and, I may add, among the most entertaining +people in Europe), were the brothers Sitwell. I +suppose the Sitwell trio—Osbert, Sacheverell, and +sister Edith, have been talked about as much as +any literary family in England. Apart from their +merits, they have had a great advantage over most +writers to whom publicity is not distasteful—they +possess a label. A label is tremendously important +if you want to impress yourself on the British public. +It seems that there are a certain number of niches in +the contemporary temple of Fame, and that unless +you fit into one of these niches you will never be +recognized. There is a niche labelled ‘Paradox +Mongers,’ another niche labelled ‘Psychic Storytellers’ +and a whole series of geographical niches +labelled ‘Dartmoor Scribes,’ ‘Irish Prophets,’ ‘Sussex +Poets,’ ‘East End Recorders,’ ‘Yorkshire Romancers,’ +etc. If by any chance, a describer of Sussex +gorse strayed into the Dartmoor heather, he or she +would be disowned. If Mr. Michael Arlen were to +get into the wrong omnibus and be observed alighting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> +guiltily at Selfridges, his reputation would be +tarnished beyond hope. And if a man who had gained +a reputation as a writer of ghost-stories began to +make paradoxes, the result, as they say in the Bible, +would be confusion.</p> + +<p>The particular niche which the Sitwells occupy is +that of ‘Chelsea de Luxe.’ It is a very definite and +not unprofitable niche. At the time of which I am +writing nobody was inclined to take them seriously. +In fact, we used to think that if the Sitwells’ papa +had been anything else but a baronet with fierce +ginger hair, if they themselves had dropped their h’s +instead of dropping their rhymes, their united efforts +would not have created much of a stir, and that +<i>Wheels</i> (the only true schoolboys’ magazine published +outside a school) would have been passed over +in comparative silence. Since then, however, Osbert +has written some of the finest short stories in the +English (or the French) language, and Sacheverell +has produced a work of real genius in <i>Southern +Baroque Art</i>.</p> + +<p>Sacheverell was ‘up’ at Oxford at the same time as +myself, and introduced a very pleasant flavor of +Bohemianism—(there really is no other word)—into +those dingy quarters. He hung his rooms with +drawings by Picasso and Matisse, which were the +subject of lewd comment among the more athletic +members of the college. There was one drawing by—I +believe, Picasso—called Salome, which represented +a skinny and exceedingly revolting old lady +prancing in a loathsome attitude before certain +generously-paunched old men who looked like the +sort of people you meet at a Turkish Bath when your<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> +luck is out. One day a certain charming don—(an +ardent Roman Catholic)—strolled into Sacheverell’s +rooms, saw the picture, paled slightly and then asked +him what it was all about.</p> + +<p>Sacheverell said something about ‘line.’</p> + +<p>And then the don let go. ‘Line,’ he said, was the +excuse for every rotten piece of work produced by +modern artists. If a leg was out of drawing, or a +face obviously impossible, if the whole design was +grotesque and ridiculous, the excuse was always +‘line.’ And he stamped out of the room leaving untouched +the very excellent lunch which Sacheverell +had prepared for him.</p> + +<p>But Sacheverell stood his ground in all his conflicts +with the authorities. At the end of every term a +terrible ordeal takes place known as ‘collections,’ or +more colloquially, ‘collecers,’ which consists of an +examination on the work done during term. When +Sacheverell came up for his viva voce, he was greeted +with black faces and remarks of that strange and +curdled quality which, in academicians, passes for +sarcasm. ‘As it is obviously superfluous to comment +on your knowledge—which is non-existent—we are +only left with your style, Mr. Sitwell,’ said one of +the examiners. ‘You appear to write very much in +the manner of Ouida.’</p> + +<p>‘That,’ remarked Sacheverell calmly, ‘is my aim.’</p> + +<p>I am not surprised that Sacheverell describes himself +in <i>Who’s Who</i> as ‘Educated Eton College, Balliol +College, Oxford. Mainly self-educated.’</p> + +<p>Osbert, Sacheverell’s brother, is the wittiest of +God’s creatures—(forgive me, Osbert, for that expression)—whom +I have ever met. He has infused<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> +even more wit than Sacheverell into <i>Who’s Who</i>—that +badly constructed work of fiction. As far as I +know, the editor of <i>Who’s Who</i> is not aware of the +pranks which Osbert has played in the 1925 edition. +May I enlighten him?</p> + +<p>Take first that wonderful phrase ‘Fought in Flanders +and farmed with father.’ One day I am going +to write a beautiful fugue in F to accompany that +phrase, but at the moment it is only necessary to call +attention to the source from which it sprang. For +that, you must cast your eye to the preceding paragraph, +which is devoted to Osbert’s papa. There +you will read: ‘Being unfit for service, farmed over +2,000 acres, producing great quantities of wheat and +potatoes.’</p> + +<p>Take again ‘Founded Rememba Bomba League in +1924.’ It sounds so exactly like the sort of thing +which most of those who appear in <i>Who’s Who</i> would +do. There is no such organization as the ‘Rem....’ +No, I won’t be quite as obvious as that. But I might +explain that the telegraphic address ‘Pauperloo,’ +which appears at the bottom of the paragraph, +being interpreted, means ‘Pauper Lunatic Asylum.’</p> + +<p>‘Deeply interested in any manifestation of sport.’ +One has a feeling that Osbert’s page has got muddled +with that of Lord Lonsdale, or Dame (Clara) Butt. +Until finally, one is informed that his recreations are: +‘Regretting the Bourbons, repartee, and Tu Quoque.’</p> + +<p>Repartee, most certainly. I have laughed as much +with Osbert as with anybody in the world. I shall +never forget his reply to a certain publisher, who had +been endeavouring, unsuccessfully, to shield the body +of W. J. Turner from the darts of scorn which Osbert<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> +was aiming at it. ‘Personally,’ said the publisher +(and when people begin with that word one always +knows they have nothing to say), ‘personally, I find +W. J. Turner rather a lovable person.’</p> + +<p>Osbert put his head on one side and smiled. ‘I +know what it is,’ he said, with an air of discovery, +‘you used to keep tadpoles.’</p> + +<p>He once told me, with that perfect modesty which +his enemies find so disarming, that he gave his +superior authorities more trouble during the War +than any other officer they had ever known. I suppose +it <i>must</i> have been a little trying to the colonel +who came up to him and asked if he were fond of +horses to be told ‘No. But I adore giraffes.’ And it +must have been positively exasperating to the outraged +military police to find him, an officer in the +Grenadiers, carrying on an intimate conversation +with a very private soldier in a very public place. +Even worse, when at the subsequent cross-examination, +the private soldier turned out to be Epstein +(whose taste in birds differs so strangely from that of +the British public).</p> + +<p>He began a naughty movement during the War to +urge that all those who had served in France and had +no desire to serve again should first be voluntarily +denationalized and then compulsorily deported. It +never came to anything. But in spite of its failure, he +survived, and still walks from time to time down the +grey pavements of Piccadilly, negligently tripping +up an occasional poetaster or Royal Academician who +has the temerity to cross his path.</p> + +<p>One more story. It is set on the said grey pavements, +and Osbert was walking over them with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> +another man who was staying with him. There came +into sight a mutual acquaintance, whom we will call +Lady C. Now Lady C. knew perfectly well that +Osbert’s friend was staying with him, but she calmly +ignored Osbert and said to the friend, ‘Do come +and dine with me on Friday.’ The invitation was +accepted. They passed on.</p> + +<p>The day of the dinner arrived, and with it, a postcard +from Lady C. on Osbert’s breakfast table saying, +‘I should be so glad if you would come and dine +to-night as well as Mr. —’</p> + +<p>This was too much. Osbert went grimly to the +telephone.</p> + +<p>‘Hullo? Is that Lady C.? I’m sorry, but I shan’t +be able to dine to-night. But listen.... Will you +lunch with me last Thursday?’</p> + +<p>Yes—England needs its Sitwells.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c5">CHAPTER FIVE</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">In which Mr. G. K. Chesterton reveals his Fears and his<br> +Hopes</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">mong</span> the questions which will present themselves +to the future literary historian, none will +be more difficult to answer than ‘Was Mr. G. K. +Chesterton afraid of his wife?’ There are several +passages in his books which indicate that the answer +will be in the affirmative, and among them one might +quote that charming essay from <i>Tremendous Trifles</i> +which is called ‘On Lying in Bed.’ He confesses +to an overwhelming desire, while lying in bed, to +paint the ceiling with a long brush. ‘But even,’ he +adds, ‘my proposal to paint on it with the bristly +end of a broom has been discouraged—<i>never mind +by whom</i>; by a person debarred from all political +rights.’</p> + +<p>The first time I ever asked myself this question was +in Cornmarket Street at Oxford, on a windy night in +May. G. K. Chesterton was alighting, with a certain +amount of difficulty, from a taxi-cab, and as soon as +he had safely emerged, he stood in the gutter, his +mackintosh flapping loudly in the wind, while he assisted +a charming and diminutive figure in a cloak. +The diminutive figure was his wife. But even in these +strange circumstances, with the wind tying her cloak +into knots, and the rain-spots slashing against her +veil like cold bullets, she seemed completely mistress +of the situation of the moment, which was ‘When +should the car come back to fetch them?’</p> + +<p>Chesterton turned to me—(for he had come to +debate with us at the Union)—‘When <i>shall</i> we want +it, do you think?’ he said, a little pathetically.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span></p> + +<p>Before I could reply the diminutive figure said, in a +sweet, firm voice:</p> + +<p>‘When will the thing be over?’ (a great deal of +feminine contempt in that sentence).</p> + +<p>‘At eleven. But there’s a sort of reception afterwards.’</p> + +<p>She immediately turned to the driver. ‘Be here at +eleven.’</p> + +<p>‘But ...’ began Chesterton.</p> + +<p>‘And,’ said Mrs. Chesterton, ‘is this the way in? +It’s raining, and my husband has a cold.’</p> + +<p>So we meekly followed her to the debating hall.</p> + +<p>One has so often been told that Chesterton is an +enormous, elephantine creature, that the actual sight +of him is really a little disappointing. He <i>is</i> a big +man, of course, but not as big as all that. If it were +not for his cloak, and his longish hair, and the bow +which he sometimes wears, one would not say that he +was an exceptional figure in any way. It seemed to +me that he took a secret joy in making himself as +large as possible, like some little boy who stuffs his +overcoat with cushions. G.K.C. has such a passionate +love of the grotesque that if it were suddenly +ordained that he should be four times his present +size he would give a whoop of joy.</p> + +<p>Yes. The more one thinks of it—the more it seems +that he <i>did</i> purposely accentuate his largeness. His +mackintosh was the mackintosh of a man several +sizes larger than he. The wide-brimmed Homburg +hat seemed specially designed to exaggerate his face. +Even his glasses could, without difficulty, have been +cut in half. And I noticed that he took a sort of +impish delight, as soon as he was introduced to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> +committee, of placing himself next to the Junior +Librarian, a very diminutive young man, whom he +addressed as from a pinnacle, holding himself well +erect, swelling his shoulders, and even puffing his +cheeks, to improve upon the already imposing body +with which nature had provided him.</p> + +<p>We all trooped into the debating hall, which was +absolutely packed, for Chesterton’s paradoxes are +always a draw with youth. The subject for debate +was ‘That this house considers that the granting of +any further facilities for divorce will be against the +true interests of the nation,’ or words to that effect. +I was speaking against this motion (being one of +those who have never seen how the interests of the +nation are served by perpetuating the union between +a sane husband and a lunatic wife, or a law-abiding +wife and a murderer husband), and as soon as my +speech was over I went to the ‘Ayes’ side of the house +where Chesterton was sitting and sat beside him.</p> + +<p>‘You shouldn’t have referred to me as eloquent,’ he +said. ‘Wait till you hear me speak. I’m not a bit +eloquent. I can’t speak off the bat. I must always +have notes.’</p> + +<p>I looked down and saw that he had a sheet of paper +in his hand, on which he had been scribbling in +pencil. But the ‘notes’ were not words, they were +little pictures. A grotesque dragon had been hastily +drawn in one corner, and a tiny sketch of a very fat +man in another. There were also several comic +faces, among which I recognized that of the secretary, +who was sitting with his profile to us. It was +typical of him to call these sketches his ‘notes,’ and +it was even more typical when he got up to make a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> +very brilliant speech, that he left his notes behind +him.</p> + +<p>I forget what he said except that it struck one as +irrelevant. To hear Chesterton speak is in itself an +explanation of his writing. He pours out his words, +suddenly says something which pleases him by its +touch of fantasy, pauses, and then with a face that +grows more and more smiling and eyes that grow +more and more bright, proceeds to develop the idea, +to chase it, to leap ponderously after it, so hurl paradoxes +in its wake, to circumvent it with every ingenious +conceit. For example, he said, almost in an +aside, that doubtless divorce would soon be part of +the regular curriculum at Oxford, and when he had +said it, was so entranced by the prospect opening up +before him, that he almost lost his head, and ended +by drawing for us a picture of the future in which +M.A. instead of meaning Master of Arts should +mean ‘married again’ and should be accompanied +by the B.A., three months later, which would mean +‘bachelor again.’</p> + +<p>Perhaps his most vivid conversation came after +the debate was all over. When we were standing in +the hall, waiting for the car, he delivered himself of +a second speech which so interested me that afterwards +I went straight home to write it down.</p> + +<p>‘Somebody said in the debate,’ he remarked, ‘that I +am the slave of symbols, that I believed in magic, +that in a ceremony or an institution or a faith I merely +examined what was on the surface and took it all +quite literally, like a peasant in the Middle Ages.</p> + +<p>‘But it isn’t I who am the slave of symbols. It is +you. I venerate the idea which lies behind the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> +symbol, you only venerate the empty shell. Take this +case of monarchy. Somebody remarked to-night +that we had taken away half the duties and prerogatives +of the King, and that the monarchy still +remained. They went on to say that we could take +away half the duties and prerogatives of marriage, +and that marriage would still remain. Perhaps it +will, but what will be the use of it?</p> + +<p>‘Because I bow down to the sceptre, and because I +take the words “honour and obey” quite literally, +you say that I am the slave of the symbol. But I +bow down to the sceptre because I believe in the +power that lies behind it. I keep to the smallest +details of the marriage service because I believe in +marriage. If you believe neither in the sceptre nor +in the service, and yet bow down to them, then you +are the slave of the symbol.’</p> + +<p>He looked away. Somebody presented him with +his mackintosh. He struggled into it, got it half on, +and then, with one arm still waving in the air he +exclaimed:</p> + +<p>‘A time will come—very soon—when you will +find that you want this ideal of marriage. You will +want it as something hard and solid to cling to in a +fast dissolving society. You will want it even more +than you seem to want divorce to-day. Divorce ...’ +and here, with a sort of groan, he thrust his second +arm through his mackintosh—‘the superstition of +divorce.’</p> + +<p>The small figure of Mrs. Chesterton appeared in +the doorway. She, as usual, was quite unperturbed. +The fiery words, the tangled eloquence of the evening +seemed to have passed over her unnoticed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> + +<p>‘The car is here,’ she said, ‘and we are already five +minutes late.’</p> + +<p>G.K.C. shook hands hurriedly, and vanished +through the door. The last I saw of him was the +flap of his mackintosh in the wind.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c6">CHAPTER SIX</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">In which Mrs. Asquith behaves with characteristic Energy</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap">xford</span> at this time was a ferment of political +activity. It was full of young ex-soldiers, who +considered, with pardonable presumption, that having +endured Hell for five years, they were justified in +suggesting the lines along which the New England +(the Lloyd-Georgian England) was to be remodelled. +And so we formed ourselves into clubs, concocted +newspapers, wore ties varying from the noblest +shade of blue to the bloodiest tint of red, and extracted +a great deal of pleasure out of it.</p> + +<p>On the outskirts of Oxford lived Mr. and Mrs. +Asquith, watching with interested eyes this ferment +of budding talent. I do not know if Mr. Asquith +ever actually said ‘Catch ’em young,’ but, to use +his own type of phraseology, he was not unaware +of the advantages which might conceivably be expected +from a judicious sowing of the Liberal Seed +among mentalities still unprejudiced and alert. It +was only to be expected therefore that when I, in +company with two staunch friends of the same +College, formed the Oxford University Liberal +Club, he should accept the position of President with +alacrity.</p> + +<p>As soon as the club was formed, we arranged a +monster meeting in the Oxford Town Hall, and +decided that it would be rather fun to have a thoroughly +pompous dinner beforehand. We therefore +invited various celebrities, who all, to our astonishment, +accepted; and when the plans were well in +hand, I departed to tell the Master’s wife of our +intentions.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p> + +<p>Now, it has been suggested to me that the Master’s +wife did not absolutely ‘appreciate’ Mrs. Asquith. +At any rate, although it was understood that Mrs. +Asquith was to dine at Balliol, there was trouble. +So much trouble, in fact, that it seemed as though +the dinner could not take place at all.</p> + +<p>This was a dreadful situation. We had already +asked Mrs. Asquith to dine. She had already accepted. +It was quite impossible to put her off. What +was the matter?</p> + +<p>It was afterwards suggested to me, by an ingenious +scholar of Balliol, that the college authorities feared +that Mrs. Asquith would have a disruptive influence +on callow youth. A foolish reason, of course. If we +wanted, we could have asked Mrs. Asquith to dine +with us in our rooms on every day of the week, +Sundays included. She would not have accepted, but +that is another story.</p> + +<p>However, I never did discover the real reason, and, +as a matter of fact, there was no need to do so, for +the Master’s wife, in the interests of Liberalism, very +kindly asked Mrs. Asquith to dinner herself. And +so, that was how we dined,—the men in one building, +the women in another, as closely segregated as +though we had been members of some strict religious +order which forbade the intermingling of the sexes.</p> + +<p>Asquith was in great form at dinner. I had never +seen him before, and if first impressions are of any +value, be it recorded that he struck me as having a +head far too large for his body. His face was of a +pleasant, rosy hue, rather like that of a genial baby, +his body was short and rather inclined to stoutness. +Two things only about him suggested the sheather<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> +of swords—his hair and his voice. The former was +long and white and so silky that one longed to stroke +it. His voice was deep and rich with a quality that +also suggested silk.</p> + +<p>The first thing he said to me after we had been +introduced was:</p> + +<p>‘Did you get my box?’</p> + +<p>This cryptic remark needs a little explanation. As +soon as Asquith had consented to speak for us he +sent word by his secretary saying that it was most +important that we should prepare for him a box, +some ten inches high and twelve inches broad. This +object must be covered in green baize, and placed +on the table at which he was going to speak. It +was destined, as we afterwards learnt, to carry his +notes.</p> + +<p>Such a request was, at first, a little surprising. One +had always thought of Asquith as a man with an endless +flow of language, who did not have to rely upon +written memoranda in his speeches. However, the +more one learns about apparently impromptu oratory +the more does it appear in its true light, as carefully +prepared. Winston Churchill has told us that the +speech that gained him his greatest reputation as an +impromptu was written out six times with his own +hand. Bright used to have an entire synopsis hidden +between the palm and fingers of his left hand, and I +am sure the more ‘mountainous’ districts in Lloyd +George’s perorations are carefully hacked and hewn +beforehand. So at least Asquith was in good company.</p> + +<p>During dinner I asked him if it was true that he had +once laughingly summarized the most valuable attribute<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> +of Balliol men as a ‘tranquil consciousness of +superiority.’</p> + +<p>‘A tranquil consciousness of <i>effortless</i> superiority,’ +he corrected. ‘Don’t forget the “effortless.” That’s +the whole point of it. But,’ he added, ‘I don’t want +to corrupt the youth of Balliol by such agreeable +theories as that.’</p> + +<p>He had an extraordinary thirst for knowledge +about post-war Oxford—a thirst that was almost +pathetic, so clearly did it indicate a love of the very +stuff, one might almost say, the very smell, of +scholasticism. Was there much unrest among the +undergraduates? Did they find it hard to settle +down after the War? How many people were abandoning +the classics? And what was their chief reason +for doing so? Was it lack of time or lack of thought, +or mere laziness? One could not help thinking what +an admirable Master of Balliol Asquith would have +made if he had ever chosen to abandon politics for +university life—(his natural element).</p> + +<p>Dinner passed quickly under this fusillade of questions, +and I was longing to see how Mrs. Asquith +had fared in her comparatively solitary dinner. It +cannot have been a very inspiriting one, for when we +all trooped over to the lodge, and joined them in the +big room upstairs, the atmosphere was gloomy, not +to say strained. Mrs. Asquith was sitting on a table, +swinging her legs, which were encased in grey Russian +top-boots, and she greeted our arrival with a +whoop of delight, and started to talk very quickly, +as though she had been pent up for years. How +wonderful of the undergraduates to give her a bouquet +of red roses! Had they guessed that she was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> +going to wear a red hat? And did they mind her not +dressing? No? How charming of one to say that she +looked nice in anything, etc., etc.</p> + +<p>The Master’s wife, on the other hand, said nothing +at all, but remained by the fireplace in what appeared +to be deep melancholy. I went up to her and said, +‘We really ought to be going along to the Town Hall +now. The meeting starts in five minutes.’</p> + +<p>At this she brightened considerably, and said:</p> + +<p>‘Is Mrs. Asquith going?’</p> + +<p>I explained that it was snowing outside, and that +the other guests had to be disposed of first. Mr. and +Mrs. Asquith would bring up the rear, as they were +the most important people.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, I see,’ she said, ‘Mrs. Asquith’s the climax, is +she?’</p> + +<p>I was very thankful when we were all safely landed +at the Town Hall, and the meeting had begun.</p> + +<p>I needn’t say anything about the meeting itself, except +that everybody made admirable speeches, which +called forth a great deal of applause, and set the fires +of Liberalism blazing fervently. A few extra lines +may, however, be inserted to make this sketch of +Mrs. Asquith a little less shadowy.</p> + +<p>I am perfectly certain that this lady has been very +much maligned by the British public. A section of +that public regards her as vulgar because she is +enthusiastic, prejudiced because she is loyal, conceited +because she is frank, and generally a very +tiresome creature. They have not the wit to realize +that she is, in reality, a woman almost unbearably +sensitive, who is aggressive only in self-defence, and +that she is so emotional that she does things in public<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> +which some people regard as outrageous only because +they do not understand her.</p> + +<p>I shall never forget, for example, seeing her at the +end of the meeting, put her hand on her husband’s +shoulder while they were playing God Save the King, +and, as soon as the King was saved, throwing the +flowers from her bouquet into the stolid faces of the +crowd below. How I sympathized with her at that +moment. I should have liked to jump to the roof +with elation. The only difference was that Mrs. +Asquith had the courage to do what she wanted, and +I hadn’t.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c7">CHAPTER SEVEN</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">In which Mr. Winston Churchill loses his Temper, and Mr.<br> +Horatio Bottomley wins his Debate</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">Y</span><span class="smcap">ou</span> may, or you may not, have heard of the +Oxford Union Society. It has a habit of producing +future Prime Ministers. Among its past +presidents it numbers such illustrious names as +Gladstone, Salisbury, Asquith, Birkenhead, etc., etc., +to say nothing of such minor fry as occasional Archbishops, +diplomats and ambassadors.</p> + +<p>Among its past presidents it also numbers myself. +A matter again of no importance, except for the +people with whom it brought me into touch.</p> + +<p>Now, every president of the Oxford Union Society +can invite, during his term of office, not more than +two distinguished statesmen to address the Society. +As soon as I had been elected I looked round for +two men who might bring a little live blood into our +somewhat academic discussions, and there seemed +no better couple, for this purpose, than Winston +Churchill, the Secretary for War, and Horatio +Bottomley, M.P., who is at present languishing in +gaol. Both expressed themselves as delighted to +accept, and dates were fixed for their respective +appearances.</p> + +<p>A terrible problem faced me as Winston’s arrival +drew near. I had to give a dinner, not only to him, +but to his guests (four of them), and about a dozen +others. When one dines in this fashion, one has to +dine well, with Moët 1914 and all the usual things +which go to make good oratory. Being quite devoid +of funds, and having long before exhausted my +allowance in riotous living, there seemed no alternative<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> +but to make a descent on an already overburdened +parent. Then suddenly, a charming +friend, who is now brightening a not very brilliant +House of Commons, suggested that we should all +dine with him ... a suggestion which was carried +<i>nem. con.</i></p> + +<p>Winston was the first great English statesman +who ever dined with me (probably the last also). +Remembering that it was he who had, on his own +responsibility, given orders to the British Fleet at +the outset of the War which were probably instrumental +in saving the Empire, I sat gazing at him in +a sort of awe. ‘This,’ I thought, ‘is the face that +launched a thousand ships.’ And yet there was +something a little incongruous about Winston +Churchill in this tiny room. He was so vigorous, +he breathed so hard, and spoke so quickly that one +feared he might at any moment seize all his knives +and forks and glasses and arrange them in the +form of a field of battle to illustrate his martial +theories.</p> + +<p>This he actually did. I happened to mention that, +in order to help our memory of the campaigns of +Napoleon, I and several others who were working +together, had composed a series of rhymes round the +tributaries of the Po, which we found of the greatest +value.</p> + +<p>That set Winston off. He seized a knife, a fork, +and a salt cellar and made with them a little plan +round which he marched the imaginary armies of +Napoleon. I have never heard anybody talk of war +with such gusto. With each martial adjective, a light +seemed to be turned on inside his head, his eyes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> +gleamed, his lips parted, and he talked so vividly +that the slight impediment in his speech, which he +has always so pluckily fought, was forgotten. And +when he had finished he gave me an exhaustive list +of military treatises on Napoleon, which, needless +to say, I did not attempt to read.</p> + +<p>Winston was a wonderful talker that night—not +only of war, but of other arts, notably of literature +and painting. He asked how long it had taken me +to write my novel <i>Prelude</i>.</p> + +<p>‘I haven’t the least idea,’ I said, ‘because it was +done in bits and patches over a period of about five +months.’</p> + +<p>‘Didn’t you work at it regularly?’</p> + +<p>‘No. I don’t see how you can do work in that +manner if it is to have any sort of claim to be emotional.’</p> + +<p>‘Nonsense.’</p> + +<p>I sat up, and Winston began to put forward some +very interesting theories on the writing of books.</p> + +<p>‘You should go to your room every day at nine +o’clock,’ he said, ‘and say to yourself, “I am going +to sit here for four hours and write.”’</p> + +<p>‘But suppose you <i>can’t</i> write? Suppose you’ve got a +headache, or indigestion....’</p> + +<p>‘You’ve got to get over that. If you sit waiting for +inspiration, you will sit there till you are an old man. +Writing is a job like any other job, like marching an +army for instance. If you sit down and wait till the +weather is fine, you won’t get very far with your +troops. It’s the same with writing. Discipline yourself. +Kick yourself. Irritate yourself. But write. +It’s the only way.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span></p> + +<p>Advancing years have taught me that there is a +good deal more than half of the truth in what Winston +said. The ideal combination would seem to be a +little of both spirits—the spirit that enabled Mozart +to sit down, like an accountant, and write his divine +melodies at his desk, and the spirit that urged Beethoven +out into the woods and forests when the storm +was at its height.</p> + +<p>To return to Winston. He made a very good speech—(it +was about Russia)—quite as good as those of +the undergraduates who were opposing him—won his +motion, and then trotted off to bed, with the cheers +of a thousand young throats ringing in his ears.</p> + +<p>The next day I called on him after breakfast and +suggested that it might amuse him to walk round +some of the colleges. ‘All right,’ he said, and we set +out forthwith, while I tried to recall the names of +the various buildings which one passed every day, +but never recognized.</p> + +<p>However, Winston strode along gloomily, smoking +a cigar, tapping his stick on the pavement, and +taking not the faintest notice of my chatter, which +showed his good sense. Still, I wanted to know the +reason for his ill-humour, and was about to ask him +if he had got out of bed on the wrong side, when he +said:</p> + +<p>‘There was a shorthand reporter there last night, +of course?’</p> + +<p>I shook my head. ‘No. We don’t run to that.’</p> + +<p>He glared at me in astonishment. ‘But there was +a man from the <i>Morning Post</i>?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but he only takes extracts. Did you +want a report?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span></p> + +<p>‘I should damned well think I did,’ replied the +Secretary for War. ‘I said a lot of very—er—delicate +things last night and it’s most important for me +to know what I <i>did</i> say.’</p> + +<p>I remembered, with exquisite clarity, his remarks +about footpads, assassins and other gentlemen with +whom His Majesty’s Government, of which he was +a prominent member, were at that period negotiating. +And I also appreciated the fact that he was +honest enough to stand up for his personal convictions +at the risk of being severely censured by his +colleagues. However, there seemed nothing to be +done.</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps,’ I remarked, with singularly misplaced +brightness, ‘it may be a good thing in view of the +delicacy of the discussion, that there <i>was</i> a certain +vagueness about what you actually said?’</p> + +<p>For reply, he merely clasped his hands behind his +back, made a clucking noise with his teeth and said:</p> + +<p>‘Is that Lincoln or Exeter?’</p> + +<p>That night, in the House of Commons, several +indignant gentlemen rose to their feet to draw the +attention of the House to the indiscretions of the +Secretary for War at Oxford. Many uncomplimentary +things were said before the matter was allowed +to drop. For one night, at least, I experienced something +of the thrill of government.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>It is a long step from Winston Churchill to Horatio +Bottomley, but not quite as long as might at +first be imagined. Both men have a good deal in +common—(this is meant as a tribute to Horatio +rather than a reflection on Winston)—and if Horatio<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> +had been to Harrow instead of to a little school in +the East End of London, it is not impossible that he +would have risen to Cabinet rank, have stirred the +nation with patriotic speeches, and have gone down +to history as one of the great men of our times.</p> + +<p>At any rate, he seemed to me a fascinating figure, +and one who should enliven any debate in which he +spoke.</p> + +<p>I therefore wrote to him, suggesting that he might +care to visit us. By return of post I received a reply, +typed on the sort of notepaper that is described by +stationers as ‘superfine,’ and couched in the third +person. It stated that ‘Mr. Bottomley considered +himself honoured by the invitation, which he had +great pleasure in accepting. Mr. Bottomley would +also like to know the subject of the debate. If he +had any say in the matter he would prefer to speak in +favour of the Independent Political Party. Failing +that, he would like to attack the League of Nations, +which he considered a useless and a pernicious institution.’ +The Independent Party won the day.</p> + +<p>On the night of Bottomley’s arrival, I was suddenly +sent into a panic by the news that a gang of +undergraduates, who considered that the dignity of +the Union was being outraged by including Bottomley +among its ‘distinguished visitors,’ had arranged +to kidnap him. The plan was to meet him at the +station before anybody else could get near, to hurry +him into a motor-car, and to drive straight up to +Boar’s Hill, where he would be given a good dinner, +and allowed to depart in peace after the debate was +over. I immediately went down to the station, seized +several burly porters and informed them of the situation.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> +Whether or no these measures had the effect +of nipping the plot in the bud, history will never +know. He arrived safely.</p> + +<p>A grotesque figure, one would have said at first +sight. Short and uncommonly broad, he looked +almost gigantic in his thick fur coat. Lack-lustre +eyes, heavily pouched, glared from a square and +sallow face. He seemed to have a certain resentment +against the world at large. It was not till he began +to talk that the colour mottled his cheeks and the +heavy hues on his face were lightened.</p> + +<p>Was there any excitement at his coming? Yes? +He smiled like a child. A lot of big men came down +to speak, didn’t they? Asquith, Winston, Lloyd +George? Yes? ‘And now, Horatio.’ He rubbed his +coarse hands and chuckled.</p> + +<p>At the entrance to the hotel he stood sunning himself +in such publicity as was afforded by the gaping +hall porter and his underlings. He stumped across +to the office, his fur coat swinging open, drew from +his pocket a heavy gold pen, and signed his name +with a flourish. The signature was illegible, but the +gesture was Napoleonic.</p> + +<p>He dined with me that night, and kept the small +gathering of undergraduates I had invited in a constant +splutter of unholy laughter. ‘Do I pay my +income tax?’ he said. ‘Not I.’ And he told us, with +a dazzling display of figures, exactly how he managed +to avoid that obligation. To my dying day I +shall regret that I forget his method. He discussed +religion, with his tongue well out in his cheek. He +drew for us a little portrait gallery of contemporary +politicians, as crude but as vivid as the work of an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> +inspired pavement artist. Birkenhead seemed to be +the sole politician for whom he entertained any +genuine regard.</p> + +<p>‘When Birkenhead was seriously ill a few months +ago,’ he said, ‘I was the only man he allowed into his +room. I would go and sit with him for hours, sometimes +talking, sometimes just silent. Funny, isn’t it?’</p> + +<p>We adjourned to the debating hall, were greeted +with uproarious applause, took our places. As the +debate proceeded, I looked from time to time at +Bottomley. He seemed, suddenly, to have grown +nervous. His face was flushed and hot, and from +time to time he mopped his forehead with a large +silk handkerchief. The light and airy chatter, the +brilliant irrelevancies, of the Oxford Union seemed +to be filling him with a certain mistrust. He had +never known an audience like this. Every phrase, +every gesture, he watched with narrowed eyes, leaning +forward intently. And then he rose to speak. +He took the wind out of our sails from the very +beginning.</p> + +<p>I had been afraid that before this, ‘the most critical +audience in the world,’ he would try to assume an +air of culture that was foreign to him, that he would +endeavour to put on airs. He did exactly the reverse. +After his opening sentence there was a moment when +everything hung in the balance. He made some +rather inapt historical reference, paused, and was +for a moment at a loss. And then, quite calmly and +deliberately, he looked round and said:</p> + +<p>‘Gentlemen: I have not had your advantages. +What poor education I have received has been gained +in the University of Life.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span></p> + +<p>Dead silence. I sat back, marvelling at the consummate +stagecraft of the man. After that brief +remark, any men who laughed at his pronunciation +or his mannerism would be cads, and they knew it. +And he knew that they knew it.</p> + +<p>From that moment, he sailed on triumphantly. +His eloquence was uncanny. For sheer force of +oratory I have never heard anyone like him. Compared +with him, Asquith was a dry stick. (I am +talking of the manner, not of the matter.) And his +aptness of retort was modelled on the best Union +styles. For instance, he happened to use, during one +of his passages, the phrase ‘the right to work.’ A +Welsh miner who was in the gallery, and who was, +as usual, on strike, cried out ironically, ‘’ear, ’ear.’</p> + +<p>Bottomley did not look at him. He merely added, +in exactly the same voice as he had used before, ‘a +right which I am sure we will gladly grant to the +honourable member.’ Delicious.</p> + +<p>Nor was his repartee merely flippant. One of the +preceding speakers had made a great hit by referring +to him, somewhat contemptuously, as ‘a voice crying +in the wilderness.’ Bottomley took up the gage and +hurled it with unerring skill back into the face of his +opponent. ‘All my life,’ he cried, ‘I have been a +voice crying in the wilderness. All my life I have +battled alone, fought alone, struggled for causes +that other men have deserted as hopeless. A voice +crying in the wilderness! Yes, gentlemen, and I am +proud of it!’ Thunders of applause.</p> + +<p>He won his motion by several hundred votes, and +when he left the hall, they cheered him to the echo.</p> + +<p>But he did not seem particularly elated by his success.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> +When he returned to a party I gave for him +at my room afterwards, the voting had totalled about +1,100—a few less than a record attendance. ‘I’d +hoped I should draw the biggest house you ever +had,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Are you sure there was +no mistake in the counting?’</p> + +<p>I assured him that the tellers were thoroughly +trustworthy.</p> + +<p>He nodded. ‘Well, it can’t be helped. Still—it’s +a pity.’</p> + +<p>Further regrets were stopped by the discovery that +nobody could open any of the champagne. ‘Give me +a bottle,’ said Bottomley. ‘I’ll show you a trick.’</p> + +<p>He seized a bottle in his podgy hand, went to the +door, half opened it, shut it again, gave the bottle a +pull, and lo!—the cork was removed. As he drank +our healths he looked across and said ‘Damned fine +champagne.’</p> + +<p>He was either a liar or a very bad judge of champagne, +for it was the worst wine I have ever tasted.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>We had arranged to breakfast together the next +morning, and at nine o’clock I arrived at the hotel. +It was a drizzling, dreary sort of morning, with a +cold wind, and an indeterminate mist over the roofs. +Bottomley came downstairs looking very tired. The +lustre had faded from the heavy eyes, the bulky +frame had lost all elasticity.</p> + +<p>‘And what would you like for breakfast?’ I asked +him.</p> + +<p>He protruded the tip of his tongue, paused, and +then gave me a wink. All Whitechapel was in that +wink.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span></p> + +<p>‘A couple of kippers,’ he said, ‘and a nice brandy +and soda.’</p> + +<p>I gave the order, as gravely as possible, to the +waiter, and watched him gulp his brandy, leaving +the kippers untouched. He cheered up after that, +and by the time his cab had arrived he was quite +gay. ‘I’ve enjoyed myself,’ he said to me when I +bade him good-bye. ‘Enjoyed myself like hell.’</p> + +<p>It will need a clever man to write <i>finis</i> to an analysis +of the character of Horatio Bottomley—part genius, +part scoundrel, and yet, wholly human.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c8">CHAPTER EIGHT</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Being an Impression of Two Ladies of Genius</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">S</span><span class="smcap">o</span> far the feminine element has not obtruded +greatly into these pages, not for lack of females, +but for lack of distinguished ones. It is a matter of +little significance to the reader that in May I met a +charming girl called Jean, and in June lost my heart +to a languorous beauty named Helen. But at about +this time (the summer of 1920) I did meet and get +to know two very remarkable women.</p> + +<p>The first was Mrs. Patrick Campbell. She was staying +at a house whither I journeyed in late July to +escape the heat of a London summer. My first sight +of her was as I emerged from the car; very dirty +and dishevelled after a long journey, in which somebody +had spilt a bottle of champagne all over my +trousers. I entered the hall, and observed a strange, +dark woman in orange looking at me, wondered who +she was, wondered still more when she advanced +and said in a deep booming voice:</p> + +<p>‘Oh, young man. Run upstairs quickly before you +go in to see them. The room is full of earls and cocktails.’</p> + +<p>This remarkable announcement (which was true in +so far as there was an earl somewhere in the distance, +and the clinking of ice in glasses) was followed by a +mutual introduction.</p> + +<p>A fiery, billowing, passionate, discontented creature +of genius—that is my impression of Mrs. Patrick +Campbell. She absolutely dominated the party +during my whole visit. I fell passionately in love +with her, with the shy, ridiculous love of twenty-one +for—?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p> + +<p>Try to see her as I see her now. The tall, cool +dining-room, the Romney smiling from the wall, +the long dining-table, and, near the end, Mrs. Patrick +Campbell, hunched up, scowling, smoking a +cigar, and as she puffed the smoke into the face of +the lady opposite (whom she detested) telling the +following story:</p> + +<p>‘Do you know’ (oh! the mellow boom of that +magical voice!) ‘the story of the old hen that was +crossing the road and that was run over by a Rolls-Royce? +There was a flutter of feathers, a shrill +cackle and then—’ (turning to her neighbour) ‘what +do you think the hen said as she died? <i>My God, +what a rooster!</i>’</p> + +<p>I don’t think anybody was ever quite so rude to +people as Mrs. Patrick Campbell. She would stand +in front of the glass, tugging fitfully at her dress, +and then, with her head on one side, she would say, +in dreamy but resounding tones:</p> + +<p>‘Isn’t it awful? I try to look like a lady and all I +look like is Miss —.’ The fact that Miss — was +standing just behind her, made no difference at +all.</p> + +<p>At this house there was a swimming bath—rather +on the Roman model, with pillars of pale blue +marble mosaic, and little nooks and corners where +one could drink cocktails before summoning up the +energy to dive in. It was a very hot summer and the +bath was in great demand, especially after tennis. +On one of these occasions we all assembled, in dressing-gowns +of varying gorgeousness, and plunged +into the water. Enter Mrs. Patrick Campbell. +She herself was in a tea-gown, having no intention<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> +of bathing. Lying on a couch, she surveyed the +splashing throng. Suddenly, as a pretty girl in a +<i>décolletée</i> bathing dress scrambled up on the diving +board the great voice rang out:</p> + +<p>‘I’m sure you wouldn’t appear like that before the +man you loved!’</p> + +<p>I don’t know what happened. I only know that +the two never spoke to one another again.</p> + +<p>And yet, when one got her by herself, she was the +most fascinating of creatures. She was, at the time, +moving into a little house near by, and whenever +the opportunity occurred, we would go over to +assist her in her task. It is probable that the ‘assistance’ +considerably delayed her entry into possession, +for though we had all of us very decided ideas upon +house decoration, we had not the remotest idea of +how to carry them out. I remember standing in a +small and dishevelled room for nearly an hour, while +we all argued exactly where a set of the works of +Bernard Shaw (which the author had given her) +should be placed. Finally, with a gesture that would +have done credit to an empress, Mrs. Patrick +Campbell swept the whole lot on to the floor, +drew from her pocket the manuscript of a one-act +melodrama by Clemence Dane, and tramped round +the room reciting it, her golden voice echoing over +the empty house. She must have quite demoralized +the young man who was putting in a new bath, +and she certainly created havoc among the various +vases and oddments with which the floor was +strewn.</p> + +<p>After that, we decided that we would leave the +house to itself for an hour or two, and go into the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> +village to buy garden implements. I wish you could +have seen Mrs. Patrick Campbell stalking into that +provincial ironmonger’s shop. She stood in the entrance, +drawing her furs around her, swept out her +hand and pointed to some extraordinary instrument +covered with knobs and spikes (probably designed +for the uprooting of turnips).</p> + +<p>‘What,’ she boomed, ‘is that?’</p> + +<p>The man, like a startled rabbit, tried to give her +some indication of its use.</p> + +<p>‘Give it to me,’ she cried.</p> + +<p>The next thing was a rake. She asked for a r-r-rake, +rolling her r’s and her eyes as though she were asking +for some esoteric poison. When she held the rake +at arm’s length she reminded one irresistibly of a +Britannia of the decadence. Choppers, trowels, insecticide, +squirting things—enough to staff a place +four times the size of her own—were all ordered +and bundled into the car, so that when +eventually we set out for home we must have looked +like a party of <i>sans-culottes</i> departing to arm their +local legion.</p> + +<p>The actual use of these instruments was never fully +discovered. The rake was of course a simple matter, +and was employed with great aplomb in removing +the remaining gravel from the centre of the drive +to the sides, where it served as a very effectual choker +of the drains. The clippers also wrought confusion +with the grass borders, and became caked with earth +and grit. But the spiked thing remained a complete +mystery.</p> + +<p>I never understood how Mrs. Patrick Campbell +wrote her autobiography. When I saw her it was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> +apparently due at the publishers towards the end of +the next month, although not a word of it had been +written. She would suddenly get up in the middle +of a conversation, and rush away to her room saying, +‘Now, I am going to write.’ But half an hour later +she would invariably be back again, booming at us +from the sofa.</p> + +<p>This habit of leaving things to the last moment +undoubtedly explains, to a large extent, the fact that +her later career has not been marked with the same +triumph as she enjoyed during her earlier years, in +spite of the fact that she is still the superb genius, +shining with a dark radiance that hardly any of her +younger rivals possesses.</p> + +<p>Does she allow that genius to run to waste? I +wonder. She does not appear to have the capacity +for taking pains. Philip Moeller, the author of +<i>George Sand</i>, told me that she was anything but +word-perfect in the title-rôle. ‘At the final dress +rehearsal,’ he said, ‘she was sweeping about the +stage with the text in her hand, reading it, word by +word. She carried it off somehow, by gagging—magnificent +gagging, if you like—but still, you can’t +expect to play a part on those lines.’</p> + +<p>A pity, a decided pity. For so fine and sensitive +an artist must have suffered tortures when she first +saw inferior artists taking her place. And when she +had to appear at the music-halls it must have been +like putting a queen in a pillory. I once heard a +marvellous story of her in this connection.</p> + +<p>It is alleged to have occurred at some London +music-hall where—sadly to relate—she had to share +the honours with some performing sea-lions. Think<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> +of it! Mrs. Patrick Campbell, who had swept London +off its feet in <i>The Second Mrs. Tanqueray</i>, having +to appear in the unworthy company of beasts of +that nature, which probably eat their young and +sleep all the winter. These animals were apparently +incapable of appreciating true art, for during +the whole of her act (which preceded their own), +they made the most appalling noises off stage, booming +and bellowing for food. They were, of course, +kept hungry in order that they might go through +their tricks with proper alacrity.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Patrick Campbell, according to the story, put +up with the sea-lions for two performances, but after +that, she had had enough. On the following evening +she therefore paid an early visit to the theatre, +a strange bundle under her arm. In this bundle +was a packet of succulent fish with which she proceeded +to feed the sea-lions one by one, addressing +them, as she did so, in terms of great affection. +After a couple of fish the bellowing ceased, and gave +way to contented licking of lips....</p> + +<p>Mrs. Patrick Campbell went through her act in a +deathly silence that night. But when the sea-lions +came on, the general impression of the audience was +that it was a very poor show.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>I cannot better introduce the other lady who at +this time so impressed me than by quoting a very +penetrating sentence that was written about one of +her books by Mr. Middleton Murray. It referred +to <i>Vera</i> (by the authoress of <i>Elizabeth and Her German +Garden</i>), and he called it ‘A Wuthering +Heights written by a Jane Austen.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span></p> + +<p>For Lady Russell—if one may be so unkind as to +strip from her the mask of anonymity which she is +always so careful to preserve—is just like that. It is +as though she dwelt in an early Victorian drawing-room, +listening to some passionate dialogue of life +that was being carried on outside the window. The +voices rise and fall, the rain splashes against the +bright panes, the wind moans and whistles round +the stoutly built walls. Then, there is a lull, and in +the silence may be heard the scratching of her little +quill pen, transcribing the violent things she has +heard in a tiny, spidery handwriting, catching the +thunder in a polished phrase. And when she has +finished writing, there, on the paper, is a story as +full of tension, fierce and frightening as any that +dwells in the broken, passionate sentences of Emily +Brontë.</p> + +<p>When one meets her, inevitably she suggests Dresden +China, with her tiny voice, tiny hands, tiny +face, tiny manners. And then suddenly, with a +shock, you realize that the Dresden China is hollow, +and is filled with gunpowder. Not that Lady Russell +will tell you. You simply sense it, and stand back a +little, wondering.</p> + +<p>After I had returned to London, I was trying to +endure one of those dull Septembers which seem to +concentrate in themselves all the heat and stuffiness +of a summer that has outstayed its welcome, when +somebody rang up and said, ‘Come to lunch. I want +you to meet a very charming lady.’</p> + +<p>I went to lunch, and there were certainly several +very charming ladies, but one knew them all before. +Until, twenty minutes late, the door opened, and a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> +little figure with blue eyes floated across the floor +saying, ‘Du forgive me, will yiu? I feel I must be +late.’ And then everything was changed.</p> + +<p>There really ought to be some sort of musical notation +for giving the exact timbre of people’s voices. +Lady Russell’s is a delicious voice, like a dove that +has become slightly demoralized by perching too +long on a French hat. Her ‘U’ sounds are startlingly +French, and yiu, pronounced <i>à la française</i>, +is the only way you can write it. She does not really +talk, she croons aloud. And here again, one comes +up against the Austen-Brontë combination. No other +woman could possibly deliver herself of such remarks +in so utterly dulcet a tone.</p> + +<p>It was at the time when her (?) book <i>In the Mountains</i> +was being so well reviewed, and there was just +enough doubt as to whether she really had written +it to lend piquancy to the discussion.</p> + +<p>‘In the Mountains?’ she said. ‘It sounds like a Bliu +Guide.’</p> + +<p>‘You wrote it—you <i>know</i> you wrote it.’</p> + +<p>‘<i>Yiu</i> may know I wrote it. I haven’t even read it.’ +But if <i>yiu</i> like it, it must be improper. So I shan’t +read it.’</p> + +<p>She swore till the very last that she did not write +it.</p> + +<p>‘I couldn’t have written it, could I, because I only +published a book last year, and I write terribly +slowly. Scratch out all the time. I want to write a +play.’</p> + +<p>‘Why don’t you?’</p> + +<p>She sighed. ‘It’s so difficult to know what’s going +to happen to a play. Yiu always know with a novel<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> +that it will be published, but with a play yiu never +know, du yiu? I once had a play produced and I +was so thrilled that I used to go every night and sit +all by myself in the pit, thinking “What a clever +girl am I.” But I think the little man at the door +began to think I must be in love with him and so I +stopped. And so did the play.’</p> + +<p>Suddenly—(this was after lunch)—‘Let’s write a +play <i>now</i>.’</p> + +<p>‘What sort of a play?’</p> + +<p>‘A play with heaps and heaps of tiny scenes, all +lasting only about five minutes. With Bach fugues +in between. Beautifully lit. Tiny tragedies. Tiny +comedies. Like the things that happen in one’s life. +Some of the plays might be silent. And then—oh, +<i>du</i> lets’—and then after each funny little emotion, +one would always have the fugue to recall one back +to life.’</p> + +<p>It sounds a fascinating idea, and I wish she would +do it. Perhaps she will. So that if ever a unique +entertainment by an anonymous writer is produced +in London, of the type sketched above, you will +know who is responsible for it.</p> + +<p>Lady Russell has her own way of administering +criticism to bad writers—the sort of way which +makes one swear never to do it again. In one of my +novels, which she had read, there comes a passage of +a very lurid and foolish nature, where a villainous +vicar strikes an adventuress across the face. One +develops fairly quickly, and I knew, almost as soon +as the book was published, that this passage was +rotten stuff. I met Lady Russell shortly after she +read it and she said, ‘I <i>du</i> like your book. And I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> +<i>loved</i> the bad old man who hit the girl on the mouth.’ +Silence. Utter silence. And then a laugh. I went +straight home and threw that silly novel into the fire.</p> + +<p>But that is not nearly so damning as she can be. +I shall never forget my thrill of delight when I +heard of her quite classic rebuke to one of the world’s +most tiresome women. The scene had better remain +veiled in mystery, but one can say that she had +several amusing people staying with her. There +suddenly arrived in the neighbourhood Lady —, +who, as everybody who knows her will tell you, will +go miles in any weather to be near a celebrity. She +was full of her latest discovery, a very decorative +young soldier, who had won far more than his share +of medals in the war. Lady — talked about him till +everybody felt inclined to scream: how she had +lunched with him in Paris, how he had done this, +that and the other. ‘And do you know,’ she added, +in a vibrating voice, ‘he was wounded in sixteen +places!’</p> + +<p>Lady Russell looked at her with a plaintive smile. +‘I didn’t know men <i>had</i> so many places,’ she said.</p> + +<p>It would be interesting to know what she really +thought of life, or failing that, what she really +thought of her own work, but very few people have +ever managed to get behind the mask of anonymity, +and they all come back with different stories of what +they have seen. One thing I do know, and that is +that <i>Vera</i> <i>had</i> to be written. The terrible brute of a +man, the feeling of suspense which hangs over the +pages like a menace—they were as inevitable as a +human birth.</p> + +<p>‘Did you like writing that book?’ I asked her once.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span></p> + +<p>‘I hated it,’ she said, in a whisper. And then, looking +down at the floor, ‘Isn’t he a brute? An absolute +brute? Have you ever known anybody so horrible?’ +She shuddered as though she were talking of a very +real person.</p> + +<p>Whatever one may say of her, the fact remains that +she occupies a place in modern literature that is +unique, because to the public she is only a pen, and +not a person. When they think of anybody like +Sheila Kaye-Smith, they call to mind bobbed hair, +black eyebrows, and a cottage on the Sussex downs. +When they think (as they apparently sometimes do) +of Hall Caine, they call up visions of a beard, private +suites at the Savoy, and countless mysterious legends +of his doings in the Isle of Man. When they hear of +Stephen McKenna it is always with the knowledge +that he has either just been to or returned from the +West Indies and is either going or has gone to some +party or other in London. But they never think at +all of Lady Russell, because they simply do not +know she exists. They are caught up in the fascination +of her work, they wonder for a moment +what manner of man or woman produced it. And +all they have to guide them is a blank title-page.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c9">CHAPTER NINE</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">In which We Meet a Ghost</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">t</span> this point in the narrative it seems fitting to +introduce a spiritual element which, up to the +moment, has not been very noticeable.</p> + +<p>You may have seen, two Christmases ago, a sensational +article in the <i>Weekly Dispatch</i>, by one Lord +St. Audries, telling of a ghostly midnight adventure +which he had experienced with two friends in a +Devonshire house. The article made something of a +sensation at the time. The <i>Daily Mail</i> devoted a +leading article to the subject, and many American +papers quoted it in full. The full story of that adventure, +however, has never been told. And since +the two other conspirators mentioned in the article +were my brother and myself, it seems that the time +has now come when the true story of that very remarkable +evening may be told in full.</p> + +<p>It was the first week in June when Peter—as it is +shorter to call him—came down, and it was in the +third week in June that the thing happened. In case +you might imagine that the atmosphere of my home +was favourable to ghosts, it is necessary to state that +we had lived, during those two intervening weeks, +the most distressingly healthy of lives. Most of +my morning had been spent in wrestling with the +foreign policy of Queen Elizabeth or the political +theories of Mr. Aristotle, a task that was not made +any the more pleasant by the thud, thud of tennis +balls which came from the lawns below. But in the +afternoon we would always set out together, sometimes +to motor up to Dartmoor and picnic in heather, +but more often down to the sea, where we bathed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> +and spent the long hot afternoons lazing about on +the beach.</p> + +<p>One Sunday—the last Sunday of Peter’s visit—we +all went to evensong. It was a glorious evening when, +at about seven o’clock, we came out of church, and +we decided to walk home, taking the short cut by +the road over the hill. This road, I may say, runs +straight from the church, past various houses, until +it reaches the gates which guard the approach to our +own home.</p> + +<p>A full moon hung over the hills—a little pale in the +fresh light of dusk—and after we had been walking +a few minutes, Peter stopped, looked over a wall +and said:</p> + +<p>‘What a fearful house.’</p> + +<p>We looked with him. It was a house which I will +call Weir. It had been untenanted for nearly thirty +years and was falling to rack and ruin. The roof +had long ago disappeared, the paint was peeling +from the faded green shutters, and as we looked a +bat flew out of one of the second-story windows, +showing that the glass had also vanished.</p> + +<p>‘Why has it been allowed to get like that?’ asked +Peter.</p> + +<p>‘Haunted,’ said my brother. ‘At least, that’s the +legend.’ And then he told him how nobody could +ever live in it, how strange sounds, screams and the +pattering of hurried feet were heard by passers-by, +how it was narrated that in years gone by there had +been a terrible murder there, in fact, all the usual +things which are told in Christmas numbers of +popular magazines.</p> + +<p>Peter interrupted him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span></p> + +<p>‘I’m for going in,’ he said.</p> + +<p>‘What on earth for? You don’t believe in ghosts, +do you?’</p> + +<p>‘No. Nor disbelieve in them. But, it would be +rather fun.’</p> + +<p>And that was how it began, and how we found ourselves, +three hours later, walking back over the road +by which we had come.</p> + +<p>The road was quite deserted, for the town went to +bed at early hours, and as we swung along, wearing +our flannels, for it was a hot night, I took a certain +interest in the state of mind of my two companions. +My brother was, frankly, a little on edge. He had a +candle in one pocket, and a crucifix in the other, to +meet the respective powers of darkness with which +we might be confronted. Peter was just—how shall +I say?—alert. He had had experiences which might +be described as psychical in the past, and he was +more or less prepared for anything that might happen. +And I was just enjoying the whole thing, quite +confident that we should see nothing at all, but +none the less amused by the possibility that, perhaps, +if we were lucky....</p> + +<p>We clambered over the wall, for the gate was +locked, walked down some steps, through some +bushes, and round to the front of the house. It +stood about thirty yards back from the road, and the +main grounds stretched out in front. As it was +built on sloping ground, the tangled grass and +shrubberies in front were on a level with the basement, +through which we had to enter. The first +floor was on a level with the road behind us.</p> + +<p>It was an absolutely still night, so still that the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> +poplar trees behind us were etched against the moon +in a motionless trelliswork of silver leaves.</p> + +<p>‘Come on,’ said Peter. We decided to enter the +house through one of the windows in front of us. +The glass was broken, and there was no difficulty in +raising the sash. We opened the window and as +soon as we had done so, it fell down again with a +bang. The sash had long ago rotted.</p> + +<p>‘Give me your stick,’ said my brother. ‘I’ll prop +this thing up. We might have to come out in a +hurry, and we don’t want to crash into a lot of broken +glass.’</p> + +<p>I gave him the stick, and he wedged the window +firmly into position. It is lucky that he did so.</p> + +<p>We clambered in one by one, groping our way +in the semi-darkness. As soon as the candle was +lit, a room of indescribable melancholy flickered +into view. The plaster had fallen in great lumps +from the ceiling, so that we walked with a crunching +noise that echoed all over the house. Wooden +boxes and planks strewed the floor. The wall-paper +had almost all peeled from the walls, though some +of it still clung in strips, like pieces of decaying +skin.</p> + +<p>‘Where?’ said Peter.</p> + +<p>‘Upstairs, I think—don’t you?’</p> + +<p>‘Right.’</p> + +<p>We spoke in whispers, as though afraid of disturbing +something that might be lying asleep above, and +one by one made our way up a narrow twisting staircase +that led into the main hall.</p> + +<p>In this hall we paused, undetermined where to go +next. Right before us was the front door, and on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> +the left, the two principal rooms of the house. Both +of their doors were open, and through them one +caught sight of a floor on to which the moonlight +poured abundantly. To the right was a corridor +leading to some rooms that were shrouded in darkness. +Just by us was the continuation of the staircase, +which in the old days had led up to the rooms +above, but which now led (after turning a corner +beyond which we could not see) straight up to the +sky.</p> + +<p>We began to make a tour of the house, and chose, +firstly, one of the big rooms on the left. There was +hardly any need for a candle here, since the moonlight +was so brilliant, but we took it for the sake of +dark corners. We found absolutely nothing. Only +a big, silent room, looking out on to the garden, +with a single cupboard, which was empty. A most +prosaic room it must have been in daylight, and +even now, there was nothing particularly alarming +about it.</p> + +<p>‘So far, so good,’ said my brother.</p> + +<p>‘Let’s try the other room now,’ I said.</p> + +<p>I went outside, and stood in the hall, waiting for +them to follow. I was not feeling ‘creepy,’ although +I should not in the least mind admitting it. As a +matter of fact, I was rather disappointed that nothing +had happened. I stood there waiting, looking into +the darkness of the corridor on the right.</p> + +<p>And then suddenly, the first alarm. It was not in +the least the most important thing that happened +that night, but since it happened to me, I take a +particular interest in it.</p> + +<p>As I stood there, I was thinking in the odd, inconsequent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> +way in which one does think, of an essay +which I had been writing that morning, when +suddenly I thought—‘I am thinking very slowly. +My brain does not seem to be working properly.’ +And then, with a thrill of dismay I realized that +exactly the same physical process was taking place +in my head as takes place on those dreary occasions +when I have been forced to have an anæsthetic. The +left side of the brain starts to be covered with a black +film (almost like the shutter of a camera), which +gradually closes over, from left to right. While this +is going on I can think perfectly clearly with the +right side. Thought and consciousness do not cease +until the film has closed completely over. Then, +everything is blackness.</p> + +<p>This was now happening to me, but with two +differences. The film was spreading over my brain +far more quickly, and the agent which was responsible +for it was not anæsthetic but a force which I +can only describe as a form of suction, coming very +distinctly from a room down the corridor on the +right.</p> + +<p>‘Hullo! What’s up?’</p> + +<p>I saw them standing before me. With every effort +of concentration, I managed to say, in an absurdly +stilted voice: ‘The candle. Quick, the candle. Outside.’ +I found the candle placed in my hand. My +feet carried me downstairs, I half fell to the window, +and then—the film closed over.</p> + +<p>A minute later I found myself sitting up on the +grass, feeling absolutely normal again, though +strangely tired. What had happened? It was exceedingly +difficult to say. Nothing—and yet, everything.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> +All I knew was, that here in the garden I was safe. +But inside....</p> + +<p>‘I wish to goodness you wouldn’t go in again,’ I +said.</p> + +<p>However, they were now more determined than +ever to make a thorough investigation, and after +waiting to see that I was all right, they clambered +once more through the window.</p> + +<p>Not one corner, not one crevice of that house did +they leave unexamined. It was a very simple house +to explore, because apart from the fact that the only +possible entrance was by this particular window, the +rooms themselves were square and stoutly built, +and there were but few cupboards, and absolutely +no mysterious closets or any other contrivances +which might be thought to harbour ‘ghosts,’ or +even, failing a ghost, a harmless tramp.</p> + +<p>They spent about twenty-five minutes over their +examination, and came out reporting that they had +been everywhere—including the little room from +which I had felt the ‘influence,’ and had found +absolutely nothing.</p> + +<p>‘And now,’ said Peter, ‘I’m going in <i>alone</i>.’</p> + +<p>‘Alone? Good Lord, man, haven’t you had enough +of this business?’</p> + +<p>He shook his head. ‘No. I believe Paul’s an “anti-influence.” +Sort of lightning conductor. He keeps +them off. Perhaps it’s the crucifix,’ he laughed. +‘Anyway, you remember that nothing happened to +you until you went out in the hall away from him. +And nothing happened to me, perhaps because we +were together all the time.’</p> + +<p>We tried to persuade him not to go. But he insisted,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> +and we let him go in on the condition that he +should take the candle, and that we should whistle +to him every few minutes, while he would whistle +back, to show that he was still there.</p> + +<p>Once more, for the third time, he went into that +house, while we sat down on the grass and listened +to the sound of his footsteps as he clambered up the +stairs. We heard him walk across the hall and sit +down, as I judged, on the bottom of the steps, +waiting. Then there came a faint whistle, and we +whistled back.</p> + +<p>Silence. We whistled again, and the answering +echo sounded clearly. Another whistle, another +answer. And so the minutes passed away.</p> + +<p>Then—terror!</p> + +<p>It was about twenty minutes after Peter had +climbed through the window, and nothing had happened. +The last whistle we had heard, which was +about two minutes before, had been particularly +shrill and cheerful. It seemed quite evident that we +had drawn a blank, and I turned to my brother to +suggest that we should call Peter out, and go home.</p> + +<p>But, over our heads there came something which +was not a sound, for there was no sound; not a wind, +for the trees were still; nothing visible, for we saw +nothing. A second later, a cry from the house, in +Peter’s voice, the like of which I hope I shall never +hear again. It was a long-drawn ah-h-h! The sort +of cry that a man would give who had been stabbed +in the back.</p> + +<p>We sprang to our feet, and rushed to the window. +As we did so, a single cloud which had long been +drifting slowly to the moon, started to obscure the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> +light. Clambering through, we found ourselves in +utter darkness. The planks and boxes which, by +candlelight had been so easy to surmount, appeared +gigantic. To add to the distraction there came from +upstairs the wildest thuds and crashes, as though +several men were struggling together.</p> + +<p>‘For God’s sake, matches.’</p> + +<p>‘Haven’t got any.’</p> + +<p>‘We must get some.’</p> + +<p>We scrambled to the patch of light made by the +window, rushed through the bushes, the noise of +the struggle inside increasing all the time, vaulted +the wall into the garden of the house next door, +whose occupants were fortunately well known to us, +pushed wide the front door which was fortunately +open, seized a lantern which, by a miracle lay just +inside the hall, tore back again, over the wall. As +we vaulted the wall we heard a noise which was +like a whole platoon of men stumbling down the +stairs.</p> + +<p>And then, ‘Oh, my God! ’ in Peter’s voice.</p> + +<p>We met him as he emerged, staggering round the +corner, his face dead white, his hair, his hands and +his clothes covered with plaster and dirt. We took +him into the next house, dosed him with brandy, +and listened to the following story:</p> + +<p>‘When I got into the house,’ said Peter, taking a +plentiful gulp of brandy, ‘I couldn’t at first decide +where to take up a position. I eventually chose the +bottom of the staircase, for two reasons. It was central—that +is to say, it commanded a view of nearly +every door on the ground floor, and it also allowed +me to face the corridor on to which opened the little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> +room from which you’ (turning to me) ‘felt the influence +coming.</p> + +<p>‘I wasn’t particularly hopeful of seeing anything. +However, something seemed to tell me that if there +<i>were</i> to be any manifestations, that is to say, quite +crudely, if there was a ghost, the centre of its activity +would be in that little room. My attention seemed +constantly switched in that direction, and after a few +minutes I sat quite still, my eyes fixed on the door +of the little room, which I could just make out as a +patch of greyish light in the darkness of the corridor.</p> + +<p>‘The minutes sped by, bringing nothing with them. +I heard your whistles outside. I whistled back. And +though the echo of my whistle sounded a little +uncanny in the lonely house, I still didn’t feel in the +least “ghostly.” I felt extraordinarily matter of fact. +I remember even wondering if the wood on which I +was sitting was damp.</p> + +<p>‘I suppose that about twenty minutes must have +gone by like this, and I was seriously thinking of +giving it up as a bad job. Your last whistle had +just sounded, and, growing impatient, I began to +rise to my feet, intending to have a final look at the +little room, and then to go home.</p> + +<p>‘Then, the thing happened. Out of that room, +down the darkness of the corridor, something rushed. +I don’t know what it was, except that it was black, +and seemed to be shaped like a man. But two things +I did notice. The first that I could see no face—only +blackness. The second was that it made no +noise. It rushed towards me over that bare floor +without a sound.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span></p> + +<p>‘I must have taken in those two facts subconsciously, +for I had only two or three seconds in +which to think. After that I was knocked flat on +my back by some overwhelming force. I had a +sickening, overwhelming sensation of evil, as +though I were struggling with something beastly, out +of hell.</p> + +<p>‘After that I remember struggling—it seemed to +me for my life—staggering with an incredible effort +to my feet—and fighting my way downstairs. If +one’s sensations in moments of half-consciousness +are of any value, then I must have been fighting not +with one thing, but with two or three. How I managed +to get down the stairs, God knows. There was +nothing but darkness and a hundred filthy influences +sapping my strength. The next thing I remember is +meeting you outside.’</p> + +<p>Before I go on to the sequel to this story, just let +me remind you of two things. Peter was, once +again, a perfectly normal and healthy creature, going +through the war like any other young man, fond +of country life, the reverse of neurotic. Secondly, +whatever it was that knocked him down, it was +not a human being. That room from which the +‘thing’ emerged was empty. It had no cupboards, +no secret doors. There was no possible way of +entering it.</p> + +<p>The sequel is as follows. We were naturally very +anxious, after this exceedingly unpleasant experience, +to find out a little more about Weir, and its +antecedents, and with this object we paid a visit to a +certain very charming lady who lived close by and +who had an international reputation in things psychic.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span> +She knew all about it. She heard our story +quite calmly, and without the least surprise.</p> + +<p>‘But do you mean to say,’ she said, when we had +finished, ‘that you didn’t <i>know</i>?’</p> + +<p>‘Didn’t know what?’ I asked impatiently.</p> + +<p>And then it transpired that some forty years ago, +Weir had been the scene of a particularly brutal +double murder, in which a semi-insane doctor had +done to death first his wife, and then a maid-servant. +The actual scene of the murder was in the bathroom. +<i>And the bathroom was the little room at the end of +the corridor from which I had felt the influence coming +and from which the thing had rushed at Peter.</i></p> + +<p>I could tell you a lot more about Weir if I had +time—how when it was renovated, and re-inhabited +a short time ago, no door in the place would keep +shut, and how even the stodgiest tenants were forced +to admit that something very devilish was on foot. +How no dog can be got past the house after a certain +hour. How—but one might go on like that +for ever, and so I shall leave the facts as they +stand.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>Before leaving this question of ghosts, however, I +cannot refrain from telling another story of the same +kind, which also had Peter as its main victim. You +may disbelieve it or not as you choose, but at least, +even if you decide to treat it as pure fiction, it makes +very good reading. And it is, as a matter of fact, the +unadulterated truth.</p> + +<p>The scene was laid about six years ago at St. +Audries, a rambling, pleasant old place in Somersetshire. +Peter had come home from London the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> +night before, and apart from his sister, there was +nobody there except the servants. On the second +night, he was rather tired, and so at about ten o’clock +he went to his room, which lay at the end of a long +wing, a good distance away from the main body of +the house. By half-past ten he was sound asleep.</p> + +<p>Some hours later, in the middle of the night, he +suddenly found himself awake, with that strange +feeling that one has been disturbed by some noise +outside. He rubbed his eyes, and sat up. Yes—distinctly +there was a noise in the corridor. Wondering +who on earth it could be at this time of night, he +called out. There was no answer. Called again. +Still no answer. Mystified, he rose from bed, put on +a dressing-gown, and opened the door.</p> + +<p>Outside, there was an old woman with a candle, +standing a few yards away from him, regarding him +with calm, wide eyes. He had never seen her before, +and he spoke to her. She did not reply.</p> + +<p>He then took a step towards her, and as he did so, +she suddenly turned and began to walk away. +Exceedingly curious, he began to follow, but she +broke into a run. He too started running, and he +chased her down corridors, along passages, up little +staircases, faster and faster.</p> + +<p>Suddenly at the other end of the house, when he +was only a few yards behind, she turned into a corridor +that led to a room from which there was no +escape. There was the sound of a door slamming, +and a second later he flung it open. Bright moonlight +flooded the room. It was empty, silent, deserted.</p> + +<p>Peter stood there, wondering. The only exit from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> +the room was by the door through which she had +just entered. Unless of course one jumped out of +the window, from which there was a sheer drop of +forty feet on to a hard lawn. But the window was +locked and barred. Nobody had opened it for +years.</p> + +<p>Shrugging his shoulders, he walked back to +his room, a little disturbed, and greatly puzzled. +Before he turned out the light to go to sleep again +he glanced at his watch. It was two minutes to +one.</p> + +<p>The next morning, the whole adventure seemed so +fantastic that he decided to say nothing about it. +He therefore went down to breakfast, talked quite +normally and cheerfully, and kept his peace.</p> + +<p>As he rose to go out, his sister suddenly said to +him:</p> + +<p>‘Oh, Peter. The clock on the mantelpiece has +stopped, and it’s a terrible nuisance to wind. What is +the right time?’</p> + +<p>Peter looked at the clock. It registered two minutes +to one. He took out his own watch. That also +marked two minutes to one.</p> + +<p>‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll go outside and tell +you.’</p> + +<p>But in the hall the same thing had happened. The +grandfather clock, which was usually kept fast, had +also ceased ticking—at two minutes to one. The +clocks in all the other rooms had stopped—at two +minutes to one. Even a clock over the staircase, +which could only be reached by a ladder, and of +which he alone held the key, had stopped at two +minutes to one.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span></p> + +<p>That is all. There is no explanation, no ‘sequel’ of +any kind. It just happened. It has never happened +again.</p> + +<p>Since these events I have looked the other way +whenever I have seen any spiritualists coming down +the street.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c10">CHAPTER TEN</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">In which I Journey to Greece</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">t</span> was not easy, in the unrest and turmoil of the +year 1921, for any young man to settle down to a +definite occupation. There was a great outpouring +from Oxford in that year, mainly consisting of those +who had been to the war, had returned to the University +to finish their studies, and had taken the shortened +course. Men of that type, prematurely matured, +seemed indeed to many of us, quite middle-aged, +though most of them were not twenty-eight. And +naturally having already lived many lives and died +many deaths, the prospect of beginning all over +again and being treated like children was not altogether +pleasing.</p> + +<p>Everybody who has done much public speaking at +the University is always told that he ought to go to +the Bar. It seems destined for him, as something +almost inevitable—why, I could never quite understand, +because mere eloquence is not nearly so great +an asset at the Bar as the capacity to spurn delights, +to live laborious days, and to make up your mind that +for several years at least you must be content to be a +very dull dog indeed.</p> + +<p>I, too, was caught in this spirit of unrest. I went to +London in search of a job, had no idea how to set +about it, wrote odd articles, spent all my money, and +returned home. Something had to be done, so I sat +down and occupied the next four months in writing +<i>Patchwork</i>, a novel of the new Oxford. It was published +in the autumn, had a certain <i>succès d’estime</i>, +and brought me in about enough money to pay my +tailor’s bill.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p> + +<p>And then one day, there came a letter which set my +heart beating quickly and filled me with a sense of +adventure which made life seem more than worth +living again. It was from my publishers, and it told +me the following story:</p> + +<p>A new revolution, it seemed, was on the point of +breaking out in Greece. That unfortunate country +was in the direst distress, being ruled by a monarch +(the late King Constantine) who was not recognized +by the Allies, who had already been exiled once, and +who, unless drastic measures were taken, would be +exiled again. The national exchequer was empty, the +national spirit almost broken, and the national manhood +practically exhausted by the war against Turkey, +which had already lasted, on and off, for seven years.</p> + +<p>The only way in which Greece could be saved was +by the recognition of King Constantine by the Allies. +Such an event was, at the moment, out of the question, +since ‘Tino’ was regarded in France and England +and America as an Arch-Traitor, a sort of miniature +Kaiser, who by his treachery and his double +dealing had imperilled our cause throughout the +whole of the Near East.</p> + +<p>But that legend of Tino, it was now alleged, was +false. It had been carefully built up, during the war, +by interested agents, on a fabric of complete falsehoods. +The astounding nature of these falsehoods +was contained in a collection of documents which was +being carefully guarded. In those documents was +material for a book which would cause a sensation +throughout Europe as soon as it was published.</p> + +<p>Would I go to Athens and write that book? I should +be given immediate access to the documents, I should<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> +be under the special protection of the Greek Government, +I should have, as a matter of course, the entrée +to every circle of Greek Society which I might desire +to investigate, from the Court downwards. And all +my expenses would be paid.</p> + +<p>Would I go to Athens? Would I go to heaven? +Just imagine if <i>you</i> had just come down from Oxford, +were still at heart an undergraduate, and were +suddenly given the opportunity of embarking on an +adventure which gave every promise of situations as +fantastic as ever occurred to the peppery imagination +of William le Queux! For, naturally, one guessed +that, in an undertaking of this sort, there would be a +certain element of danger. The Balkan countries +have never been exactly a health resort for political +adventurers, and what should I be but a political adventurer, +delving into secrets of which, at the moment, +I knew nothing, in a distant and romantic capital +which was alive with intrigue?</p> + +<p>Would I go to Athens? Without a moment’s delay +I sat down and wrote a telegram, saying that if +necessary I would start to-morrow.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>Let us get straight on to Greece, for it is easier to +do that in a book than in the so-called <i>train-de-luxe</i> +which totters across Europe, falling over bridges, +blundering through ravines, and waiting for a whole +day at deadly looking hamlets in strange countries. +It is all right until you reach Fiume. Till then you +have a comfortable dining-car with regular meals, +and a sleeping compartment in which it is possible +to sleep and not to freeze. But after that, God help +you. They take off the dining-car, and you have to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> +depend for sustenance on what you have got with +you. And if you have got nothing, it means that you +have to clamber out of bed in the middle of the night +and go into some filthy little railway café, to bargain +for black olives and dusty chocolate and sour bread. +At least, that was how things were in the winter of +1921.</p> + +<p>A word about Belgrade, the capital of Yugo-Slavia, +because it is, of all the cities I have ever seen, the +most sinister and the most melancholy. It would +appeal to Poe. We arrived at about dawn, and I +woke up to look out on a dreary, broken-down station, +snow-bound, and to hear the monotonous echo +of some soldiers singing round a little fire which +they had built on the platform to keep them warm. +I dressed and went outside with some Greeks, who +spoke bad French. We were all terribly hungry and +were determined to eat some breakfast or die in the +attempt.</p> + +<p>What a sight when we stepped outside the station. +You must imagine a background of leaden skies, and +long, almost empty streets along which an occasional +bullock cart silently plodded. In the foreground, +however, all was colour and noise and animation, for +it was market day, and the peasants from the outlying +districts had all come in to sell their cattle. Never +can there have been such a picturesque crew of +rascals—rather like a chorus in the Chauve-Souris. +The men with black beards, and stockings brightly +worked in blue and crimson wools, the women with +green aprons and yellow jackets, and odd-looking +belts that seemed to be made of dyed leather. And +they were all stamping about in the snow, shouting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> +out in that dark, stinging language which sounds +like Russian spoken by a devil. At least three fights +were in progress, and the way they treated their animals +made me feel that, unless I went straight into +Belgrade, there would be a fourth.</p> + +<p>We pushed our way through this unsavoury collection, +and walked down the silent, desolate street in +a sort of dream. There were no motors (I did not see +a single motor in the whole of Belgrade) and very +few horse-carriages. Almost every man we met was +a soldier. And such soldiers! Dreary, pale, half-starved-looking +creatures, slouching along like +tramps, with uniforms that hung about them in +rags and boots that had long been unfit for any +human beings. Then, suddenly, we saw three +officers, swaggering down towards us. A greater +contrast it would be impossible to imagine. They +were not only smart, they were superb. They glittered +and shone and sparkled, they strutted, and +puffed, and posed. They were the complete musical-comedy +officer of the Balkans, their uniforms a dream +of delight. And as they passed, a group of ragged +soldiers sprang to attention, and remained stiff as +corpses for fully a minute after the said officers had +gone by. Discipline, what crimes are committed in +thy name!</p> + +<p>And then the breakfast! It was quite as depressing +as a Dostoievsky novel. We had it at the best hotel +in the place, and it consisted of bitter coffee, white +butter made with goats’ milk, and bread so sour that +it was almost impossible to eat. There were no eggs, +no meat, no sugar. One was back in war-time England +again, <i>with</i> a difference.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span></p> + +<p>Only one word more about Belgrade, and that must +be to record the impression of amazement I had that +this terrible hole of a place was the capital of one of +the largest countries in Europe, of the country which, +according to the economists, is going to be one of the +most prosperous in the whole world. Make no doubt +about it, Yugo-Slavia is a coming country. But if +you could see its capital, the town which, by the +august dispensation of the Peace-Makers, has been +set in authority over many fair and cultured cities of +the Austria that was, you would say it was a back +slum of London, set on a hill, subjected to an earthquake, +and then cursed by the Creator.</p> + +<p>They don’t build houses to last in Belgrade, because +they know that in ten years or so there will be another +war, and the whole thing will be blown to pieces +again. That is the sort of spirit one met the whole +time. Nothing permanent. No trust. No faith. No +hope. I looked into a photographer’s shop and saw a +photograph of the Parliament in session. So pompous, +so threadbare, so utterly, damnably sad.</p> + +<p>All this may have been the effect of a bad breakfast +and a cold morning. But I think that you will admit +that it is borne out by the facts.</p> + +<p>Let us hurry to Greece. The next scene in the +journey was when, at dawn, the train, with a last +despairing effort, arrived at the frontier town of +Ghev-Gelli, and stopped, panting. And this was +Greece! This land of crystal sunlight, with the brown +mountains against skies of burning blue. Greece! +I felt like Linnæus, who went down on his knees at +the first sight of English gorse; or like Cortez, when +his eagle eye first gazed upon the Pacific, through<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> +the medium of Keats’ Sonnet. Or like a great many +other popular people who may all be found in <i>The +Children’s Encyclopædia</i>.</p> + +<p>I dressed quickly, and went into a little restaurant +that lay just behind the station. A brown-eyed +maiden bustled forward and showed me to one of the +four small tables. There was a spotless cloth on the +table, and a big earthen bowl of violets. And for +breakfast there was a huge glass of fresh milk, a +chunk of coarse bread, and the sweetest honey that +even Greek bees can ever have distilled. One felt +that on such a diet, and under such sunshine, anybody +could write masterpieces.</p> + +<p>I had just swallowed my last spoonful of honey, +and lit a cigarette, when there was a sound of tramping +feet outside, a shouted word of command, a +moment’s silence, and then a babble of conversation. +Soldiers! Greek soldiers! These must be inspected +at once. I went to the door and saw, lined up, a +small platoon of soldiers, clad in khaki, standing at +ease. They were burnt almost black with the sunlight, +were of rather under average height and were +talking in a fierce and indigestible language. But +what most attracted the eye was the superb young +officer who was engaged in conversation with the +conductor of the wagon-lit. He was the first (and +almost the last) Greek I ever saw who gave one the +impression of a statue come to life. And how smart +he was! How his sword glistened in the sunlight, +how his leather shone and his buttons sparkled!</p> + +<p>Suddenly he turned, pointed in my direction, and +started walking towards me. I hurriedly adjusted +my tie, and wished that I had shaved. It didn’t seem<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> +to make much difference, but it made one feel somehow +undressed. However, there was little time for +regret. The officer was already by my side.</p> + +<p>‘Monsieur Nichols?’</p> + +<p>‘Oui.’</p> + +<p>He saluted, turned, and shouted to the soldiers. +They ceased talking. Shouting again. They sprang +to attention. Shouted again. They sloped arms.</p> + +<p>This was terrifying. I also endeavoured to put a few +inches on my height, and frowned severely, which is +reputed to have an effect of making one look older.</p> + +<p>‘I come from the Military Commander of Macedonia,’ +he informed me. ‘You are to be under his +special protection.’</p> + +<p>‘Thank you,’ I said, in as deep and resonant a voice +as possible. ‘It is very gracious of him.’</p> + +<p>‘I have also,’ he remarked, ‘to present you these +documents.’ He handed me some papers decorated +with heavy seals. I took them, glanced at them, and +placed them inside my pocket.</p> + +<p>‘You will have no difficulty,’ added this excellent +young man, ‘in such things as customs. Athens has +been informed of your arrival. Everything will be +done to ensure your comfort.’</p> + +<p>‘I am more than honoured,’ I said. I felt an awful +fraud, and was thankful that the Military Commander +himself was not present. If only one could +have grown a beard, or have developed pouches +under the eyes, or a cynical smile or <i>something</i> which +would have concealed the fact that one was really +only an undergraduate, and not the distinguished +author that they were expecting. How marvellously +Hall Caine would have suited an occasion like this.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> +He would probably have emerged in a black coat, +looking like a minor prophet, and have made some +profound remark on the liberty of Greece. All I +could do was to ask the young man to stand his +soldiers at ease, which seemed an excellent suggestion +and was promptly carried out.</p> + +<p>We talked for a little longer, and then, in order to +end a situation which was rapidly becoming unbearable, +I informed him that I had business in the train +which must be attended to. He sprang to attention, +we shook hands, the soldiers clicked, sloped arms, +right turned and stamped rhythmically out of the +station. The last thing I saw was the glint of their +rifles in the sun.</p> + +<p>After waiting nearly the whole day at Ghev-Gelli, +the train puffed out into the open country towards +Athens at about five o’clock. I looked out on to the +mountains and flower-filled valleys, dreaming in the +late afternoon sunlight. The adventure had really +begun.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>And now, Athens.</p> + +<p>We arrived at about seven o’clock in the evening, +and all the things which my admirable and decorative +soldier had foretold, came to pass. Various +imposing people met me, my luggage slipped +through the customs unopened, and I found myself +outside the station while the other wretched people +were still wrestling with officials.</p> + +<p>Now, I am all for dramatizing the various episodes +in one’s life in order to get the utmost emotion from +them. This seemed to be an episode well worthy +of such treatment. And so, for this night, I planned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> +to drive through the streets to my hotel in an open +cab, have a jolly good dinner, and then go up to the +Acropolis by moonlight alone.</p> + +<p>I achieved all these delectable things. By various +subterfuges I managed to get rid of the people round +about, and found myself in the desired open cab +driving slowly towards the main streets.</p> + +<p>The streets of Athens at night! Take, as a model, +Paris, and set it in surroundings of incredible beauty, +hills that soar proudly above, a sea that stretches +below, lit with the lights of a thousand ships. Fill it +with dark, swarthy people, with eyes like stars, who +do not so much walk as sway. Plant along its streets +rows of pepper trees, whose feathery branches dance +beneath the lamp-light. Sprinkle among the crowd +young giants in the most picturesque uniform of +Europe—a white kilt that makes them look, in the +distance, like ballet girls. Build your houses of white +marble, scatter their gardens with flowers, breathe +over it all a spirit of gaiety and love, light it with a +moon so clear and clean that it might be carved from +the marble of the Acropolis—and then, perhaps, you +will have a faint idea of Athens. Unless, from sheer +incapacity, I have inadvertently been describing a +Lyceum pantomime.</p> + +<p>And then, most important of all, one could dine +like a king in this paradise, and still can, for less than +half a crown. The drachma was not nearly as low +then as it is now, but this was what my dinner cost:</p> + +<table> + +<tr> + <td class="tdlt"><i>Wine 15 cents</i>:</td> + <td class="tdl"> A bottle of white wine—tasting of +the tiny yellow grapes that are +good enough to grow on the +slopes of Mount Parnassus.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span></td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><i>Omelette<br> +12 cents</i>:</td> + <td class="tdlt">Superb. Greek hens are worthy of special praise.</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdlt"><i>Pilafe de Volaille <br>15 cents</i>:</td> + <td class="tdl">A pilafe that brings to the dinner, + as the cigarette advertisements +say, something of the ‘romance +of the East.’ Made <i>à la</i> Constantinople, +its rice flavoured +with essences which none but a +Turk could contrive.</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdlt"><i>Yaorti 10 cents</i>:</td> + <td class="tdl">It hailed originally from Bulgaria. +It is a perversely succulent dish +of sour cream and fresh cream +mixed, iced, and sprinkled with +sugar.</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><i>Savoury Apollo 12 cents</i>:</td> + <td class="tdl">Born of an unholy but delectable + union between the lobster and +the crab, and baptized with a +sauce of the cook’s own invention.</td></tr> + +<tr> + <td class="tdl"><i>Turkish Coffee 5 cents</i>:</td> + <td class="tdl">Again the Eastern element. Constantinople + is close, you see—too +close for the comfort of Greece. +But, at least, it has taught them +how to make coffee.</td></tr> + +</table> + +<p>Grand Total, including wine, 69 cents.</p> + +<p>And that is in the best hotel in Athens. If you go to +any of the other restaurants, you will dine equally +well for a good deal less.</p> + +<p>But I want to take you with me up to the Acropolis, +before we part company on this most thrilling of all +nights. For the Acropolis is the personification of all +Greece, it is the Crown of Athens, the eternal symbol +raised aloft which proclaims that Greece has no kith<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> +nor kin with the crowded barbarians to the North, +or the massed savages to the East. Oh! I know perfectly +well that the Turk is a fine fellow—a finer +fellow than the average Greek, and that probably +modern Greece has little in common with the Greece +that first lit the lamp of civilization in Europe. But +Turkey has no Acropolis. And as long as those +matchless columns hover, like a benediction over +Athens, Greece will be <i>different</i> from her neighbours.</p> + +<p>It was the night of the full moon. As we rattled up +the narrow streets, the roads grew bumpier and +bumpier, the lights more and more dim. A wonderful +place, one thought at each street corner, for a +murder. It would be dreadful to be murdered before +seeing the Acropolis. After seeing it, nothing would +matter. That at least was how I thought, as the cab +swung round the final bend in the hill, drawing up +beneath the clustered buildings, dreaming on their +narrow cleft of rock.</p> + +<p>How can I describe it, this milk-white miracle of +beauty? Its beauty does not come from its antiquity +alone, for here, among the columns of dim silver, +stained with shadows of violet, one is away from +Time. The temples soar to the stars, like white +flowers eternally born anew. The same moon that lit +the face of Alcibiades falls on each fragment of glittering +marble, gilding the stone arms of its warriors +and the silent faces of its maidens, and only yesterday +it seems that the voice of Socrates must have echoed +here, carried by this breeze through the cool, cleft +spaces.</p> + +<p>At night-time even modern Athens seems to fit into +the dream without disturbing it. One stands by some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> +broken, lovely fragment, looking over the hills on to +the sparkling city beneath. It is a box of jewels spilt +as an offering to the gods. The streets are strung +into darkness like glimmering necklaces, and from +far below comes the muffled whir and murmur of +modern life. And then one shuts one’s eyes again, +and there is silence—the silence of eternal +things....</p> + +<p>I offer no apology for this sentimental outburst. I +have no sympathy with the man who does not grow +sentimental among the columns of the Acropolis. I +have read about him in Freud, and he is a very dirty +dog.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c11">CHAPTER ELEVEN</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Concerning the Confidences of a Queen</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap">n</span> the next day I was summoned to the Queen. +I must here admit, with due shame and contrition, +that I had never been to see a Queen before. I +really don’t know why. Still, the fact remains that I +knew nothing whatever about Queens, especially +Balkan ones. I had read about them in certain lurid +accounts of themselves, from which I gathered that +they must all be very temperamental, and I had seen +photographs in the illustrated papers, from which I +concluded that all photographers were Republicans. +Beyond that, my mind was a blank.</p> + +<p>Still, two things one knew instinctively about +Queens. They liked to be called Ma’am, and they +had to be approached in a morning coat. The ma’am +business struck me as faintly ridiculous. I practised +it while dressing, and pranced round the sunlight-flooded +room saying, ‘Yes ma’am, no ma’am, three +bags full.’ However, when one has on one’s morning +coat the ma’am becomes something rather awe-inspiring.</p> + +<p>I had to be at the palace at eleven, and at fifteen +minutes before that hour I entered a rickety ‘amaxa,’ +drawn by two horses, and trundled over the bumpy +streets towards my destination. A blue, blue sky +above and all the houses glistening white. A faint +breeze that drifted in from the sea. In the distance +the Acropolis could be seen gleaming, like a white +rose on a hill. Athens was bustling and wide awake. +Little flower stalls made bright splashes of colour +under the pepper trees. Outside on the boulevards +people were drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> +Now and then a lordly car would sweep by, and +one would catch a glimpse of a rich merchant and +his lady, the latter with pale face and crimson lips, +and the glitter of diamonds that come from the +Rue de la Paix. A little bit of Paris, a little bit +of the East, a little bit of the classic past—that is +Athens.</p> + +<p>We swept through some wide gates after a certain +controversy with two fierce sentries in white kilts. +Charming people those sentries. I have always +wanted to have one for a servant. They would create +such a sensation in London. They have a scarlet +turban, with a long tassel that hangs over the left +shoulder, a tight-fitting, blue jacket with rows of +buttons like a page, a white sort of ballet skirt, shorter +and more frilled than a kilt, long white stockings, and +red shoes with huge black woollen rosettes on the toes. +They told me that the costume was very comfortable, +except for the shoes, which were always coming +off.</p> + +<p>I don’t suppose we should ever have got past the +gates had it not been for the kindly offices of the +Royal Chamberlain, who was waiting for me, and +took me straight to a reception room, then to +another reception room, then to a third such, and +finally left me to wait. I had not long to wait, for +after about five minutes an aide-de-camp appeared +and told me that Her Majesty was ready to see +me.</p> + +<p>I followed him, noting the universal blue in which +the palace was decorated. Blue curtains veiled the +glare of the sunlight outside, casting a sort of haze +into the quiet corridors. There were blue vases, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> +blue sweet-scented flowers, and an immense staircase +covered with a blue carpet that was like a summer +sky.</p> + +<p>I negotiated the staircase successfully, walked +down a few more miles of corridor, and was eventually +ushered into a long room, very like an English +drawing-room, in which Queen Sophie was +standing.</p> + +<p>I shall never forget my first sight of her, for she had +the saddest face of any woman I have ever seen. +Standing there, dressed entirely in black, a bowl of +lilies by her side, her face rose from the shadows like +one who has known every suffering. Beautiful? I am +not sure about that. A beautiful expression, certainly. +A beautiful bearing, too. But my first impression +remains, also my last. The very air which she +breathed seemed heavy with sadness.</p> + +<p>(I don’t wish to convey the impression that she was +a sort of mute, a funereal figure. There were many +days on which I saw her afterwards, in which she +was one of the gayest and most sparkling of creatures. +But the underlying note of tragedy would +always recur.)</p> + +<p>Her first words were anything but tragic.</p> + +<p>‘I’m so glad,’ she said, ‘that you don’t try to kiss +my hand. Some Englishmen seem to think that they +must do it, and they always look so embarrassed.’</p> + +<p>‘Ought I to have done it—ma’am?’ I said, wondering +if I had let fall the first brick.</p> + +<p>She spoke perfect English—or, rather, the sort of +English that you and I speak, which is probably very +far from perfect, but at least could not be accused of +any foreign flavour.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span></p> + +<p>‘And now,’ she said, ‘before I tell you about Greece, +for Heaven’s sake tell me something about England. +I haven’t been there since the war, and’—here she +shrugged her shoulders—‘I don’t suppose I shall +ever be able to go there again.’</p> + +<p>I told her as much as I could. She was absolutely +ravenous for information. Did they still plant the +tulips in Hyde Park? Was the grass as green +as ever in Kensington Gardens? (Oh, the green +grass of England!) Were people giving many parties +now? And what were the parties like, gay or +sad? Had people got over the war at all? Were +there any very pretty girls running about? Had I +any idea whom the Prince of Wales was going to +marry?</p> + +<p>I gradually realized, as I endeavoured to supply +some form of answer to this bewildering torrent of +interrogatives, that here was a woman who was sick +at heart for the country in which she had played as a +child. For, after all, Kaiser’s sister or no Kaiser’s +sister, Queen Sophie, when a girl, was brought up by +her grandmother, Queen Victoria. She had Kensington +Palace for her playground and her first paddling +was performed on the beach at Eastbourne. And +now, to be exiled, through no fault of her own, from +the country which she loved so well, to be forbidden +to see her friends, her relatives....</p> + +<p>‘I suppose you have heard a great many stories +about me?’ she said, when I had exhausted England +as a topic of conversation.</p> + +<p>I nodded.</p> + +<p>‘For example?’ she asked with a smile.</p> + +<p>‘That’s not fair,’ I said. It was quite impossible to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span> +tell her even a fraction of the things one had heard.</p> + +<p>‘No. Perhaps it isn’t. Well, I’ll tell you a few of +them. I was supposed, of course, to be in daily touch +with my brother in Berlin, by wireless. I never quite +gathered where the wireless was, but I believe they +said it was in a tree in the garden. I was supposed +to concoct elaborate plans for the destruction of the +British Army. How, I don’t quite know, because my +husband always tells me I know nothing whatever +about war. I was also reputed to teach all my children +nothing but German. I presume that is why I +have had nobody to teach them but an English governess +who has been here for ten years, and whom you +must meet. She’s a very charming lady. In fact—I’m +quite impossible. I wonder you dare come to see +me.’</p> + +<p>She laughed, and then became serious again.</p> + +<p>‘I want you to realize,’ she said, ‘something of the +absolute’—she paused for a word, her hands +tightly clenched together—‘the absolute <i>agony</i> of +my position at the beginning of the war. I loved +England. I was brought up there. I had dozens +of English relatives. I loved Germany, too. My +brother was the Emperor. That sounds, I suppose, a +crime, to love Germany. But try to clear your mind +of the prejudice of the war. Try to realize—as I +think we can now—that every German wasn’t necessarily +a devil, and that every Frenchman wasn’t necessarily +an angel. And then you will realize +something of what I have suffered.’</p> + +<p>She paused, and then said a sentence which I shall +never forget. ‘<i>I was in a horrible No-Man’s-Land of +distraction!</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span></p> + +<p>‘What did I do? What <i>was</i> there to do, except to +shut my eyes, and to think only of Greece? If I was +to follow the struggle—first from this side and then +from that—I should have gone mad. And so, as I +say, I devoted myself to Greece. I nursed. I did my +best in the hospitals. I busied myself in the gardens. +I did anything but think....’</p> + +<p>She rose to her feet with a sigh. ‘Let’s go into the +garden, and forget all about it.’</p> + +<p>She led the way from the room, and I followed +her down endless corridors, in which sentries sprung +to attention as we passed, and ladies-in-waiting +smiled and curtsied from the shadows. Out in the +sunshine we paused, and she looked at me with a +curious smile.</p> + +<p>‘Before we go any farther,’ she said, ‘I want to show +you something which will interest you. You have +come out here to write a book, haven’t you? Well—this +thing which I shall show you, will make you, at +least, <i>think</i>.’</p> + +<p>We turned to the left, skirted the front of the +palace, went through a sort of shrubbery, and then +stopped.</p> + +<p>‘Look!’ said the Queen.</p> + +<p>I looked. Standing straight in front of me, against +the wall, was a fourteen-inch shell. Not a pleasant-looking +object. It was about the height of a child of +six, and was, I should imagine, sufficiently powerful +to blow up half the palace if it had landed in the +right place.</p> + +<p>‘That shell,’ she said quietly, ‘was a present from +the French. Every Englishman who sees it says that +surely the French would not bombard a neutral<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> +country? Surely the French, the apostles of culture, +would not bombard, of all places in the world, +Athens, the birthplace of culture? But you have a +lot to learn. The date was December 2, 1916. +Greece was still neutral. The bombardment began +at ten o’clock in the morning, and went on intermittently +till six at night.’</p> + +<p>‘And where were you all that time?’</p> + +<p>She laughed. ‘In the cellars. I can laugh at it now, +but at the time it was not a laughing matter. You +see, my children were with me. They were terrified. +And I was distracted. Look at that shell, for example. +If it had fallen three feet farther to the +right, it would have gone straight through the +window of my husband’s study. He was in there at +the time. It would not have been a very pleasant +thing for the Allies, would it, to have had the +murder of the King of a neutral country on their +hands?’</p> + +<p>There was nothing that I could say. I muttered +something about looking into the matter.</p> + +<p>‘Yes. Look into it. That is all we ask of you, +that you should try to find out the truth. And +don’t forget that though I may be the sister of +the Kaiser, I’m also the daughter of the Princess +Royal.’</p> + +<p>I was nearly six months in Athens, with every +possible facility for studying the truth, and I doubt +even now if I discovered it. That the Queen was +utterly sincere and genuine, I do not doubt. That +the French, in the desperation of the struggle, behaved +foolishly, I am convinced. But as to the exact +measure of blame, I remain undecided.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span></p> + +<p>However, I did not set out to write a book of +political arguments, but a book of human studies. +And I hope that by this tiny sketch a few people at +least will see Queen Sophie in a more kindly light +than has hitherto been thrown upon her.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c12">CHAPTER TWELVE</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Strange Tales of a Monarch and a Novelist</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap1">A</span> <span class="smcap">fortnight</span> later I was sitting in the lounge of +the Hotel Grande Bretagne, when a message +arrived saying that Tino would like to see me at six +o’clock.</p> + +<p>It was then a little after four, and the hectic, unnatural +pageant of Athenian Society was drifting by +in full swing. Look well at that pageant, for Athens, +in this January of 1922, seemed a sinking city in a +doomed land, and there is a romance about such +cities which is denied to the more prosperous +metropoles of the West, a romance which comes +from the knowledge that everybody is playing a part, +and that a hundred undercurrents of intrigue are +running between the apparently smooth surface of +the waters.</p> + +<p>There are several beautiful people in the lounge, +and the most attractive of all are Russians. There +are, at the time, nearly ten thousand Russian refugees +in Athens, and their plight is such that, thinking of +them, it is not too easy to sleep at night. The women +by now have mostly found ‘protectors,’ accepting +with a bored smile a situation which, five years ago, +they would have found impossible. Some have +attached themselves to rich merchants of the Levant, +others have wormed their way into the affections of +the military, a few have even achieved the success of +an unhappy marriage. And now they are all sitting +in this lounge, smoking cigarettes, and blowing +out the smoke through purple and impassive lips, +waiting.</p> + +<p>The men are worse off than the women. Look at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> +this one who approaches me. He was once an officer +in the Imperial Guard. To-day he wears a patched +white coat, well tied in at the waist, and blue trousers +of a common Russian soldier. One thin white hand +is grasping a stick, and in the other is a little tray +containing his paintings—such pathetic, amateurish +paintings, which he is trying to sell. He stands in +front of me and tries to smile. It is a grotesque caricature +of a smile—a little twitch of the lip. His +whole body is trembling as though from a violent +chill. Shell shock, and one lung already destroyed.</p> + +<p>I buy one of his little paintings, and try to look as +though I were buying it because I wanted it. He +is of the stuff which gentlemen are made of. If +there had been no war, he would have been a smart +young fellow playing gentle havoc with hearts in +Petrograd.</p> + +<p>He passes on, and is lost in the crowd of cosmopolitan +adventurers. There is a fat man from Paris, who +is reputed to be doing a big deal in raisins, and looks +as though he had eaten most of them in a fit of +absent-mindedness. There is a little row of very +silly <i>soignée</i> Greek women, eyeing each other’s +dresses, and pining for Paris. They think it chic to +talk French, and to affect to despise this backward, +out-of-the-way place that they call Athens. There +are several young officers on leave from the front. +They stare moodily in front of them, for they, at +least, have a tale to tell, having been mobilized, some +of them, for seven years, and having seen the army +gradually losing its rifles, its boots, and its morale. +There are several prosperous-looking Germans, +gabbling at the tops of their voices. One of them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> +has a row of enormous volumes on Greek statuary in +front of him.</p> + +<p>I pay for my tea with a bank-note cut in half—a +strange procedure worthy of explanation. Greece +was in the direst financial straits. It was quite useless +to suggest a new loan, for nobody would subscribe +to it. And so an ingenious chancellor suddenly +thought of a way by which the peasants could all be +made to disgorge half of their savings. Every paper +note in the kingdom had to be cut in half. The left +half must be immediately given to the bank, where +it would be credited to one’s account, with an interest +of 5 per cent. The right half might be used as currency. +Thus, a note worth a pound automatically +became worth ten shillings cash, the other ten shillings +being placed in the bank. All this cutting and +snipping of notes had to be done in a fortnight.</p> + +<p>I arrived at the palace at six o’clock, and was shown +up to Tino’s study—a pleasant, English-looking +room, with plenty of books, and windows that gave +on to one of the prettiest parts of the garden. He was +sitting down on the sofa, reading, and as he rose to +greet me he seemed enormous. He must have been +at least six feet six, and six feet six in a soldier who +holds himself well erect is a good deal more than +many of the drooping six foot sixers one sees slouching +down Piccadilly.</p> + +<p>It was characteristic of him, as I afterwards learnt, +that as soon as we had shaken hands he almost pushed +me into a chair, practically stuffed a cigar between +my lips (I loathe cigars) and before I had time to +light it, plunged straight into the heart of the controversy +which was raging round his throne.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p> + +<p>‘You realize,’ he said, ‘that you’re talking to a King +who’s disowned by the greater part of Europe, and +also by the United States. Don’t you?’</p> + +<p>I did realize it.</p> + +<p>‘Very well, then. We are therefore in a position to +talk quite frankly. I’ve certainly nothing to lose by +telling you the truth.’ He paused. ‘However shocking +it may be,’ he added with a grim smile, ‘I’m +under no sort of illusion as to how they regard me in +England. I’ve seen caricatures of myself in every +conceivable attitude in the English papers—some of +them rather funny as a matter of fact, funnier, at any +rate, than the German ones. Perhaps it never struck +you that they’d caricature me in German papers? I +assure you they do. You see, Germany doesn’t like +me any more than England. I am altogether a most +unpopular person. Except in Greece.’ Again the +grim smile.</p> + +<p>‘However, we didn’t come here to talk about caricatures. +I just want to give you a few ideas, that’s all. +You can verify them afterwards at your leisure. The +first thing on which I want you to fix your attention +is the beginning of the war. When war was declared +I received a telegram from the Kaiser. He writes +admirable telegrams, my brother-in-law. It suggested +that I should at once throw in my lot with the +Central Powers. I was at Tatoy when the telegram +arrived, having a very innocent but a very excellent +tea. As soon as I had read it I remember saying to +my wife “Good God! He seems to forget that Greece +is practically an island.” By which, I was referring, +you see, to the consummate foolishness of the Kaiser +in thinking that any Greek in his right mind—whatever<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> +his private sentiments—should consider, even +for a moment, declaring war against the rulers of the +seas.</p> + +<p>‘I then summoned certain ministers, and drafted +my reply. If you take the trouble to look it up you +will see that it was an emphatic refusal. I tried to +make it polite, but apparently the Kaiser didn’t think +it was polite enough. In any case, he was particularly +rude to my minister in Berlin, Monsieur +Theotokis.</p> + +<p>‘Nobody has ever quoted that telegram. They +probably never will, because it doesn’t fit in with the +Tino legend. However, it is there, in all the blue +books. Just have a look at it when you get the time.</p> + +<p>‘The next thing I want you to consider is my various +offers of help to the Allies. I shan’t particularize +because you can find them all in the official résumés +of diplomatic correspondence which every country +publishes. Besides, dates and things of that sort are +dull.</p> + +<p>‘What was my position at the beginning of the war? +What was, rather, the position of Greece? I will tell +you. We were in a pretty bad way. We had none too +much money. We had been exhausted by a long +series of wars. We needed, above all things, rest. +However, when the Great War broke out, there were +two courses open to us. We could either remain +neutral or we could join the Allies. The idea of +throwing our lot in with Germany was absolutely out +of the question, for, as I have said before, Greece is +to all intents and purposes, an island, and it would +have been suicidal to fight England, even had any of +us wanted to do so.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span></p> + +<p>‘Well, as you will see in the blue books, I offered +my assistance. It was refused. Why? Because, according +to Lord Grey, it was important not to <i>froisser</i> +Bulgaria, not to annoy King Ferdinand!’ He brought +his fist down on the table with a bang which quite +shattered my cigar ash.</p> + +<p>‘I warned Grey,’ he said. ‘I warned your Foreign +Office, not once but half a dozen times, that Bulgaria +was arming against you, that she was not to be +trusted, that she was about to throw in her lot with +Germany. I was not heeded. I was either answered +with polite shrugs of diplomatic shoulders, or I was +not answered at all.’</p> + +<p>He stared in front of him gloomily, and when he +resumed it was in a quieter voice.</p> + +<p>‘You know the next stage. The Dardanelles. Now +every third-rate politician and every third-rate staff +officer in the countries, not only of the Allies but of +the Central Powers, has very decided opinions upon +the Dardanelles. They say, “If only Tino had done +this,” or “If only Tino had done that,” or “If only +the Turks had been a few days later, or the Allies a +few days sooner,” or “If only Winston had had his +way.” In fact they go on saying “if only” until the +whole thing becomes a tragic farce.</p> + +<p>‘But I tell you, young man, that I <i>know</i> the Dardanelles. +I <i>know</i> the Black Sea. I <i>know</i> that there are +certain ways in which Constantinople can be attacked, +and certain ways in which it can’t. I know a good +deal more about both the military and the naval sides +of the question than even your friend Mr. Winston +Churchill, and my staff probably know more than I +do myself. Don’t you see that for generations the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> +eyes of Greece have been fixed on Constantinople? +Don’t you realize that in the heart of every Greek +there lies the dream that one day he will be able to +throw his cap into the air at the news that Greece +has re-entered into the inheritance which every Greek +regards as his natural birthright? Why, there is even +a legend that when there sits on the Greek throne a +monarch of the name of Constantine and a Queen of +the name of Sophie, ... Greece will capture +Constantinople. A foolish legend, perhaps you may +say. But the conditions of it were fulfilled when, +thirty years ago, I married my wife. And the coincidence +has been working in my people’s imagination +ever since.’</p> + +<p>He paused, rose from his seat, and went over to the +window. And when he went on talking it was with +his eyes fixed on the quiet lawns outside.</p> + +<p>‘Now,’ he resumed, ‘I’m not saying that this dream +is right or wrong. I’m merely telling you that the +dream is there. And since it is there, and since the +Greeks, though they may be superstitious, are also +a practical people, it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that +the Greek Officers and Staff, not only of the army +but of the navy, should have the whole situation at +their finger-ends? Doesn’t it? Tell me. Am I being +logical or am I not?’</p> + +<p>I reassured him on that point.</p> + +<p>‘Very well then,’ he continued. ‘When I first heard +of the Dardanelles Campaign, I knew that it was +doomed to failure. I knew it in my very bones. I +expressed my opinion in public and in private. I was +called a pro-German because I would not join it, +because I would not send at least 10,000 Greek<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> +soldiers to help the Allies. Was I right or wrong? I +knew that if I sent 10,000 soldiers that there would +be 10,000 widows in Greece in a few weeks. And I +was damned if I would do it.’</p> + +<p>And then he said something which made me sit up. +‘<i>If I had been pro-German I could have wrecked the +whole Allied course in the Near East as easily as I +can flick my fingers.</i>’ And he flicked his fingers in my +face.</p> + +<p>‘How?’</p> + +<p>He laughed. ‘You’re an inquisitive youth, aren’t +you? Well, I’ll explain.</p> + +<p>‘You may remember,’ he said, ‘that in the autumn +of 1915 the Allies were in a very bad way. The +armies of Austria and Germany were sweeping down +through the Balkans like a great black cloud. Serbia +was overrun and desolated. The whole of the north +was in the grip of the Central Powers. Bulgaria was +closing in on the east. The only refuge was—Greece.</p> + +<p>‘I had already violated my neutrality in favour of +the Allies by allowing General Sarrail, the Allied +Commander, to use Salonika as a base for his troops. +A fat lot of thanks I got for it—but that is by the +way. I was therefore in an exceedingly difficult +position. If I allowed the Allies to retreat over my +frontier I could hardly, as a neutral monarch, forbid +the Germans from doing the same thing. To do so +would be tantamount to a declaration of war against +Germany.</p> + +<p>‘Consider the position if you want to prove that I +was <i>not</i> pro-German. Here was the Allied Army +retreating into Greece, beaten and exhausted. They +were cut off from the north and from the east. My<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> +own army was in their rear, fresh and intact. <i>If I had +wished to declare War on the Allies could you possibly +imagine a more favourable opportunity?</i> I could +have wiped out Sarrail without the loss of more than +a thousand men. The whole of the Balkans would +have been completely, irrecoverably German. And +the war would not have ended as it has done.</p> + +<p>‘But what did I do? For that I would again refer +you, not to the newspapers, but to the official documents. +I sent a telegram to the Kaiser stating that +if one German soldier advanced a yard over the +Greek frontier, I should consider it a hostile act, and +should declare war. In other words, I saved the Allies +at one of the most critical moments of the struggle.’</p> + +<p>He stopped abruptly. ‘And that,’ he said, ‘is all +I’ve got to say to you this evening.’</p> + +<p>I rose to go, feeling a little bewildered. When I +returned to my hotel I wrote down the whole of the +foregoing conversation, word for word, and I think +it is almost verbally accurate.</p> + +<p>And that is all I am going to write about the Greek +question, for I have discovered, on bitter experience, +that people don’t care a damn about it, and that the +whole question bristles with difficulties. I only write +to ease my own conscience, and to pay a humble little +tribute to two people whom I learnt to regard as +friends.</p> + +<p>One cannot, however, write about Tino without +also writing about Compton MacKenzie. It may seem +a long step from the most hated monarch of Europe +to a man who used to be one of England’s most +popular novelists, but it is not quite so long as you +might imagine, for, according to Greek Royalists,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> +Compton MacKenzie was the evil genius of Greece +during the war.</p> + +<p>In early 1915 (I think it was) he was appointed +head of the Anglo-French police in Athens. A curious +appointment, one would think, but those days of +chaos abounded in curious appointments, and at least +one could say about Compton MacKenzie that he +had a sense of style. They told me that he fell out +of a balloon somewhere in the Near East, and was +on the point of being invalided out of the army when +this appointment suddenly became vacant. He accepted +it with alacrity, for he had very clear ideas +on the Greek question. The first of these ideas was +that Tino was violently pro-German and as treacherous +as they make them. The second was that he +himself was called, whatever the sacrifice, to lead +a crusade of neo-Hellenism against the Turk, the +Bulgarian, the German, or any other nation that got +in the way.</p> + +<p>His methods of work, they alleged, were remarkable. +He is said to have taken a little office, and +there concocted his wicked schemes, clad in garments +more fitted for the less reputable colleges of +Oxford than for His Majesty’s Service. I was told +of purple waistcoats, long black walking-sticks, heavy +cloaks lined with green silk, black stock ties. It cannot +be true, but at least there is something most +intriguing in the picture of this young and rather +decorative relic of the nineties carrying out Balkan +intrigues against a background of classic pillars and +traitorous monarchs.</p> + +<p>They alleged also (I am scattering that blessed word +‘alleged’ all over the place, as a sort of disinfectant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> +against libel actions)—they alleged that on several +occasions he tried to murder King Constantine—rather +hot work for the head of the British police +stationed in a neutral and officially friendly country. +I saw a newspaper cutting of some Greek paper in +which there was a photograph of one of the King’s +bodyguard, together with a long legend that Compton +MacKenzie had bribed him to put poison in +the King’s wine. The story ran something like this. +MacKenzie, having found out that bombs were too +dangerous and that daggers made too much mess, +decided that he would employ the more cleanly +and efficient aid of arsenic. He obtained the arsenic +and also managed, somehow or other, to get hold of +a very simple and child-like soldier who was in attendance +on the King, at a time when the King’s +health was giving rise to grave anxiety.</p> + +<p>‘Do you know why the King is so ill?’ he is alleged +to have said to the Evson.</p> + +<p>‘No?’</p> + +<p>‘Because he is bewitched by the Queen.’</p> + +<p>Here the Evson began to take keen interest. He +knew all about witcheries, and such-like.</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ MacKenzie is alleged to have continued. +‘And the only way in which we can break the spell +is for you to put this powder into his glass when he +is at dinner. It is a very wonderful powder—the +crushed essence of a herb that only grows in England. +When he has drunk it you will find that immediately +he will be cured.’</p> + +<p>After a little persuasion, the story runs, and a rather +larger amount of bribery, the Evson departed with +the arsenic, promising faithfully that he would give it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> +to the King. But as the evening shadows fell his +courage failed him. Supposing that, after all, the +herb should not do its work? Supposing that it did +his master actual harm? No. It was really a little +risky. And so he went to a certain Court official and +told him the story. Consternation. Curses against +England. Salvation of King Constantine. Tableau.</p> + +<p>A childish story of course. But it was believed by +a great many otherwise sane people. And it only +shows you how careful you must be in the Secret +Service.</p> + +<p>Another, and even more lurid tale, was told about +Mr. Compton MacKenzie. I never saw any newspaper +cuttings on the subject, because I don’t think it +got into the Press. But I <i>was</i> furnished with a great +many strange-looking documents, much thumbed, +and decorated at all the available corners with red +sealing-wax. This story was also concerned with an +alleged attempt by the English novelist on King +Constantine’s life—an attempt that, if it had been +true, would have been about the most ingenious +piece of inventive work that he had ever done.</p> + +<p>In the summer of 1915 (I think that is the right +date), the King’s Palace at Tatoy—some twenty +miles outside Athens—was burnt. For miles round +the heath and scrub were devastated by fire. The +King was in his Palace at the time and only escaped +by a miracle. And even so, several of his bodyguard +were burned to death.</p> + +<p>All this, the Royalists alleged, was the work of +Compton MacKenzie. With devilish ingenuity he +was described as having obtained the services of some +half-dozen of the riff-raff of Athens, among whom<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> +was a German prostitute in the pay of the Allies, of +having bought a quantity of petrol and benzine, +hired four motor-cars, and set out from a low café +at dawn in order to accomplish his dirty work. The +plan was to surround the Palace with fire from all +sides, so that there should be no possible escape, and +with this object some six points had been marked on +a map, in the form of a wide circle, which were to be +soaked with benzine and set alight. The wind would +do the rest.</p> + +<p>I myself saw a map which was supposed to have +been stolen from Compton MacKenzie’s headquarters, +but had, as a matter of fact, been manufactured +by my informant. It showed a number of mysterious +crosses, and subsequent inquiry proved that fires had +actually broken out, almost simultaneously, at all +these places, proving beyond a shadow of doubt that +the ‘accident’ was not an accident at all. But why +poor Compton MacKenzie should have been accused +of it I could never quite make out.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c13">CHAPTER THIRTEEN</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">From the Regal to the Ridiculous</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">hose</span> little Balkan Courts were terribly pathetic. +They always gave me the impression of a rather +threadbare musical comedy on tour. There was so +much pomp, such a glitter of uniforms, and so little +money. I shall never forget my first sight of a Royal +car. Tino was in it, plumed and feathered, and were +it not for the large crown painted on the back, one +would have said that the car was a dilapidated Ford. +So dilapidated that the tyres were bound up with +tape and seemed to be of different shapes. I watched +the car trundle out of sight, and just as it turned the +corner there was a loud bang. The first tyre had +burst, and Tino had to get out and watch his +chauffeur struggling in the dust.</p> + +<p>If Queen Sophie had sold her pearls, which were +amazingly beautiful, the whole Royal Family would +have had plenty for the rest of their lives. But I +suppose she could not do that, since they were +Crown jewels. As things were, the severest economy +had to be used to make both ends meet.</p> + +<p>One day I went to tea with her and after tea we +walked, as usual, in the garden. It was looking exquisite +that evening, the bougainvillæa, a mass of +purple, dripping from the walls, and all the lemon +trees heavy with golden fruit. By and by we came +to a little pond of marble, which was empty.</p> + +<p>‘How lovely this must be when it is filled with +water,’ I said.</p> + +<p>‘Yes. But I don’t know when we shall be able to +fill it.’</p> + +<p>‘Is the drought as bad as all that?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span></p> + +<p>She shook her head. ‘No. I wasn’t referring to the +drought. The pond has to be cleaned before it can +be filled. And that means another gardener. And +gardeners cost 15 drachmæ a day.’</p> + +<p>Now fifteen drachmæ, at that period, was about +half a crown. Can you imagine a Queen not being +able to have a pond cleaned out because she had not +the necessary half a crown?</p> + +<p>And yet, during the war, people used to talk ridiculous +nonsense about the Greek Royal Family +revelling in gold owing to the marriage of the +American millionairess, Mrs. Leeds, with Prince +Christopher, the King’s youngest brother. Sheer +nonsense. She was not allowed to do so. I believe +that she was very generous and sweet in giving +presents in the ordinary run of affairs, but as for +financing Tino’s family (let alone financing Greece, +as they said she did)—that was quite out of the +question.</p> + +<p>Princess Irene—one of the most attractive girls I +have ever seen—once said to me, ‘Isn’t the price of +clothes appalling?’</p> + +<p>Mindful of tailor’s bills, I fervently agreed with +her.</p> + +<p>‘I want to get some new evening frocks,’ she added, +‘but I can’t get any under twenty pounds.’</p> + +<p>If only things had been different, what a paradise +the Queen would have made of Athens, and of the +Palace in particular. ‘Before the war,’ she said, ‘we +had all the plans ready. We were going to have a +beautiful new hotel in Constitution Square, we were +going to make the roads good again, we were going +to plant thousands of trees all over the mountains.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> +And I had dozens of English furniture +catalogues which I used to read and read, thinking +of all the lovely things we should have in the Palace. +All that is finished—absolutely finished. We must +get along as we can. I can’t even afford to have the +English magazines now....’</p> + +<p>And then, ‘Isn’t it perfectly <i>appalling</i> the way we +always talk about money nowadays? I never used +to. My mamma would have thought it terrible. +But now it’s, “I can’t afford this, and I can’t afford +that.” And it’s such a dreary topic of conversation. +Let’s talk about something else.’</p> + +<p>We both laughed, and talked instead of England.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>Endless comedies arose out of the fact that the +Royal Family were not recognized by the Allies, +because the members of the British Legation had to +be officially unaware of their very existence. Francis +Lindley, our Minister at Athens, said to me that it +was damnably awkward for him, because sometimes +he would meet Tino in the street, or driving in a +motor-car, and they both had to look the other way.</p> + +<p>A regular game of hide-and-seek sometimes ensued. +I remember once going with Bridget Lindley and +some others from the Legation to play tennis in the +gardens of the British School of Archæology. We +had a divine game of tennis, and when it was over +strolled round the garden looking for flowers. We +had just turned a corner when, there, a few yards in +front of us was the Queen of Greece, with a lady-in-waiting. +With a hoot of dismay the young ladies +from the Legation turned on their heels and fled.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> +(It sounds rude, but it was the only thing they +could have done.) I was left alone to greet the +Queen.</p> + +<p>‘Who were those girls who rushed away like that?’ +said the Queen.</p> + +<p>‘Oh—they were just some people who have been +playing tennis.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. But who <i>were</i> they?’</p> + +<p>I had to tell her that they were the Lindleys.</p> + +<p>She made a little gurgling noise of laughter. ‘I see. +Isn’t it ridiculous?’ And then ... ‘We might be +such good friends. It’s a pity....’</p> + +<p>Occasionally, however, some man from the Legation, +in an access of boldness, <i>would</i> visit the Palace, +and a very good time he was given. But these things +had to be worked out with great secrecy, because +naturally, if the Minister knew, he would be forced +to take severe measures against the offenders. There +was one young man (I can’t, of course, give his +name) whom we smuggled into the Palace one afternoon, +and the arrangements for getting him there +and back were worthy of an <i>opéra bouffe</i> conspiracy. +We had to go in a closed motor and be hustled up a +back staircase into the boudoir of a lady-in-waiting. +It was then arranged that the Queen and some of +the Princesses should cross the garden, come up another +staircase, and enter a few minutes later. +We used to make absurd jokes about it, saying +that the Queen might suddenly shoot down the +chimney, or that the Englishman should disguise +himself as a piano-tuner, and enter in that manner.</p> + +<p>It was at one of these tea-parties that the Queen, +becoming serious for a moment, gave us just a hint<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> +of some of the tortures she must have suffered in +exile. ‘When we were exiled from Greece,’ she said, +‘the only place which was open to us was Switzerland. +We went there, and stayed at an hotel. I wanted to +be just like the other guests—I wanted, as they said +I was no longer a Queen, <i>not</i> to be a Queen, just to +be an ordinary human being. Staying in the hotel +were several of my old English friends, whom in +days gone by I had known quite intimately. They +used to be of my party in the opera; I have danced +at their houses, dined with them. One and all, they +cut me dead. I shouldn’t have minded that—for, +after all, there are <i>ways</i> of cutting people, aren’t +there? But they did it in the unkindest way possible, +publicly—not only to myself but to my husband—leaving +any room that I entered, and staring me +straight in the face as they went out. Now—it isn’t +like English people to do that, is it? And yet they +did. It was not till I picked up some of the English +papers, and learnt what they were saying about us +over there, that I realized the reason for it.’</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>None of the restrictions which so hampered any +members of the Legation when they wanted to go +to the Palace applied to me, because I had no official +position, and nobody seemed to know what I was +doing in Athens. But Athens is a very small place, +and very soon some remarkable legends began to +spread about me. Some people said I was in the pay +of the Bolsheviks, others in the pay of Germany, +others that I was a young English millionaire forced +to fly my country because of some scandal connected +with a Greek lady, and that I was in Athens to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> +settle it up. Being very young, I rather enjoyed +these legends and had Compton MacKenzie not apparently +forestalled me, should probably have purchased +a wardrobe in keeping with the part I was +supposed to be playing, consisting of a red tie, a +pair of check knickerbockers, and a heavy gold +watch-chain. However, I contented myself with a +black evening cloak, lined with pale grey satin, that +called forth rude and Bacchic remarks from the +ladies of light virtue who lurked under the lemon +trees of an evening.</p> + +<p>I only realized, however, the true thrill of being a +political intriguer one night towards the end of my +stay in Athens when I was walking home, along the +deserted sea-front, after a night’s gambling at a +little roulette place near the harbour. It sounds very +dissipated, and I suppose, in some ways, it was. +Here is the story:</p> + +<p>The Greeks are born gamblers. They would gamble +away their final drachma on the slightest provocation, +and frequently do so. Every other day in +the streets of Athens one sees boys going round +with long slender sticks, on which are pinned fluttering +tickets of blue and white—and very pretty they +look, rustling in the wind. These are lottery tickets, +and have a tremendous sale. I had often purchased +them, without any result, and finding some sort of +gambling essential to existence, decided to throw in +my lot with the roulette players of the Piræus.</p> + +<p>I wish you could have seen that Greek gambling +house. It lay in a rather deserted position facing +the sea, along a road that had never been finished. +On a moonlight night you could see from its windows<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> +the white sails of the ships that search for +sponges and tunny fish among the waters of the +Archipelago, but on other nights you would see nothing +at all except a solitary lamp-post outside the +door.</p> + +<p>Inside, one discovered a sordid room, containing +one long table, round which were congregated a +remarkable assemblage of persons. There were +Russian ladies of apparent wealth, Italians, swarthy +and silent, excitable Greek merchants, now and then +a German, some odd-looking Americans, and +Venizelists and Royalists all jumbled together, +drinking quantities of bad whisky and smoking black +cigarettes.</p> + +<p>The value of a classical education, in such surroundings, +was immediately apparent. For one thing, the +numbers were almost exactly the same as one learnt +at school, and sometimes even the pronunciation +also. For example, ochto was eight and deka was +ten. That was a great help. In addition, ‘mavro,’ +for black, sounded like an old friend, and it was +easy to recognize ‘coichinou’ the word cochineal +(with which, if I remember rightly, the Greek ladies +used to dye their robes in days gone by).</p> + +<p>Play seemed to me to be very high that night, although, +as my later and more abandoned years have +taught me, it was not. Still, a man with heavy +pouched eyelids and a made-up bow had a habit of +putting fifty pounds on a single number, and sometimes +winning it, which made my hundred drachma +pieces look very foolish. However, I successfully +lost twenty pounds, and feeling exceedingly irritable +left the room.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span></p> + +<p>It was then about two o’clock in the morning. I +hadn’t any money to pay for a taxi, and in any case +there were no taxis about. And so I started on the +walk home—about seven miles.</p> + +<p>Now, the streets of Athens at night, especially of +this part of Athens, are not as the streets of Piccadilly. +For one thing, they are execrably lit. For another +they contain large holes in the middle of the +road, in which it would be quite possible to bury +a dead horse. For another they contain—dogs, lean, +snarling, yellow-fanged dogs that rush out from the +darkness, growling and yelping, and taking an unhealthy +interest in one’s heels.</p> + +<p>Several such came out during my journey home. +I put on a wooden expression, lifted my feet very +high, took quick short steps, and muttered at intervals +‘pretty doggy, pretty doggy.’ It seemed the +only thing to do. And by and by the pretty doggies +departed, though the sound of their strident voices +still echoed in the distance.</p> + +<p>I was now on a long, straight road, bounded on +either side by pepper trees and shrubberies of orange +and lemon. Suddenly out of the shadows appeared a +figure ... the figure of a youngish man in a badly +fitting black coat. It sounds dramatic and it <i>was</i> +dramatic. Worse even than the dogs.</p> + +<p>This person accosted me. Where was I going? (He +spoke in French, and was, I believe, a Frenchman.)</p> + +<p>I was going home, thank him very much.</p> + +<p>So was he.</p> + +<p>Indeed.</p> + +<p>It was pleasant, was it not, to have company on +such a lonely road?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span></p> + +<p>Delightful. (Pretty doggy, pretty doggy.)</p> + +<p>Especially on so warm a night.</p> + +<p>Yes.</p> + +<p>Ah! but I had not experienced the summer. That +was epouvantable.</p> + +<p>I looked at him quickly. How did he know that I +had not ‘experienced’ the summer?</p> + +<p>‘I know you quite well,’ he said. And he calmly +gave my name, age, address, and occupation.</p> + +<p>This was all very odd. I walked a little more +quickly. Athens was still some five miles away. I +could see the Acropolis gleaming like a distant rock +of refuge. A nasty young man, I thought.</p> + +<p>Then he began to talk. He talked like a gramophone +running at three times its normal speed. A +high unnatural voice. A superfluity of gesture. And +all about King Constantine. How he had betrayed +the Allies. How he had kept a private submarine. +How he was a knave, a poltroon, a pig, a female dog. +How he had a hoard of German gold. And how....</p> + +<p>Here, at a bend in the road, he suddenly stopped, +gripped my arm, looked me straight in the eyes and +said:</p> + +<p>‘And you—you who call yourself an Englishman—are +helping him!’</p> + +<p>I regarded him as calmly as the circumstances warranted. +And in English I said:</p> + +<p>‘You appear to be a little mad!’</p> + +<p>‘Mad?’ He laughed hysterically, and then—(it +sounds ridiculous, but it is perfectly true)—he drew +from his pocket a revolver, and though not exactly +levelling it at me, put it quite as close as was agreeable, +and said:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span></p> + +<p>‘This will tell you to speak of madness.’</p> + +<p>Which was highly disturbing. The sudden cessation +of the gabble of chatter, the wild look on his +face, the revolver. Something had to be done. I +did it. I smiled, drew in my breath, and executed +a powerful high kick. It hit him, by a miracle, on +the wrist; the thing went off, spluttering up the +gravel; he dropped it with a howl; I kicked it again +on to the grass, and then I ran.</p> + +<p>All very unheroic. But, on the whole, safe. I ran +and I ran down that lonely road, and by the time I +had finished running the first streaks of dawn were in +the sky, and I was feeling acute pains in my side, +my legs, my knees, my brain, everywhere. But at +least one had the satisfaction of having outwitted (or +outdistanced) a very nasty young man.</p> + +<p>Nothing like that ever happened again. I received +anonymous letters, all threatening things highly unpleasant. +But whether they were from the young +man in question I never discovered. And they never +materialized.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>My last night in Athens was spent at the Palace. +The Queen had asked me to stay on a little longer in +order to trot round with her nephew, Prince Philip +of Hesse. I was very glad that I did so, for not only +was he a most agreeable young man but by staying +those few extra days I also met the Queen of +Roumania, who had come hurriedly down to Athens +in order to be with her daughter (the Crown Princess +of Greece) who was seriously ill.</p> + +<p>I shall never forget my first sight of the Queen of +Roumania. We were all sitting down in the main<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> +salon—Tino, Queen Sophie, Princess Irene, the +Crown Prince and Princess of Roumania, some other +members of the Court, and myself. The door was +slightly open, and through it one could see a long +corridor, dimly lighted. I looked down the corridor +and I saw coming towards us a figure in trailing +robes of white, walking slowly, with head erect, like +some divine Lady Macbeth. As she approached, +and paused in the doorway, I thought that I had +never seen a woman more lovely. The long white +sleeves of silk, the girdle of silver at her waist, the +hint of diamonds in her hair, the ropes of pearls +round her neck. And the face—wide eyes, a forehead +that was one hundred per cent. intelligence, a +beautiful drooping mouth ... it is rather useless +to attempt to describe her. A photograph will do +her less injustice than my pen.</p> + +<p>Luckily, I was very soon able to have a long talk +with her.</p> + +<p>Here, clipped of its ‘ma’ams’ and ‘majesties’ is what +we talked about:</p> + +<p><span class="allsmcap">MYSELF</span>: Is it a fearful bore to be a Queen?</p> + +<p><span class="allsmcap">THE QUEEN</span>: It depends what sort of a Queen you +are.</p> + +<p><span class="allsmcap">MYSELF</span>: But even a Queen like yourself? Don’t +you long sometimes to be able to get away from it +all, to be terribly simple, to have all sorts of adventures +which you can’t have now?</p> + +<p><span class="allsmcap">THE QUEEN</span> (nodding, a little sadly): There are +moods, of course. But I like being a Queen because +I glory in the fact that perhaps I am of some use.</p> + +<p>Here she paused, and said, with a smile: ‘You +know, I understand a great deal more about life<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> +than you might believe. If I had been Marie +Antoinette, <i>I</i> should never have asked why the +people could not eat cake. And you must not think +that because I am a Queen, my knowledge of life +and “adventure,” as you call it, is only gained from +novels. Do you know one of my chief regrets? It +is that I am not in a position to publish a novel which +would deal with life from every aspect.</p> + +<p>‘I said “publish,” not write. I could begin to +write it to-morrow, if I wanted, but when it came +out, everybody would say, “How can she know about +things like this? How can a woman who sits half +her life in her palace” (the last thing I ever do) “know +about the ways, the intrigues, the marriages, the +love-affairs, the sordid squabbles for money, that +are part of our daily lives?” And saying that, they +would reject my book in advance. But I <i>do</i> know,’ +(thumping her hand on the table), ‘I <i>do</i> know....</p> + +<p>‘Then,’ I asked her, ‘do you manage to write at +all? I mean, do you find any way of getting rid of +what one might call creative emotion?’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, yes. I write fairy stories. Nobody can accuse +me, in those, of knowing more than I ought to do.’ +She laughed. ‘Perhaps that does not quite express +my meaning, but you understand, don’t you? Fairy +love, fairy honour, fairy intrigue, fairy magic—in +those I express all the emotions which otherwise I +should be forced to keep to myself. And Roumania +is full of fairies! Really it is. Full to the brim. When +I first came out there, from England, I hardly understood +how deeply my people were versed in folk-lore, +how passionately real the little elves and spirits were +to every peasant on the hills. But I understand now,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> +and I, too, have caught something of that spirit.</p> + +<p>‘Do you know,’ she added suddenly, ‘that I have +written a fairy film? I wish you could see it. It’s +rather fascinating. It has a method of production +which I think is rather new. Some parts of it have +been undeveloped, so that you get the impression +of a moving <i>negative</i>. That is to say, all the figures +have white hair, white eyes, white clothes, dark +hands and faces, and all sorts of queer and very +attractive shadows. If you can imagine those figures +made very small (which is quite possible) and then +imagine them dancing in a sort of half-silhouette +over the crest of a hill ... can you?’</p> + +<p>She had spoken with such animation, such intense +interest, that her face was quite transfigured.</p> + +<p>A very remarkable woman, I thought, as she +drifted away to talk to somebody else. And largely +because, of all the Queens in Europe, she is the only +one who really dramatizes her position. She is, in +the best sense of the word, a <i>poseuse</i>, by which I mean +that she knows exactly how to present herself to the +public imagination. Realizing, as she does, that in +these days the Throne has to borrow a great deal of +thunder of the stage if it is to keep its position, and +that showmanship is half the craft of sovereignty, +she acts accordingly. All her gestures are studied ... sometimes +daring, sometimes startlingly ‘unconventional,’ +as her recent journalistic confessions +have amply shown.</p> + +<p>But they remain the gestures of a Queen.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c14">CHAPTER FOURTEEN</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">In which Sir William Orpen and Mrs. Elinor Glyn reveal<br> +their Souls</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">nd</span> now, on returning to London, I decided +that it was time to ‘become a journalist.’ So +many hundreds of otherwise sane young men have +made the same decision, without success, that it +really might be worth while to tell them just one +thing about it. They have such glorious dreams, at +Oxford, over a cigarette and a whisky and soda, of +writing palpitating articles for vast prices, that it is +only fair to disillusion them.</p> + +<p>The one thing which the embryo journalist must +realize is that mere writing is only one-quarter of +his equipment. He may be able to produce brilliant +articles, to star every page with epigrams, to compose +perorations that wring the heart, to evolve +leaders that would stir the Empire, and still not be a +successful journalist.</p> + +<p>He must certainly begin at the beginning. And to +do that he must have a hide of brass. Brass, I said. +No other substance is strong enough. He <i>must</i> ring +up irate Duchesses at midnight and ask them what +they think of bobbed hair. He must do it, at any +rate for a few months, for it is only right for him to +know how it feels. He <i>must</i> go to successful stockbrokers +and ask them what they think of the financial +situation. He <i>must</i> visit the Zoo and grovel about +in dirty cages to see if the latest lizard has laid an +egg, or if the latest elephant has recovered from its +pain. He must do it, even though it makes him feel +ill, even though he blushes over the telephone, is +terrified by elephants, and feels like hitting the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> +stockbroker fair and square on the chin. One day +he will be telling other people to do these things. +He cannot tell them unless he has done the things +himself.</p> + +<p>For—and this is the whole point of the matter—three-quarters +of modern journalism consists in +making other people say things, not in saying them +yourself. Do not hope, my young friend, that anybody +will pay any attention to <i>your</i> articles. You may +get them accepted from time to time, but unless you +are an overpowering genius you will not make much +of a living out of it.</p> + +<p>I could write a lot more on the subject but I +won’t. Nobody ever wants advice. It is enough to +say that in the August of 1922 I ‘got on’ to a paper.</p> + +<p>The first man I ever ‘interviewed’ was Sir William +Orpen. Really, one could hardly call it an ‘interview,’ +for it merely consisted in having tea with him, +eating quantities of very excellent cucumber sandwiches, +and smoking many cigarettes.</p> + +<p>After about the tenth sandwich, I said, ‘I have to +interview you, and I haven’t the vaguest idea how +to begin.’</p> + +<p>‘Have another sandwich.’</p> + +<p>‘I shall be sick.’</p> + +<p>‘That’s what they’re for. I don’t want to be interviewed.’</p> + +<p>‘But you said you would.’</p> + +<p>‘Did I? Well, fire away.’ (Pause.) ‘You’re a dud +sort of journalist, aren’t you? Where’s your notebook? +And your pencil that ought to leave indelible +ink stains all over your chin?’</p> + +<p>All this, to be appreciated, would have to be written<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> +musically. Orpen’s conversation, if one set it to +music, would be pitched in the alto clef, marked +‘prestissimo,’ and accompanied by a sort of Debussy +bass, intermittently striking weird gurgly sounds at +the most effective moment.</p> + +<p>It would also have to be played with an Irish +accent, if that were possible. The whole result, at any +rate, is very intriguing, especially as Orpen is practically +never serious, except when he is working. +And then he is a devil.</p> + +<p>How we ever really got to business I don’t know. +I thought ‘if all interviewing is like this it will be +very charming, and exceedingly fattening, because +it apparently necessitates the consumption, on the +part of the interviewer, of endless quantities of +cucumber sandwiches.’</p> + +<p>However, we did do it, and then he let me look at +some of his work. There was a picture of a woman +(one of the most amusing women in London) on the +easel, in a delightful greeny dress.</p> + +<p>‘How you must have loved painting that dress,’ I +said.</p> + +<p>‘Made her put it on.’</p> + +<p>‘Can you?’ And then ... ‘What would you do +if a woman with red hair came and sat for you in a +purple dress?’</p> + +<p>‘Make her take it off.’</p> + +<p>‘But supposing she wouldn’t?’</p> + +<p>‘Take it off myself. Or else show her the door. +Couldn’t paint that sort of thing. Give me heart +attack.’</p> + +<p>‘What ought red-haired women to wear, then?’</p> + +<p>‘Green, I should think. Depends on the hair.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> +Fair-haired women look fine in black. Dark women +can wear orange. Anything bright. All this is tripe +anyway. Not a dress designer. Could do it, though. +Might pay. Bright idea. Have another sandwich?’</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, it would be rather a bright idea +if a particularly enterprising dress designer were +to pay enormous fees to some artist with a name +to come for an hour a day, examine the faces and +figures of the clients, and say, ‘You ought to wear +mauve georgette,’ or ‘You would look wonderful +in jade-green something or other.’ Can you imagine +John doing it? Or Orpen? The latter would +probably say, ‘Wrap yourself up in a rug and go +home.’</p> + +<p>‘Look at this,’ said Orpen. It was the picture of +Lord Berkeley which was hung in that year’s +Academy, a brilliant, sparkling piece of work. +‘Nice splosh of colour. Yellow coat. Pink face. +Bits of blue. Came off pat. Not everything comes +like that.’</p> + +<p>It certainly didn’t. A friend of mine who has just +had his picture done by Orpen said that he painted +out the face eleven times before he was satisfied, and +then scratched the whole thing because he didn’t +like the pose.</p> + +<p>The next time I saw him—this time unofficially—was +just after the discovery of the tomb of Tut-ankh-Amen, +when the first photographs of the lovely +things inside were beginning to be published in the +English papers.</p> + +<p>He was standing underneath the great window in +his studio, stroking his chin and looking at a full +page of illustrations.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span></p> + +<p>‘My word,’ he said, when he saw me, ‘what an age +to have lived in! Look at that.’</p> + +<p>He pointed to the photograph of a lotos vase in +perfect condition. Even the reproduction in flat +grey colours gave one a thrill which one gets rarely +indeed to-day.</p> + +<p>‘Would you rather have lived with Tut-ankh-Amen +than now?’ I asked him.</p> + +<p>‘What questions you ask. Getting better though. +Didn’t do anything but eat cucumber sandwiches +when you first came. Never seen anybody eat so +many cucumber sandwiches. Disgusting. Would +I what? Rather have lived with Tut-ankh-Amen? +Sounds improper. Yes, I should. No other age so +stimulating. Lovely lines. <i>Lovely</i> lines. Just look +at it. Put your nose on it. Eat it.’</p> + +<p>And he himself devoured the picture with his own +eyes.</p> + +<p>We talked a lot about ages we should have liked +to live in. I stood up for Venice in the eighteenth +century, with Longy’s masks and his shadowy ladies +who eternally hold their fingers to their lips in dim +rooms overlooking some secret canal.</p> + +<p>‘M’yes. Longy’s all right. Damn fine costume. +Hides ugly legs. Can’t always live at fancy-dress +ball though. Jolly interesting to know if an age +<i>was</i> like what the painters tell us. Middle Ages, +now. Wish Renaissance painters hadn’t chosen so +many Church subjects. One Virgin very like another. +Beautiful, of course, but sick of ’em. Think if they’d +painted the life around them. Like Rembrandt.’</p> + +<p>He got up and started pacing round the room, the +alto clef of his voice deepening a little....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span></p> + +<p>‘Ever seen Rembrandt’s butcher’s shop? No? See +it. Beauty, beauty, beauty. All out of a lot of meat. +No, not out of that. Out of Rembrandt’s brain. +Doesn’t really matter a damn what age you live in +if you’ve got the goods. <i>There.</i>’ (Tapping his forehead.)</p> + +<p>I should think whatever age Orpen had lived in +he would have reflected life pretty brilliantly.</p> + +<p>‘Funny thing, you know,’ he added, taking up a +tube of ultramarine and sniffing it slightly, ‘how +one’s got to get away from an age quite a long way +before you can judge it purely æsthetically. Look at +Sargent’s picture of that woman, Lady What’s-her +name, with the big puffed-out sleeves. Painted in the +‘nineties. Damned fine painting. Damned ridiculous +dress. You say to yourself, “Lord, what a frump!” +In fifty years you’d just look upon it as a design. +Can’t do that yet. Funny. Earth of the earth, +earthy we are.’ (Pause.) ‘Got blue paint on nose. +Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’</p> + +<p>I left him sitting down on the hearthrug, underneath +a bright light, gazing at the photograph of the +vase which had once been Tut-ankh-Amen’s. I felt +quite romantic. ‘Perhaps,’ I said to myself, ‘one of +his incarnations had made that vase, and he is +seeing in it some of the beauty which he had once +realized, and forgotten, and lived again.’ Then I +remembered the paint on his nose, and laughed.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>There is nothing like variety, and journalism certainly +gives you that. Soon after the Orpen episode +I came in contact with Elinor Glyn, whom one never +seems to meet in England except on business.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span></p> + +<p>This lady’s appearance is so exactly like that of her +own heroines that one can hardly believe she has +not just stepped from between the covers of <i>Three +Weeks</i>. I really have no idea of how I ever was admitted +to the presence, for Elinor Glyn has a very +good knowledge of the commercial value of her +utterances, and is usually so hedged round with +Press agents, publishers and literary agents, all +waiting to see that her emotions are duly registered, +collected, and sold, that there is little chance of +gathering anything for nothing. I do not blame +Elinor for it. If I had her reputation, I would not +express an opinion even on the English climate +without demanding a fee, payable in advance.</p> + +<p>However, I found myself, one dreary afternoon, in +her flat overlooking the Chelsea Embankment. This +flat, with two exceptions, contained nothing of the +atmosphere which she herself carries with her.</p> + +<p>One felt quite sweet and simple in it. A few books, +a few rather dull pictures, and an exceedingly upright +piano. The two exceptions were, firstly a tiger +skin, draped ‘negligently’ over the sofa, and secondly +a pile of cushions, purple and mauve and black. +When I saw these, I thrilled. I felt sure that when +the authoress entered the room she would leap on to +the cushions and begin to talk about life in a hoarse, +strangled voice. She entered the room, but she made +no sort of attempt to lie on the cushions. On the +contrary, she sat straight and still, looked me full in +the face, and said, ‘Who arranged this?’</p> + +<p>I told her that I had not the faintest idea.</p> + +<p>She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I never give interviews. +Still, I suppose it’s all right.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p> + +<p>Silence. How deadly a silence can be. Then suddenly, +with a charming smile:</p> + +<p>‘The most terrible people come to see me sometimes. +People who ask abominable questions, and look at +me as though I were in a cage. You don’t appear to +do that.’</p> + +<p>This interview was turning out to be completely +different from anything that I had anticipated. I +had come prepared to listen to views on the modern +girl, and instead I was treated to a searching cross-examination. +Where was my father? Where did I +live? I found myself lured by the fascination of +those green eyes and orange hair. Suddenly she +turned to me and said:</p> + +<p>‘Do you believe in re-incarnation?’</p> + +<p>I gave an evasive answer.</p> + +<p>‘You should do. You, æons ago, were a horse.’</p> + +<p>She may not have used these precise words, but +she definitely stated that if my family were traced +back sufficiently far, it would eventually prove to be +equine in origin.</p> + +<p>‘And I,’ she added, ‘come from some cat tribe. +Don’t laugh.’</p> + +<p>She smiled herself, but I think she was serious, +for she added: ‘The English people completely +misunderstand me. They only know things like +<i>Three Weeks</i> and <i>The Visits of Elizabeth</i>. They +think of me only as a foolish, sentimental, rather +sensual woman. They’re blind to the philosophy in +me. However—who cares? And anyway, we must +get to business. Now what do you want to talk +about?’</p> + +<p>I gave her a cue—something on the lines of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span> +eternal modern girl, and as soon as she heard that +phrase her nostrils quivered, her eyes glared like +lamps, her backbone seemed to stiffen like that of a +cat on the offensive. And she looked extraordinarily +beautiful.</p> + +<p>‘Women to-day,’ she said, ‘are revolting men’s +senses. Look at me. Do <i>I</i> slouch into the room, +with a guilty look, as though I had not been to bed +all night? Do <i>I</i> take out a lip stick and slash it over +my mouth without caring where it goes? Do <i>I</i> daub +powder all over my nose until it looks a totally +different colour from the rest of my face?’</p> + +<p>I answered her that, in our brief but entrancing +acquaintance, she had done none of these things.</p> + +<p>‘Look at my hands.’ With a gesture of scorn she +held out five very white and exquisite fingers. +‘Are <i>my</i> hands yellow and horrible through incessantly +smoking bad cigarettes?’ She leant forward +and showed her teeth, looking like some furious +goddess. ‘Are <i>my</i> teeth stained, for the same reason? +I ask you? No, they are not.’</p> + +<p>She relaxed, but she still looked very grim. ‘I +can’t bear it,’ she said, ‘this abominable slackness. +If I saw my daughters slouching through life like +that, I should shoot either myself or them. It is +worse in England than anywhere else.’</p> + +<p>And then she began to talk about America. ‘Perfect +dentistry, perfect knowledge of hygiene, and a +universal common sense had made the American +girl the most wonderful type in the world to-day.’ +I could see that she adored America....</p> + +<p>She said dozens of other things, but I forget them. +And one cannot really write about Elinor Glyn, so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span> +that I shall stop here and now, leaving this thumbnail +sketch as it stands.</p> + +<p>I liked her enormously. If there was ever any +occasion on which I found myself forced to use that +nauseating word ‘queenly,’ it would be now. She +<i>is</i> ‘queenly.’ She ought to have been born on some +dark evening when Balkan thrones were tottering +like scenes on the back-cloths of our less draughty +London theatres. She ought to have been hustled +over the waters of the Ishky-Repoka by faithful +nurses, while grizzled prime ministers faced bloody +men who demanded a new régime. She ought to +have grown up among surroundings of crêpe and +asphodels. And then, one day, she ought to have +returned in a golden chariot, driven towards a beflagged +palace, walked slowly down immense corridors, +stood on a throne and started a world-war in a +girlish caprice.</p> + +<p>It seems a great pity that such a fiery personality +should have caused only ink, and not blood, to flow.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c15">CHAPTER FIFTEEN</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Concerning Two Artists in a Different Sphere</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap1">I</span> <span class="smcap">have</span> always been puzzled by the universal tendency +of democratic communities to attach the +most revolting vices to those whom they have chosen +to govern them. It is considered a matter of course +that the King’s Speech should be composed by men +in the last stages of delirium tremens. And the +majority of Cabinet Ministers are, of course, devotees +of such diversions as unnatural vice, unless their +fingers are perpetually itching to get at a hypodermic +syringe. As an entertainment, one can spend +many elevating hours by fixing particular vices to +particular ministers, saying, for instance, that +President Wilson used to beat his wife, or that +Clemenceau had a morning bath of cocaine (which +would still not account for his extraordinary vitality). +But when one remembers that these libels are +uttered with equal assurance by members of every +party in the State, the consequent reflection on representative +government is not a pleasing one.</p> + +<p>Artists are a little luckier than politicians. It is +taken for granted, by the great public, that they +<i>must</i> be immoral, being artists, and their immoralities +are not therefore discussed with the same relish. +Instead, it is merely asserted that they are mad, a +statement which does no harm to anybody.</p> + +<p>I wish I could meet these mad artists. Time and +again I have been disappointed, and found, instead +of straws in the hair, brilliantine, and instead of a +foaming mouth, lips pursed in eminently sane and +complacent judgment on mankind.</p> + +<p>Even when there is some apparent foundation for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> +the stories, they are always grossly exaggerated. +Pachmann, for example. The most astounding tales +are constantly narrated about this great little man, +how he crawls under the piano in a gibbering search +for Chopin, how he is taken from a padded cell and +led to the piano by a keeper. Nonsense—or so I +judged when, not long before leaving London, I +had the pleasure of meeting him.</p> + +<p>I had not seen Pachmann since, as a small and evil +child, I had once untied his bootlaces under my +aunt’s piano, on which he used often to perform. +His behaviour on that occasion might possibly have +strengthened the mad legend, but on our second +meeting, though one realized his behaviour was a +little odd, nobody but a fool would have thought +him mad. Nobody but a fool, indeed, would have +failed to be absolutely charmed by his dainty little +mannerisms. He danced round the room like some +grey-haired Puck, waving his long white fingers on +which glittered two beautiful diamond rings. He +was always talking nineteen to the dozen, and never +finished a sentence. Words seemed too clumsy for +him and he would flick his fingers to convey the +sense he wanted.</p> + +<p>How we laughed and talked! He turned everything +to music, even his wine. He held up a glass of +champagne to the light, pointing at it and saying—‘Bubbles! +Golden, sparkling bubbles! I show you.’ +And before one could rise to stop him, he had rushed +into the darkness of the next room, seated himself at +the piano, and played, with magical perfection, a +shimmering treble passage from Chopin’s Third +Scherzo. After which the champagne tasted quite flat.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span></p> + +<p>He told me, after dinner, about one of his early +love-affairs, in Poland.</p> + +<p>‘It was at —’ (some unpronounceable place) he +said. ‘There was, in the same house as myself, a +plump and lovely maiden, oh, so beautiful! I fell +in love with her a great deal, and one day I arrange +a rendezvous. But I forget all about the rendezvous, +because I discover a cupboard in which the lady of +the house keeps a beautiful collection of jams—I +eat the jams and I forget my Louisa. Soon Louisa, +she comes into the room and says—“For why have +you jilted me? Do you not love me any more?” I +take out a plum, and I eat it, and I look at her, and +I say, “I love you, Louisa. But I love the jams still +better.”’</p> + +<p>We went into the room which contained his piano, +and after a lot more prancing about he suddenly +turned to me and said:</p> + +<p>‘Do you know why I like you?’</p> + +<p>I certainly had no idea.</p> + +<p>‘Because,’ said Pachmann, ‘you do not ask me to +play the piano.’</p> + +<p>It would never have occurred to me to do so. But +one has to observe that the criminal habit of asking +artists out to dine and then expecting them to pay for +half-cold entrées by playing or singing, is still quite +common, even among otherwise civilized hostesses. +Dame Nellie Melba told me that when she first went +to New York it was almost unknown for any mere +singer to be asked out to dine in any other than a +professional capacity. She, of course, had already +become almost a royal personage in London, but in +New York she was regarded merely as a ‘singing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> +actress.’ And when, one night, she went to dine +with one of the Four Hundred (whatever that absurd +phrase means) all the guests whispered: +‘What’s she going to sing?’</p> + +<p>‘She isn’t going to sing anything at all,’ said her +host.</p> + +<p>‘Not going to sing?’</p> + +<p>They simply could not understand that a <i>prima +donna</i> could have any place in society other than +that of a <i>prima donna</i>.</p> + +<p>All of which is a digression from Pachmann. As +soon as he had made the remark about not being +asked to play, he sat down at the piano and said:</p> + +<p>‘As a reward I shall play you some Chopin. And +I shall play it in two ways. First my old method. +Secondly my new.’</p> + +<p>He played one of the Chopin Études—not one of +the best, but still a very lovely thing. ‘That,’ he said, +when he had finished, ‘is the old way. Now listen +to the new.’</p> + +<p>He played it again. I confess that I did not notice +much difference. Both were exquisitely played, both +had the Pachmann magic, which no other Chopin +player has ever been able to find. But that there +actually was an astounding difference of technique +was demonstrated when, in detail, he played over the +first dozen bars. The fingering had been entirely +changed, not only in the right hand but in the left.</p> + +<p>‘That,’ he cried triumphantly, ‘is the greatest +effort of my life. Nobody but Pachmann could have +done that.’</p> + +<p>He certainly spoke the truth, for nobody but Pachmann +could, at his advanced age, have sat down and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> +unlearnt all they had previously learnt, and undertaken +the colossal labour of refingering the works of +Chopin. It is always more difficult to revise than to +attack a thing for the first time, and after sixty, most +men would have shuddered at the very thought of it.</p> + +<p>Dear Pachmann! I don’t think he was very happy +in London, although he adored English audiences. +London fogs and London smoke stifled him. ‘I +look out of the window in the morning,’ he said, as +I bade him good-bye, ‘and I weep. And the sky +weeps too. And we both weep together. And then, +I go and play Chopin, and I weep no more, and the +sun shines.’</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>What dragons they do give the young men of Fleet +Street to slay! I heard of one rather timid and bespectacled +youth (not in Carmelite House) who had +had literary leanings at Cambridge and decided that +he would be a writer. He got a job as a reporter on +one of the big papers, and the first thing they sent +him to do was to ask as many members of the House +of Lords as possible what they thought of kissing +under the mistletoe. Sick at heart, he departed on +his ignoble task, and after sitting for nearly two +hours in the corridor that leads to the House of +Lords, he summoned up the courage to approach a +gentleman who looked harmless enough but who +turned out to be the Marquess of Salisbury. He did +not get the answer he expected, but the answer he +did get sent him rushing down the corridor, terrified, +into the open street.</p> + +<p>But one does have to ask such very peculiar questions. +I once, right at the beginning, was told to go<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> +and ask Carpentier if he found it a bore to be so +good-looking. A very delicate subject, because it +meant asking the complementary question, Would +he have liked to be ugly? And one was hearing a +great deal, at that time, of Carpentier’s straight left.</p> + +<p>Fortunately I knew one of Carpentier’s best +friends, so I routed him out, and he very kindly +gave me a letter, in which he first asked ‘Georges’ to +lunch, and then, as a pendant, told him what the +bearer of the note desired.</p> + +<p>Carpentier was acting in some film or other, and I +had to go out to North London to catch him at the +studio. After waiting for nearly half an hour in a +superbly gilt room, I was led through various passages +into the main studio, which rather resembled a +huge barn, with a pond in the centre, from which +Carpentier had just rescued some maiden who was +dripping by the fire. He himself was sitting, an +agreeable-looking giant, on the edge of the pond, +clad in one of those dressing-gowns which tempt +young men in the Burlington Arcade, of purple silk +shot with yellow flowers. All round about were +supers, and men with lamps, and men with megaphones, +and everybody seemed in a very bad temper. +Carpentier beckoned me to sit by his side.</p> + +<p>As soon as I did so, and presented my note, I was +acutely conscious that I was about to ask the heavyweight +champion of Europe a very delicate question, +and that I was sitting on the edge of a cold and +damp pond, into which a comparatively gentle push +would easily have precipitated me. The pond looked +so exceedingly wet that I was on the point of changing +the interview altogether, and asking him some dull<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span> +question about his views on boxing when he turned +and, speaking in French, asked me what I wanted.</p> + +<p>I told him. Very badly, too.</p> + +<p>‘Comment?’</p> + +<p>Edging slightly away, I repeated the question. +‘Did he think good looks were a blessing?’</p> + +<p>‘Comprends pas,’ said Carpentier.</p> + +<p>This was terrible. In a very loud voice I said, +‘Would he rather have been born “vilain”?’</p> + +<p>Now ‘vilain’ was quite the wrong word to use, +because it applies more to the character than to the +face. I knew that perfectly well, and as soon as I +had said it, realized my mistake. Now, I thought, +for the pond! Let’s get it over.</p> + +<p>‘Vilain?’ said Carpentier. And then he laughed. +Laughed loud and long. So did I. And when he +had finished, I at last managed to convey to him +exactly what I really did want.</p> + +<p>He was extraordinarily amusing. He told me that +he was bored silly by the number of females who +fell in love with him. As soon as he arrived in +England, showers of letters, literally hundreds by +each mail, descended on him, some with photographs, +some without, some written in terms of +passionate adoration, some phrased more discreetly. +They did not stop at letters, they spoke to him in +the street, they lined up outside the studio. ‘Dames +de société,’ he said, had implored Mr. Stuart Blackton, +the producer, that they should be allowed even +the smallest walking-on part in the film in order +that they might be near their god. All of which, he +said, with a charming little shrug of the shoulders, +was most tiresome.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span></p> + +<p>‘You see,’ he said, ‘I am married. I have my wife +and I have my little daughter. Such things do not +amuse me as perhaps—once—’ and he smiled in a +manner which Noel Coward would describe as +winsome.</p> + +<p>‘But ugly? Oh no. I do not wish to be ugly.’</p> + +<p>He drew in a deep breath, and stretched out his +arms—so that the dressing-gown slipped down, +revealing the figure which had been the cause of all +the trouble. A very beautiful creature, I thought. +Bodily, not facially. His face is really, when you +see it close to, rather coarse. A very thick nose, +caused, I suppose, by a bash on it, and a not very +imposing forehead. (You see, I am a long way from +the pond at the time of writing.) The time he looks +best is when he smiles—and that is very often.</p> + +<p>I think that Carpentier was quite flattered by his +social success, in fact I am sure he was, for he mentioned, +rather ingenuously, some places where he +had been to parties. It would be interesting to know +who was responsible for this, but after all, it was only +natural, for everybody wanted him. But he was not +always easy to get. For instance, a certain good lady +who lives in Arlington Street was giving a party, +and was threatened with high blood pressure +because she could not get Carpentier. There +arrived on the scene an old friend (older than he +would like to be thought), who said that he would +arrange it. I cannot tell you his name, but he is the +original of Mr. Cherrey-Marvel in Michael Arlen’s +<i>The Green Hat</i>. He rushed round London, first to +the studio, then to an hotel, then to another hotel, +and finally routed out Carpentier just as he was on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> +the point of going to bed. Carpentier said he would +not come, because he did not want to dress. ‘Don’t +dress then,’ said Cherrey-Marvel, ‘but come.’</p> + +<p>‘Would it be <i>comme il faut</i> to come, without even +putting on a smoking?’</p> + +<p>‘Anything would be <i>comme il faut</i> that you did,’ +said Cherrey-Marvel.</p> + +<p>And so he went to the party in a lounge suit, and +was an enormous success. ‘He gives one such a thrill, +doesn’t he, my dear?’ they all said. I expect he would +have given them an even greater thrill if he had +come in his little blue shorts.</p> + +<p>A very charming, unspoilt, simple creature—that +was my impression of Carpentier on my first talk +with him, and I have not had occasion to alter it +since.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c16">CHAPTER SIXTEEN</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Hanged by the Neck</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">n</span> February, 1923, I attended the famous trial of +Edith Thompson and Fred Bywaters, which +created a sensation in England keener than any +which had been felt since the Crippen case.</p> + +<p>The first part I had to play in it was to go out, one +wet, dreary evening, to North London, to try to +persuade Grayson, the father of the murderess on +trial, to give me the story of her life. All the other +newspapers were on the same job, and it was with a +feeling of dismay and depression that I walked +down the long sad crescent that led to the Graysons’ +house, pushed open the rusty little gate, and rang +the bell.</p> + +<p>The door opened, and the pale face of a little oldish +man appeared. He was crying.</p> + +<p>‘Mr. Nichols?’ he said in a voice that was half a +whisper.</p> + +<p>I nodded.</p> + +<p>With a weary gesture he motioned me in. I found +myself in a little parlour, neatly kept. It was lit by +incandescent gas, which bubbled and fizzled, and +cast green shadows in the corners. A little china +sparkled on the mantelpiece. There was no fire and +the room was very cold.</p> + +<p>We sat down. It was all like a nightmare. I could +say nothing. He could say nothing. And then his +son appeared in the doorway—pale and distracted. +Somehow the presence of a third person made it +easier, and, rousing myself, I tried to put, as gently +as I could, the nature of my request.</p> + +<p>He shook his head. It was impossible. All the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> +papers had been there. They had not had a minute’s +peace. They could tell them nothing. I passed that +over, talking, talking—anything to prevent him +again giving way to his grief. And, by and by, he +seemed to cheer up a little.</p> + +<p>Then, suddenly, without any warning, he threw +out his hands, and cried in a broken voice ... ‘To +think that this should happen to <i>us</i>!’</p> + +<p>It was the universal cry of humanity. Why should +it happen to <i>us</i>? There were five hundred little +houses, all exactly alike, in this desolate crescent. +There were five thousand equally desolate crescents +in London. Why had God picked out <i>this</i> one little +house out of so many?</p> + +<p>The scene passes to the Old Bailey, on which the +eyes of all England at this time were centred.</p> + +<p>The first sight one has of the Principal Court of +Justice at the Old Bailey is not awe-inspiring. It is, +of course, a completely modern building, with an +air about it which makes it look as though it were +designed for a cheerful lecture room at Cambridge. +The light wood and plaster, the glass roof, the sunlight +that floods the whole place—nothing here to +promote any morbid speculation.</p> + +<p>But as the court fills, as one by one the barristers +take their places at the long tables, as the back +benches are occupied by the usual array of stupid +women hung with false pearls, as the Judge and jury +file into place, and as, finally, the prisoner is led into +the dock, then all this cheerfulness, this matter-of-fact +atmosphere, this clean, modern feeling, becomes +far more horrible than if the trial were conducted +in a vault by black inquisitors under candlelight.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> +For in this place, tragedy is made ridiculous. The +mask of pain is moulded into a grotesque. It is +almost as though an operation for life or death were +taking place before one’s eyes, without any anæsthetic. +Rather be tried before a howling mob, and +bundled straight off in a tumbril to the guillotine, +than be brought up to this clean, wholesome room, +like a young man undergoing a <i>viva voce</i>, in which +failure means hanging by the neck.</p> + +<p>The court was already packed to suffocation, and I +sat down. Five minutes to ten. In a few moments +the curtain would rise on the biggest tragedy of +1922. And yet, what was the mood of the audience? +Pleasant, amused expectation apparently. From behind +me came a whiff of cheap scent and the light +chatter of many tongues. Looking up into the gallery +one could see the fatuous faces of young girls, wearing +the sort of expression you see before the lights +go down at a cinema. One of them had a box of +chocolates laid on the ledge in front of her, and from +time to time she pushed it towards a young man by +her side. Standing in the group by the door was a +very bad and very popular actor, bowing ceremoniously +to the scented ladies. The only people +who looked at all serious were the police, and one +felt that they were serious only because they had +duties to perform.</p> + +<p>Ten o’clock. The curtain rises. I shut my eyes. +There is a mumble of voices, a shuffling of feet, a +rustle of papers. Silence. I open my eyes again to +find that the ‘female prisoner’ is already in the dock, +and that the play has begun.</p> + +<p>Look at her, this ‘female prisoner.’ Look at her,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> +this Edith Thompson, <i>née</i> Grayson, who has spent +twenty-eight passionate, unhappy years on this +earth, and is now being sent to eternal darkness. (I +am drifting irresistibly into the style of Carlyle, but +I can’t help it.) A lovely creature, one would say. +A neck like the stem of a flower, and a face equally +flower-like. So very white, with the pallor of old +lilies carved in ivory. So very tired, as though no +longer could that one head support the burden of so +much pain.</p> + +<p>Oh yes. I know that she is a murderess. I know +that she is an adulteress. That foully, and with +felonious intent, she did, on divers occasions attempt +to do to death an honest and an upright man. I +know all that, and a good deal more besides. But I +also know that my heart is wrung with pity.</p> + +<p>A man with a red face is cross-examining her. He +leans forward, and reads from a letter in his hand. +It is one of those amazing love-letters which this +strange creature had sent from her dingy suburb to +her boy lover.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p><i>Your love to me Is new, it is something different, it +is my life, and if things should go badly with us, I +shall always have this past year to look back upon and +feel that ‘then I lived.’ I never did before and never +shall again.</i></p> + +<p><i>Darlingest lover, what happened last night? I don’t +know myself, I only know how I felt—no, not really +how I felt, but how I could feel—if time and place +or circumstances were different.</i></p> + +<p><i>It seems like a great welling up of love, of feeling, +of inertia, just as if I am wax in your hands to do<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> +with as you will, and I feel that if you do as you wish +I shall be happy. I can’t really describe it—but you +will understand, darlint, won’t you? You said you +knew it would be like this one day—if it hadn’t would +you have been disappointed?</i></p> +</div> + +<p>And again, when he was far away:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p><i>I’ve nothing to talk about, darlint, not a tiny little +thing. Life—the life I and we lead is gradually +drawing near. Soon, I’ll be like the Sahara—just a +desert ‘Shulamite.’ You must read that book—it’s interesting, +absorbing. Aren’t books a consolation and +a solace? We ourselves die and live in the books we +read while we are reading them, and when we have +finished, the books die and we live or exist. Just drag +on thro’ years and years until when? Who knows? +I’m beginning to think no one does—not even you +and I. We are not the shapers of our destiny. I will +always love you, darlint.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>I found myself longing for their escape, planning +for it, wondering if by some miracle it could not be +brought about. The main well of the court is surmounted +by a glass roof. If only, I thought, some +friend could land on that roof in an aeroplane, shatter +the glass with a single blow, throw down a rope to +the two tortured creatures in the dock, and pull +them up, up, out of this hell into the clean air above. +If only there would be an earthquake to rend the +walls, so that this gloating crowd would rush away +affrighted, and leave the lovers to themselves. If +only there would be an utter darkness, to cover all +this shame, and set us free. Bad reasoning of course, +on my part. Bad sociology. Bad law. Justice has to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> +be done, and all that sort of thing. But I defy any +sensitive person to sit through a long trial of this +description, to see a beautiful woman and a strong +young man slowly done to death, without siding, +heart and soul, with the accused.</p> + +<p>During the whole of that tragic trial, through gloom +to deepening gloom, I was in constant touch with the +Grayson family. As I saw more of them, I marvelled +that so utterly commonplace and kindly a +group of individuals should have, as one of their +members, the complex, passionate character of +Edith Thompson. The mother I hardly recollect, +save as a little, broken woman in black, whose hand +was always to her eyes and who walked with uncertain +steps, as though stumbling in darkness. But +there was a sister whom I often saw. She seemed to +have more control over herself than any other member +of the family. She was cool, almost dominating, +in the witness-box, and in her own home she was the +one who assumed the chief burden of work and +responsibility. A brother, too, I remember, with a +face drained of all colour and eyes red with secret +weeping. As for Grayson himself, he was just +stunned. There is no other word which adequately +describes his slow, mumbling speech, his downcast +eyes, his dumb look of pain.</p> + +<p>At three o’clock on Saturday afternoon during the +trial, I used to meet Grayson as he came out of +Holloway Prison. Do you know Holloway Prison? +It is of all places the most dreary and forlorn. It lies +at the end of the long and dismal Caledonian Road +in North London. It has no colour save the faded +advertisement hoardings which peel from the dirty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> +walls, no animation but for the noisy trams that +rattle down the end of the street, and the cries of +pale children playing in the gutter.</p> + +<p>The prison itself is built of grey stone, like a fortress. +It has narrow windows and high walls. Over +the whole pile broods an air of monstrous cruelty and +strength, from the rusted spikes that guard the outer +wall’s summits to the heavy gates that shut out its +inmates from the world. I would stand watching +these gates for five minutes, ten minutes, half an +hour, and then they would swing slowly open and +through them would emerge the little sombre procession, +Grayson, the brother—sometimes the sister +and the mother as well.</p> + +<p>Silently I would join them and walk with them +down the road, while the trams rattled by, and the +newsboys shouted out the latest details of the case, +and lovers jostled us, arm-in-arm. And then the +cross-examination would begin.</p> + +<p>‘How was she?’</p> + +<p>‘She was better. Brighter.’</p> + +<p>‘Were you allowed to go into her room?’</p> + +<p>‘No. They put a table across the door. We spoke +to her over that. We stood in the corridor. There +was a warder by her side.’</p> + +<p>‘What was she wearing?’</p> + +<p>‘A dressing-gown. You see, she’s been in bed. +Ill. Very ill. Exhausted, they say. Still, she was +better, and she has been reading.’</p> + +<p>‘What books has she been reading?’</p> + +<p>‘Dickens, she told us. She said that she wanted life +and comedy, and Dickens gave her that. Full-blooded +life—that was the word she used.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span></p> + +<p>‘Did she say anything about—him?’</p> + +<p>‘Him?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. Bywaters?’</p> + +<p>‘No. His name never crossed her lips. She asked +about her appeal, and she seemed quite hopeful +about it. And then—she began to remember +things.’</p> + +<p>‘Remember things?’</p> + +<p>‘Yes. Last Christmas for example. She said, “Do +you remember the party we had last Christmas? And +all the presents I had? And the crackers? And the +Christmas tree?”’</p> + +<p>And then I would shake them by the hand, and +wish them good cheer, and say that I was sure the +appeal would turn out right—anything to take away +that look of tragedy from their eyes. They would +brighten, perhaps, for a moment, and then the mask +would fall over their faces again, as they turned +away, and went down the windy street.</p> + +<p>The most horrible meeting of all, as far as I was +concerned, was on the day after she had been hanged. +I was in the office, writing some ridiculous account of +an agricultural exhibition, when word was brought +that Grayson wished to see me.</p> + +<p>It was the most difficult thing I have ever had to +do. I found him sitting in the waiting-room, under +a glaring electric light. Standing by his side, with +one hand on his shoulder, was the son. We looked +at each other in silence. What was there to say? +What language was ever invented which could +possibly be fitted to an occasion so forlorn?</p> + +<p>Eventually we did speak—or rather, I spoke. +‘Bit knocked up,’ was all he could say. ‘Bit knocked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> +up.’ Over and over again, like a child repeating a +lesson it had learnt and did not understand. I told +him that they must all go away to the country, to +the sea, anywhere, as long as they were away from +prying eyes, from the memory of the dead.</p> + +<p>He went out. ‘Bit knocked up,’ he said again, and +that was the last I heard of him.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c17">CHAPTER SEVENTEEN</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Two Plain and One Coloured</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">Q</span><span class="smcap">uite</span> the most amusing person I met at about +this time was H. L. Mencken, whose books +<i>Prejudices</i> so perfectly describe the particular standpoint +in art which he has adopted. We met, as far as +I remember, at some party or other at the Café +Royal, but as it was impossible to talk in that establishment, +under the distracting influence of Epsteins, +Augustus Johns, Laverys and successive glasses of +absinthe, we arranged to meet the next morning at +his hotel. ‘And then I’ll give you something that’ll +wake you up.’</p> + +<p>He did. And it did. When I called on him he was +tramping backwards and forwards in his rooms, +making a strange spluttering noise with his lips that +suggested a large and angry bird stalking round its +cage. After refusing the inevitable double whisky +which Americans apparently seem to consider an +hourly necessity for Englishmen, I asked him what +was the matter.</p> + +<p>‘Matter?’ Again the spluttering noise, this time a +little louder. ‘I’ve just been looking at London. +What the devil are you doing to it? Do you want to +make it another New York? A filthy sky-scraper in +the Strand, half the most exquisite buildings being +scrapped and thrown on to the muck heap, and +obscene advertising signs that are as bad as anything +we’ve got on Broadway.’</p> + +<p>Splutter, splutter, splutter.</p> + +<p>I thought it would be a good idea to ask him what +he would do if he were suddenly given despotic +powers over the reconstruction of London.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span></p> + +<p>‘The first thing I’d do,’ he said, lighting a cigar +with a sort of aggressive courage that reminded one +of firing a torpedo, ‘would be to hang every mother’s +son of an architect who was polluting one of the +world’s best cities. And when they were dangling +high and dry, I’d go out with a packet of dynamite, +blow up all the monstrosities in Regent Street, get +hold of Nash’s old plans, and slave-drive a few thousand +British navvies until we’d got the thing back as +it used to be—superb crescent, full of grace and +beauty.’</p> + +<p>Splutter, splutter, splutter.</p> + +<p>He resumed his perambulation round the room. +‘Then I’d invent a whole lot of brand-new tortures +for any hulking Philistine of a manufacturer who +started writing his blasted name on God’s sky at +night. Piccadilly Circus nowadays is an eyesore. +It’s bad enough in Broadway. But you can at least +say there that the vast scale on which the signs are +put up, the enormous size of the whole thing, does +at least leave a certain feeling of awe on one’s mind. +Disgust too, but at least, <i>big</i>. Whereas in Piccadilly +you’ve got a lot of footling little electric squares and +circles, a yellow baby spitting fire, an undersized +motor squiggling its wheels, a God-forsaken bottle +pouring red liquid into a glass so damned small that +it wouldn’t make me tight if I drank out of it all +night. Take ’em away!’ (Splutter, splutter.) ‘Take +’em away! You’re killing London!’</p> + +<p>I think I have got in most of his adjectives. His +conversation was also scattered with a good many +examples of that word which Bernard Shaw employed +with such effect in <i>Pygmalion</i>. These I have omitted.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span></p> + +<p>He went on for some time in this strain, until I +felt it time to point out to him that at least we were +putting up a few new buildings that were quite +worthy to stand by the old ones.</p> + +<p>‘Show ’em to me!’ (Splutter, splutter.) ‘Take me +along to see ’em. I’ll stand you drinks for a month +if what you say is true.’</p> + +<p>‘Well, there’s the new L.C.C. building on the other +side of the Thames. Knott’s the architect. One of +the biggest buildings of its kind in the world, and +one of the most beautiful.’</p> + +<p>He looked at me despairingly. ‘Oh, you ought to +have been an American if you say a monstrosity like +that’s beautiful. I looked at it yesterday, and I spat +in the Thames to show my contempt of it.’</p> + +<p>‘But the line of it is perfect—the proportions are +admirable....’</p> + +<p>‘Perfect rot. For one thing, what on earth induced +the fool who built it to stick a hulking great red roof +on top of it? All down that side of the Thames is +grey. Grey old buildings, peering out of the mist, +like veiled faces, tumble-down old ruins, wharfs, +docks, bridges, grey, all grey. And then this fool +comes along and sticks up a blasted Noah’s Ark, +covered with pillars and crowned with this futile +roof. What’s the good of that?’</p> + +<p>I told him that if he were a real Londoner, he +might not be so angry at the sight of an occasional +touch of colour. He might not be so keen on his +universal touch of grey if he had to live in it for ever. +He might, if he had to cross the Thames day by day, +year by year, come to welcome that red roof, sparkling +across the grey water, and bringing even into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> +the dullest days a glow of cheerfulness, as of reflected +sunshine.</p> + +<p>But he would have none of it. The roof should +have been grey, and that was an end to the matter. +I understood then why he had written three books +called <i>Prejudices</i>.</p> + +<p>None the less, a charming man, who is more American +than he would care to think, for all his constant +nagging at his own country. I said something +vaguely derogatory of a certain section of American +opinion, and he was down on me like a shot. I liked +him best at that moment.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>One of the most tiresome things I ever had to do +was—Rudolf Valentino.</p> + +<p>It was only after hours of ringing up and fixing +appointments, over which more trouble was spent +than if he had been an Arch-Duchess, that I eventually +was told I could see him one morning at ten +o’clock at the Carlton Hotel. The Carlton Hotel, +in fact any hotel, is sufficiently depressing at ten +o’clock in the morning, and when I discovered that +Valentino, instead of giving a private appointment, +was standing in the centre of a circle of admiring +females, telling them, I should imagine, a lot of nonsense, +I felt like going straight away and leaving him +to his own devices.</p> + +<p>However, after a time, I got him into a corner, and +by carrying on the conversation in atrocious French, +kept the subject of most our remarks a secret +from 50 per cent of the said females. Unfortunately +there proved to be nothing to keep secret. ‘Did he +get many letters?’ ‘Yes, he got three thousand a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> +week.’ ‘Were there many letters from adorers?’ +‘They all adored him.’ ‘What sort of letters?’ ‘He +never read them.’ And so on. He could say nothing +as to whether he was elated by his success, he had no +sort of theories, not even bad ones, on the film as a +medium of art, and he was without a spark of humour +in his composition. This is the most adored man +throughout two continents.</p> + +<p>The only subjects in which he seemed to be at all +interested were, firstly, his own photographs, and +secondly, clothes. Of photographs there were literally +hundreds, lying scattered all over the room. +He pointed to a pile and said, ‘These go off by the +next mail.’ Surely he saw some romance in that? +I tried to get him to understand the thrill that most +people would have at the thought of their own faces +smiling down from ten thousand London mantelpieces +and bringing, presumably, a disturbing +ecstasy into the hearts of ten thousand maidens. He +merely looked blankly at me and said he supposed +it was good publicity.</p> + +<p>But when it came to discussing the photographs +themselves it was a very different matter. Did I like +this one looking down, or did I prefer the one looking +up? Would the chin be a little better if it were +switched round more to the right, and did I not +think that the eyes had come out beautifully in that +one? Yes, I said, the chin <i>was</i> nicely switched, and +the eyes <i>had</i> come out beautifully. Upon which he +brightened considerably, and offered me a photograph +for myself, which I declined.</p> + +<p>The only thing we had in common appeared to be +a tailor. He asked me if I had heard of any good<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> +tailors (not if I <i>went</i> to a good one, a rather intriguing +difference) and I told him that I always went to a +certain place, which made clothes that appeared to +fit, and also gave one as much credit as anybody +could reasonably desire. ‘Why, that’s where I’m +going myself,’ he said. ‘How extraordinary.’</p> + +<p>He certainly did know a great deal about clothes, +as I discovered later when a man from the firm in +question called on me one morning with some new +and demoralizing stuffs from Paris. He had just +finished cutting three new double-breasted grey +flannel suits for Valentino, and had evidently met a +kindred spirit.</p> + +<p>I should imagine that half Valentino’s success (once +one has acknowledged the purely sensual attraction +of his face and his shapely limbs) came from his +wife. A very beautiful creature, I thought her, with +a vivacity and a sparkle that Valentino will never +have.</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>Of caricaturists there are legion, but I never met +one even vaguely resembling the genius that is +‘Sem.’ Sem is, of course, famous all over France, +and in a good many other countries as well. Queens +of every description have screamed when they opened +his portfolio, and they tell me that as soon as the +Aga Khan heard that he was one of Sem’s victims, +his knees clattered together in soft and mutual sympathy. +For some reason, however, he is not so well +known in England, though, naturally enough, many +lovely ladies have unsuccessfully offered enormous +sums, if only Sem would make them sufficiently +ridiculous.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span></p> + +<p>You would not think, when you met him, that Sem +‘had it in him’ to be so very naughty. Such a tiny +little man, rather like an amiable monkey, with a +small wizened face, and eyes that blink perpetually +in a sort of mild surprise at the fantastic comedy of +life. It is only when his face suddenly sets, and his +neck cranes forward, that you realize that here is a +man who sees more than you would even imagine +there was to be seen.</p> + +<p>It was just after the publication of one of his most +sensational folios that we met. I wanted to know +how he did it—a sufficiently comprehensive question +to ask any artist.</p> + +<p>‘Do you go about with a pencil and paper, looking +for monstrosities?’ I asked him. ‘Getting a nose +here, a neck there, a double chin somewhere else?’</p> + +<p>He shook his head emphatically. ‘Never do I draw +a line from life,’ he asserted. ‘I look at people when +they do not know that they are being watched. At +Deauville, when they are plunging into the water, +in the theatre, when they are excited by the stage, +at dinner, when they are excited by the soup. At +times like that they forget that they must make the +best of themselves. The large women forget to hide +their chins, the large men forget to be dignified. +That is the time for me. But I do not <i>draw</i>, then. +Oh no! I wait a week, a month, six months. And +suddenly I think, that woman, she was like a horse, +or that fellow, he resemble a camel. Then I draw.’</p> + +<p>One of his caricatures which had struck me as most +delightful was that of Lady Idina Gordon, whom he +saw as a heron, and whom everybody will see as a +heron for the rest of her natural life.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span></p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I say, that is a heron, as soon as she +comes. Very English. Head so. Neck so. And the +voice. Just like I draw. And the Aga Khan? You +see him like a fish too, like me? All of a fishiness, I +see him, with the large eyes and the mouth.’ He +made an exquisite little grimace to illustrate his +meaning.</p> + +<p>‘And the King of Spain? They say I am rude to +draw him so, but it is not rudeness. It is only Truth. +I draw them as I see them. I do not make a monkey +of a lion, nor a peacock of a sparrow.’</p> + +<p>And yet, Sem can be kind as well as cruel. He dips +his pen alternately in poison and soothing syrup, +and draws, first with a knife and then with a caress. +His curly, twisting nib worms right into the heart +of his subject, dragging out the most astonishing +intimacies. A twist of the lip and he has condemned +not only an individual but a whole class. A swelling +of the stomach and the whole monstrous regiment +of profiteers stands shameless before you.</p> + +<p>He didn’t seem much impressed by English caricaturists. +Even after his second Bronx, the mention +of Max Beerbohm merely drew a sigh from his lips +and a little flick of the monkey fingers. ‘There is +nothing much about him,’ he said. ‘He is not a +caricaturist. He is a commentator. His drawing is +not strong enough to stand alone, and so he must +put little bubbles into the mouths of his characters, +and make them speak for him. That is amusing’ (and +here he nibbled his moist cherry much as monkeys +nibble peanuts at the Zoo) ‘but it is not caricature.’</p> + +<p>He swallowed the cherry and, leaning forward, +burst into French. ‘Caricature,’ he said, ‘must stand<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> +by itself. It must have a line that shatters, a cut that +kills. There must be no mists, no legends, no little +sentences stuck here and there to say “this is a fool.” +You must <i>draw</i> him as a fool, and your very <i>line</i> +must be foolish, it must wriggle with absurdity, it +must twist itself remorselessly into the grotesque. +There is only one man in England who can do that +to-day.’</p> + +<p>‘And who is that?’ I asked.</p> + +<p>‘Bateman. Mr. H. M. Bateman. Now he has no +need to put balloons into the mouths of his characters. +They speak for themselves. They laugh out +loud. He is a great caricaturist, that man. He could +kill a man with a single drop of ink.’</p> + +<p>He leant back and closed his eyes. Poor Sem has +bad eyes, and he blinks, not through astonishment, +as I first surmised, but because a strong light hurts +him. All round us surged the highly coloured and +slightly ridiculous set of people who are always to +be seen drifting through the lounges of London’s +three hotels at cocktail time. Women whose complexions +all come out of the same sort of bottle, +men whose clothes all come from the same sort of +tailor. The same tired voices, the same overfed +stomachs, the same underfed intelligences. Immediately +in front of us was a much <i>soignée</i> lady in +black—dress by Molyneux, diamonds by Cartier, +furs by Reville, perfume, I should imagine, by request. +I wished that Sem would look at her.</p> + +<p>But he was already looking at her. ‘I shall draw +her,’ he said, ‘as a cat.’</p> + +<p>And he did.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c18">CHAPTER EIGHTEEN</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">A Lamb in Wolf’s Clothing</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap1">I</span> <span class="smcap">now</span> retired to a nursing home for an operation. +The operation had nothing to do with my +visit to Valentino, for it was only ‘tonsils’—and I +spent my few days of rest in reading <i>Main Street</i>, +which had a very cheering effect by making one +remember how many disagreeable people there were +in the world with whom it was not necessary to +live.</p> + +<p>One afternoon I was deep in the atmosphere of the +Middle West when I looked up and saw, standing +in the doorway, a youth with fair hair, agreeable +features, quizzical smile, and appalling clothes.</p> + +<p>‘Who are you?’ I said.</p> + +<p>‘I’m Oliver Baldwin,’ replied the apparition.</p> + +<p>Now, Oliver Baldwin is, to the best of one’s knowledge, +a figure unique in English history, and as +biographies will certainly be written about him +when he is old and respectable there seems every +reason for writing something about him while he is +young and—Oliver.</p> + +<p>Oliver’s father is, of course, Prime Minister. But +Oliver himself was and is the most violent revolutionary, +with a considerable flair for public speaking, +a complete independence of thought, and an absolute +loathing for his father’s Party.</p> + +<p>England was therefore presented with the engaging +spectacle of a young man filling the bookshelves of +Number 11 Downing Street with treatises on the +best way to blow up Cabinet Ministers. In fairness +to Oliver it should be observed that he only did this +while his father was Chancellor of the Exchequer.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> +In the more exalted days of the present he avoids +Downing Street like the plague.</p> + +<p>In spite of the discouragement of tonsils we were +very soon talking with gusto.</p> + +<p>‘Does your father mind your wanting to be the +President of the First English Republic?’ I asked +him.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t know. Never asked him.’</p> + +<p>‘But isn’t it—don’t you think it’s rather ... I +mean....’ (Impossible to finish this sentence.)</p> + +<p>Oliver smiled. ‘You mean, don’t I think it’s bad +form to attack my own papa in public? No. The +only things which are bad form are the things which +are not sincere. I am terribly sincere. And I’m not +attacking <i>him</i>, I’m attacking the programme he +stands for.’</p> + +<p>More talk, Oliver departed, and it was arranged +that we should meet again.</p> + +<p>In the meanwhile I found out a little more about +Master Baldwin which made me realize that he was +a person with whom, one day, we should be forced +to reckon. Before his exploits the adventures of +Huckleberry Finn pale into insignificance. After a +cloistered youth in the shadow of Eton, he suddenly, +at the outbreak of war, enlisted in the Second Cambridge +Cadet Corps, became a sergeant-instructor, +an officer in the Irish Guards, went through France, +and was a seasoned warrior before he was out of his +teens. The war over, he departed to Russia to fight +the Bolsheviks, was imprisoned by these gentlemen +for months under sentence of death, escaped, got +into Armenia, avoided meeting Mr. Michael Arlen, +grew (with infinite pains) a beard, joined the Armenian<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> +army, became in rapid succession a Captain, +Major, Colonel, General, bought a white horse, and +led, like a new Joan of Arc, the army of the Armenians +against the Bolsheviks. All these things—even +the beard—probably had singularly little effect on +the course of events, but they showed the stuff of +which Oliver was made.</p> + +<p>Oliver is not in the least the vulgar tub-thumper +of popular imagination. He is almost absurdly sensitive +about his position. I remember motoring down +from London to Oxford with him once, coming +within a few miles of Chequers, and demanding +firmly to be driven there at once. ‘Do you think we +ought to?’ he said. ‘Why not?’ said I. ‘There won’t +be any Cabinet Ministers there, and even if there +are, they can’t bite us. I rather wish they could. It +would be fun to be bitten by the Chancellor of the +Exchequer.’</p> + +<p>So we went to Chequers, simply because I shamelessly +insisted.</p> + +<p>We arrived when it was still early morning, with +the mist of an English autumn drifting down the +lanes and lying, like a caress, over the little green +fields. What a paradise! When the Lees left it to +the Prime Ministers of England, they must have +been thinking of future Labour governments, because +this old place is so peaceful, so mellow, so +typical of all that is gracious and lovely in English +history (as we fondly imagine it to have been), that +nobody could dwell within its walls for more than a +few hours without wishing to preserve the spirit +which had created it.</p> + +<p>I won’t give a catalogue of the treasures of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> +Chequers, because they would fill a whole volume, +from the magnificent Rembrandt which dreams in +the dusk of the tall entrance hall to the marvellous +collection of unique volumes which line the shelves +of the long, quiet library. What most appealed to +one was the entire absence of any ‘museum’ feeling, +all the more remarkable when one remembers that +Chequers belongs to the nation, and is only a temporary +resting-place for successive ministers.</p> + +<p>Nothing is locked up under glass cases. Looking +back on it, I think that it might be just as well if +some of the things were protected. For example, +when Oliver was not looking, I put a ring of Queen +Elizabeth on my finger (she must have had very +large fingers), clasped a sword of Oliver Cromwell’s +in my hand and read aloud the original Cromwell +letter in which he describes the rout of the Cavaliers +as ‘God made them as stubble to our swords.’ The +combined effect of all these actions gave one a feeling +that was a cross between a museum and the worst +type of tourist.</p> + +<p>At Chequers there is a very charming lady who +occupies the post of châtelaine, and who could probably +tell more secrets than any other woman in +Europe, for she has seen all the Prime Ministers in +their moments of play and rest, when they have +been most likely to tell the truth. However, she is +discretion itself, and when one asked if Lloyd George +ever said what he really thought about Asquith, or +if any of the Prime Ministers ever got drunk, one +was met with an evasive smile. However, I did +learn later, from another source, that they were all +passionately devoted to Chequers itself. In fact, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> +soon as the news of Lloyd George’s downfall came +through, Megan Lloyd George, who was in the +entrance hall at the time, walked disconsolately to +the window, looked out over the moonlit garden, +and said, ‘Oh dear! This means that we shall have +to leave Chequers.’ The thought of that, you see, +had eclipsed even the disaster which had befallen +her father.</p> + +<p>Another thing which one realized while at Chequers +was the insatiable passion of British Prime Ministers +for music. In the great banqueting hall (where nobody +banquets now) is a pianola. The first thing +which harassed Premiers always did was to rush to +this pianola, switch it on, and lie back, forgetting +the trials of office. Lloyd George, whose natural +taste would seem, to the uninitiated, to be for marches +and military music, found himself most soothed by +Chopin nocturnes. Baldwin, on the other hand, invariably +played, as his first number, some Schubert +variations on a theme by (I believe) Mozart. +Winston Churchill had the best taste of the lot. He +confined himself rigorously to Beethoven.</p> + +<p>The surroundings of Chequers are ideally beautiful. +On one side, level meadows, on the other, rising +hills, thickly wooded. As soon as we had ‘done’ +Chequers, we motored away, got out again, and went +for a walk in these woods. And there, under the +yellowing leaves of immemorial elms, like the two +thoroughly shameless young men that we were, improvised +a debate in which Oliver was the President +of the First English Republic, and I was the +leader of the fast vanishing and decadent English +aristocracy—rôles of singular charm for both of us.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> +The subject was a fantastic one, being concerned +with a Bill brought in by the government to requisition +all the sticks and leaves in the country for the +purpose of burning the House of Lords. Still, it +gave us endless opportunities for rhetoric, and as +our words floated out into the valley, I wondered if +there would ever come a time when the scene would +be transferred to the realms of reality. I should +imagine that it is most unlikely.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c19">CHAPTER NINETEEN</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Two Big Men and One Medium</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">R</span><span class="smcap">udyard Kipling</span> is a fine example of a great +man who will forgive almost everything to +Youth. He certainly forgave me as charmingly as it +was possible to do so.</p> + +<p>It happened during lunch. I felt very guilty when +they said that Rudyard Kipling was coming, because +two years before, when still at Oxford, I had written +a letter to the <i>Morning Post</i> on the subject of ‘Our +Modern Youth,’ in which there were a great many +violent (and rather silly) remarks levelled against +anybody who had the misfortune to be over forty. +The letter attacked, with sublime indifference, such +diverse subjects as militarism, old age, imperialism, +prime ministers and incidentally Kipling, whom I +had never read, but who seemed to sum up a great +many aggressive tendencies. ‘Where,’ I asked, in +the peroration, ‘will you find the spirit of the age? +Not in the flamboyant insolence of Rudyard Kipling, +not in the ... etc.’</p> + +<p>Not one of my best works, that letter. But it was +written in a hammock, on a hot summer’s day, with +flies buzzing round, and certainly without the +thought that perhaps, one day, the writer would +meet the man whom he had attacked.</p> + +<p>However, when Kipling was announced, he came +straight up to me (where I was hiding in a corner) +and said:</p> + +<p>‘You’re the young man who was so rude to me in +the <i>Morning Post</i>, aren’t you?’</p> + +<p>I admitted that this was so. ‘I’m awfully sorry ...’ +I began.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span></p> + +<p>‘Sorry? What for?’ said Kipling. ‘I used to be +much ruder to people when I was your age. The +only thing that I should be sorry for was that you +didn’t make it worse.’</p> + +<p>I heaved a sigh of relief.</p> + +<p>‘Besides,’ said Kipling, ‘that was a jolly good phrase—flamboyant +insolence—I liked it.’</p> + +<p>And then he began to talk about literary style with +a gusto that is more often found in amateurs than in +celebrities.</p> + +<p>Kipling did not strike one, in the very least, as +‘literary.’ If one had not seen his face caricatured in +a hundred newspapers, one would gather that he +was a successful surgeon or a prosperous architect. +Especially does he convey the surgeon, with his keen +bright eyes, his more-than-bedside manner, and +the strong, capable hands, that push out eagerly +from the white cuffs as though they were about to +carve something.</p> + +<p>Carving, too, is a phrase that might be applied to +his prose. He hacks out his sentences, cuts up his +paragraphs, snips at his descriptions.</p> + +<p>I was struck, even at the beginning, with his positively +encyclopædic knowledge of subjects about +which he might well have pleaded justifiable ignorance. +Drugs, for example. Somebody mentioned +anæsthetics, and that led to a wider discussion of +all drugs that partially or wholly remove consciousness. +Kipling suddenly broke into the conversation, +held it and dominated it, illustrating everything he +said with the most apposite examples. He told me +that when he was in India, as a young man, he had +experimented in taking a very potent drug which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> +even the natives can only imbibe in small quantities. +‘It laid me out completely,’ he said, ‘and I didn’t +dream a bit, as I had hoped. I woke up, with a +splitting headache, but fortunately I knew the cure—hot +milk, as much of it as you can drink. If ever +you find yourself in that condition in India, you put +your last dollar on hot milk. It’s the only thing that +will pull you round.’</p> + +<p>It was an amusing luncheon party, for everybody +talked about the things that most interested them. +I remember Princess Alice,<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> for example, talking +about Bolshevism with an authority and an understanding +that came to me as rather a surprise.</p> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> Countess of Athlone.</p> + +</div> + +<p>‘How do you know so much about these things?’ I +asked.</p> + +<p>‘I think it’s my duty to know about them,’ she said. +And then ... ‘I <i>must</i> tell you the story of when I +went down to speak at a meeting at Poplar. Poplar +at the time was seething with Bolshevism, and everybody +said it was madness for me to go. To make +matters worse, just before the meeting I received a +message to say that the whole audience were going to +wear red rosettes to show their revolutionary sympathies. +Very well, said I, I’ll wear a red rosette too. +So I got my maid to make me a beautiful scarlet +rosette, and pinned it to my dress, where it looked +charming. It quite took the wind out of their sails +when they saw me get up on the platform wearing +exactly the same emblem as themselves. And there +wasn’t any Red Flag sung that night—only God +Save the King, rather out of time, but with a great +deal of fervour, all the same.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span></p> + +<p>Another rare type I met just then was Sir Thomas +Lipton, whose yachts have floated all over the sea, +and whose tea has floated into every interior. He +wanted me to do a job of work for him, and though +I had a shrewd suspicion that there would never be +time to do it, I kept my appointment, simply in +order to see what he was like.</p> + +<p>Lipton himself was charming. And I admired his +courage in decorating his house in a manner which +some might find disturbing, but which he liked. +There was no compromise with modernity. It was +frankly Victorian.</p> + +<p>From the outside the house looked quite innocuous. +It was one of those roomy, squarely built mansions, +that stand in respectable gardens on the outskirts +of North London. But the porch showed a +true individuality. It contained two highly glazed +yellow pots, filled with aspidistras, standing on a floor +of coloured tiles.</p> + +<p>As soon as one entered the hall the fun began. +There were black china negresses, ‘nice bright’ wallpapers, +heads of healthy animals, glazed oleographs, +and at every turn, photographs of some royalty in +a large silver frame. One object in the billiard-room +I particularly admired. This was a sofa, covered +with cushions of really inspiring colours. One +cushion, which was placed between a blue and orange +stripe and a form of black check, had for its main design +the Star-spangled Banner, worked in blue and +crimson wools.</p> + +<p>Conversation amid such surroundings was bound +to be exciting. Lipton got under way, and let flow +an apparently inexhaustible stream of reminiscences.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> +There was something very appealing in listening +to the candid confessions of an entirely self-made +multi-millionaire, who gloried in the fact that he +<i>was</i> self-made.</p> + +<p>Lipton told me that he was the first English tradesman +who really understood advertising.</p> + +<p>‘When I got my first little shop,’ he said, speaking +with a beautiful Scottish burr, ‘I realized two +things: first, that if you wanted to sell more goods +than the man next door, you had to sell better goods. +Secondly, that if you wanted to sell a <i>great many</i> +more goods, you had to make people look at ’em, +whether they wanted to or not.</p> + +<p>‘D’you know what I did?’ And here he slapped his +thigh and chuckled to himself, ‘I got hold of two fat +pigs, painted “Lipton’s Orphans” on their backs, and +used to lead ’em home from the market-place every +day. That was good advertising, wasn’t it?’</p> + +<p>I agreed.</p> + +<p>‘But even better’s to come, even better’s to come!’ +(Here the secretary departed, and I had a suspicion +that he had heard the story before.) ‘I trained those +pigs to lie down in the middle of the road just opposite +my wee shop! Think of it. Two braw pigs +lying down like that. They stopped the traffic. +When we got a crowd round, somebody would say +“Why! <i>There’s</i> the wee shop!” And they’d all trot +along and look at my window. What d’you think of +that?’</p> + +<p>And then he told me the story of Lipton’s Bank +Notes—almost the best piece of publicity that can +ever have been invented. One of his chief slogans +was: ‘Lipton gives £1 value for 15<i>s.</i>,’ something to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> +that effect, and in order to spread this slogan all +over England he had £1 notes issued with a note in +very small type at the bottom that goods to the +value of £1 could be bought for only 15<i>s.</i> at any of +Lipton’s stores. So beautifully were these notes engraved +that occasionally they would be used, by +canny and dishonest persons, in place of the real +article. The authorities learnt this and Lipton had +to stop his notes. But not before several little comedies +had occurred.</p> + +<p>‘D’you know,’ said Sir Thomas, with a sparkle in +his eye, ‘that a man in an hotel at Edinburgh actually +gave me one of my own notes as part of my +change? Did I what? No, I didn’t. He was a clever +fellow, and I let him keep it.</p> + +<p>‘<i>And</i> ...’ here he leant back in a sudden paroxysm +of mirth, ‘I was travelling in the train once with two +elders and they were talking of the collection at the +Kirk the Sabbath before.</p> + +<p>‘“Five pounds seventeen and elevenpence,” said +one of ’em.</p> + +<p>‘“Aye,” said the other, “but three of the notes were +Liptons.”’</p> + +<p>Lipton has, of course, a real veneration for Kings +and Queens. He adores them with a fervour that at +times almost becomes poetical, and he can never +quite rid himself of the shy wonder that he, the +ex-factory boy who started life on 2<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> a week, +should have risen to such heights.</p> + +<p>He took me into his drawing-room (which I believe +he called a parlour) and showed me some of +his collection of royal photographs, with the remark +that:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span></p> + +<p>‘No other commoner in the United Kingdom has +ever entertained the same number of crowned +heads.’</p> + +<p>Looking at the photographs, I could quite believe +it. Royal photographs are all very well in small +numbers, but in quantities they become a little oppressive. +There were several rows of them on the +piano, all in heavy silver frames, there were pictures +of Queen Victoria on the wall, slightly fly-blown, +there were portraits of King Edward, stout and +urbane, on the mantelpiece, and every table had on +it a photograph of some high-busted lady or be-whiskered +gentleman, signed Augusta or Charles or +Emelia or John, or some such name, with the signature +written in that curious scrawl which denotes +either a royal origin, success behind the footlights, +or delirium tremens.</p> + +<p>And yet—Lipton himself was still simple and +charming. His pride was so naïve that one could not +possibly object to it. ‘The Kaiser said to me ...’ +‘Her Majesty remarked ...’ ‘The Prince of Wales +and I ...’—they were all only little pats on the +back of the ex-factory boy.</p> + +<p>Even when he said to me:</p> + +<p>‘I’ve the largest collection of Press cuttings in the +whole world,’ the remark seemed, by the way in +which it was said, to be in the best of taste.</p> + +<p>The quality which I found most lovable about Sir +Thomas Lipton was his intense devotion to his +mother. That was the only time when he was really +serious. He told me that all his life he had worked +for her and for her alone, and that he had never +found any other woman in the world who could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> +make him forget her. And his very last words to me +were:</p> + +<p>‘You stick to your mother, laddie, as you would +stick to life. As long as you do that, you won’t go +far wrong.’</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>I don’t know what it is about Hugh Walpole that +I find, no doubt wrongly, a little worrying, unless +it is his appearance of complacency. He <i>is</i> so successful, +isn’t he? I have really no right to mention +him at all, for I only met him once, and that was at a +station, when we were both ‘seeing off’ a mutual +friend to America—a situation which was sufficient +to make enemies of us for life. But I had heard—oh, +a great deal about him from the friend in question, +who was a very delightful American woman +who has been fairy godmother to a great many young +authors and artists.</p> + +<p>We were in Venice together (the very delightful +American woman and I) and one day she said, ‘Let’s +go and get some lemons for Hugh Walpole.’</p> + +<p>‘Lemons? They’ll go bad long before we get +home.’</p> + +<p>‘Not real lemons. Glass apples. Venetian glass. +Hugh has taken a new house in London and I want +to give him a present.’</p> + +<p>So we entered a gondola, pushed off across the +silver water, and were soon in Salvati’s, buying beautiful +glass lemons for Hugh.</p> + +<p>If this is to be a history of my life, as it is rapidly +appearing to become, I had better get the subject of +Venetian glass off my chest at once. It used to drive +me quite mad with excitement, and still does—in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> +Venice. On the morning in which the very delightful +American woman and I went in search of the +lemons, a new and most divine set of glass had just +come in fresh from the factory. There were pieces of +yellow glass that were like frozen sunlight, shadowy +goblets that seemed to be bubbles poised on a puff +of smoke, dim bowls that might just have been taken +dripping from the green depths of the sea, pots of +plain, clean glass with tiny fruits in sharp colours on +the tops, little twinkling plums and vivid sour green +apples. There were rich goblets engraved with +golden dragons, and tall slim cups of grey glass, like +pale ladies coming out of a mist.</p> + +<p>We chose our lemons, entered the gondola, and +drifted down the grand canal. I did not particularly +want to hear about Hugh Walpole, but he was apparently +‘in the air,’ so I asked why he was so great +a success in America.</p> + +<p>‘Because they think he’s typically English. They +also think he’s exceeding clever,’ said the very delightful +American woman (who may be referred to +as the V.D.A.W.).</p> + +<p>‘But he’s neither.’</p> + +<p>‘How do you know? You’ve never met him’ (which +was perfectly true). ‘He <i>is</i> typically English. His +face is like an old English squire’s. And he is very +clever. Or at least we think so.’</p> + +<p>And then the V.D.A.W. delivered herself of a very +good piece of literary criticism.</p> + +<p>‘You’ll find Hugh Walpole’s books in every best +bedroom in the United States, except possibly, in +the very best ones, where you will not find works in +English but in French, to show that we have travelled.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> +Way out in the Middle West, there will be a +copy of <i>The Dark Forest</i> or <i>The Prelude to Adventure</i> +carefully placed on a table near the radiator. It +will probably never have been read, but it will be +there. That’s culture.’</p> + +<p>An extraordinary idea. ‘How does one get this +reputation for culture?’ I said. ‘My books have just +as nice covers as Hugh Walpole’s, and there is no +reason why they should not also have the benefit of +steam heat.’</p> + +<p>‘You’re too young,’ was the only answer I got.</p> + +<p>However, I learnt more about Hugh Walpole, and +at least discovered that he had this very admirable +quality—the capacity to plod. Right at the beginning, +apparently, Henry James had told him that if +he went on, and on, and on, he would eventually get +there. It seems to me that he <i>has</i> gone on, and on, +and on, but that he has not got there. Still, the going +is good.</p> + +<p>Then I met him. The scene was Victoria Station +on a raw morning in winter, with little wisps of +yellow fog lurking under the high roof. The +V.D.A.W. was ensconced in her carriage behind a +large bouquet of roses which he had given to her. In +her lap was an American magazine which he had also +given her. I noticed with a slight amusement that +it was ‘featuring’ a story by Hugh Walpole himself.</p> + +<p>When the train bearing the V.D.A.W. had departed +into the fog, we walked out of the station +together.</p> + +<p>‘I hate seeing people off,’ he said.</p> + +<p>‘So do I. Especially people I like.’</p> + +<p>‘Quite.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span></p> + +<p>He paused in the middle of the station and +scratched his head.</p> + +<p>‘I should like to write a guide,’ he said, ‘on how to +see people off. It would be done in several moods. +Grave and gay. Topics to be avoided. Time-limits.’</p> + +<p>‘The chief thing,’ I suggested, ‘would be to strictly +limit’ (I noticed that the split infinitive made him +blink, genteel man of letters that he was) ‘to strictly +limit the number of times one said, “Well, good-bye.” +We must have said it at least sixteen times this +morning. Every whistle made us say it.’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t remember saying it more than once,’ he +remarked.</p> + +<p>Then we entered the Tube, and endeavoured to converse +by shouting feverishly into each other’s ears. +(Oh! There is no doubt that we were meant to be +enemies for life.)</p> + +<p>‘I hear you’re doing dramatic criticism and book-reviewing,’ +he screamed.</p> + +<p>‘No, I’m not,’ I bellowed. ‘I’m only a reporter.’</p> + +<p>Bang, bang, bang.</p> + +<p>‘Well,’ he shrieked, ‘that’s not as bad as the other.’</p> + +<p>‘What is not as bad as which?’ I howled.</p> + +<p>‘I mean that book-reviewing’ (and here the train +suddenly came to a halt so that his voice boomed +out like a sergeant-major’s) ‘is far more soul-destroying +than reporting.’</p> + +<p>I should like to see Hugh Walpole battering at +East End doors on windy nights in winter, trying +to gain admission to a house where a murder has +just been committed, and see which he thought was +more ‘soul-destroying.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span></p> + +<p>‘I did book-reviewing for a long time on the <i>Evening +Standard</i>,’ he confided, in a hoarse whisper, +‘and’ (here the train started, so he again had to yell) +‘it nearly killed me.’</p> + +<p>Bang, bang, bang.</p> + +<p>‘And what about the dramatic criticism?’ I howled.</p> + +<p>He gathered all the remaining wind that was in his +lungs and shrieked, ‘Don’t know so much about it. +But I should think that would rot your brain before +long.’</p> + +<p>He got out at Charing Cross, and as I hurtled +along towards the unaristocratic destination of Blackfriars, +I pondered on the type of mind that thought +dramatic criticism would rot the brain. To see, night +after night, the curtain rise on the flash and light +of the drama. To feel, as every daylight faded, that +some new pageant was gathering to spread itself +out before one’s eyes. To sit in the warm, scented +darkness and analyse the motives, the construction, +the technique of the play, even if it is a bad play. +To have always the hope, sometimes justified, that +one would be caught up in the sudden rapture that +comes from great acting. Is that ‘rotting the brain’? +Not, I think, to a young man. However, Hugh +Walpole is not a young man. He was born middle-aged. +But he is rapidly achieving his first childhood.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c20">CHAPTER TWENTY</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">A Memory—And Some Songs</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap">ne</span> of the most wonderful evenings of my life +was when, in the heart of the Australian Bush, +Melba sang for me alone.</p> + +<p>I ought, if I had a tidy mind, to describe how I got +to the Australian Bush, and how so divine a person +as Melba should be singing to me at all. But that +can come in due course. For the moment I want to +recapture that scene as I lived it.</p> + +<p>There is a long room, panelled in green, lit only by +the misty glow from outside the windows, fragrant +with the scent of yellow roses. There are wonderful +old mirrors that catch the dying sparkle of a Marie +Antoinette Chandelier. In the half-light so many +lovely things shine dimly ... a picture of dark, +closely-clustered flowers, a case of fans, delicate as +the world of fairies....</p> + +<p>I am standing at the window. There is a long +veranda, and in the distance I can see, faintly outlined, +the pillars of the loggia that leads to an Italian +garden. Mountains, fabulously blue, rise on the +horizon and everything is very quiet. Only a few +hours ago the air had been rent with the shrill cries +of parrots, flying to their resting-place in the forests. +Even while we had dined we could hear the liquid +warbling of magpies, that strange noise, like water +gurgling from a flask, which brings all Australia +before me as I write. And after dinner, while we had +taken our coffee, the whole of the fields around had +echoed with the chirping of crickets. But now ... silence.</p> + +<p>And then, like a moonbeam stealing into an empty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> +room, that voice, which is as no other has ever +been...</p> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Dans ton cœur dort un clair de lune...</i></div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>The notes die away and there is silence again. I go +on looking at the blue mountains. Then, from the +other end of the room, a sudden laugh, the sort of +laugh that people may make in Heaven, and—</p> + +<p>‘Well, did you like me?’</p> + +<p>I laugh too. It seems so utterly fantastic to attempt +to appreciate in words an art like this. Nobody ought +ever to clap Melba. They ought to remain silent. +The greatest things in art are above applause.</p> + +<p>It was in, I believe, 1923, that I first had the delight +of meeting her, but it was not till the season +had really begun, and I found myself in Covent +Garden, listening to the first opening bars of ‘<i>Mi +Chiamano Mimi</i>,’ that I really came under her spell. +It was not the first time I had heard her sing. As a +small boy of nine I had been taken to one of her +concerts by my mother, and had greatly irritated my +family by informing them, when I returned home, +that I thought she sang exactly like myself.</p> + +<p>In a sense, there was truth as well as youthful complacency +in that criticism. Her voice <i>is</i> like a choirboy’s, +as crystalline, as utterly removed from things +of the earth.</p> + +<p>One day she said to me, with characteristic directness, +‘You’re not well. You’re poisoned. You’ve +been working too hard. You ought to come out to +Australia and help me with my Opera Season.’</p> + +<p>I denied indignantly that I was poisoned. (My doctor +afterwards confirmed her diagnosis.) I said that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> +I knew nothing about Opera. But all the same, +though it was some six months later, I went out to +join her in Australia—that was in the beginning of +1924.</p> + +<p>Melba is so great a woman—I use the word ‘great’ +in the fullest sense—that one cannot possibly attempt +a full-length portrait of her in a few pages. But, +from the notebook of my imagination, I may perhaps +draw out a few pages, roughly scribbled over with +thumbnail sketches, that may make you feel you +know her a little.</p> + +<p>I shall take the sketches simply as they occur, without +attempting to put them in order. The first one +is labelled ‘energy.’ The face of Melba appears, +rising calmly over a heavy <i>chaise-longue</i> which, unassisted, +she is pushing across the room. It is one +of her furniture-moving days. The whole of her +boudoir is upside down. Pictures stand in rows +against the walls, china is ranged along the floor, and +over the chairs and sofas are scattered quantities of +bibelots—pieces of jade, little mother-of-pearl boxes +bearing the words <i>Souvenir</i> and <i>Je pense à toi</i>, crystal +clocks, a tiny gold case containing a singing bird +with emerald eyes.</p> + +<p>The furniture-moving goes on. I endeavour to +help, and am told with great frankness that I am far +more bother than I am worth, and that I had better +content myself with watching. And so I watch, +amazed. Little by little the room takes shape. At +one moment she is standing on a chair, and the next +she is kneeling on the floor, doing the work of six +British labourers. <i>Voilà.</i> It is done. And she is at +the piano again, trilling like a newly fed thrush.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span></p> + +<p>If Melba had had no voice she might have made a +fortune as an art connoisseur. I have been driving +with her sometimes, and have seen, on the other side +of the street, a window full of antiques. ‘Look,’ I +have said. ‘Don’t you think there might be some +fascinating things in there?’ She looks. In the space +of ten seconds her eye has taken in the entire contents +of the window, and she either says ‘All fake,’ or she +stops the car. I have never known her wrong. It is as +inexplicable to me as the feat of the eagle which can +see a mouse hidden in a field of corn a mile beneath.</p> + +<p>So many people who like to pretend that they are +artistic will tell you that they cannot bear to live with +ugly things. They will say this with pained expressions, +even when they are sitting, apparently unmoved, +beneath a Landseer stag, on a Victorian settee. +With Melba it really is pain. Whenever I see +her in an ugly room I know the exact feeling of the +Oyster who is irritated by a piece of sand. She is +restless. Her eyes dart hither and thither. She bites +her lips. For two pins she would get up and hurl +things out of the window.</p> + +<p>I shall never forget once when she was singing three +times a week in the Opera at one of the great Australian +cities, and was staying in an hotel in order to be +near the theatre. She came down at about ten o’clock +to go for a drive. I met her in the hall. As we were +going out she paused in the entrance way and said:</p> + +<p>‘Those pots. Look at them. They’re hideous +enough in all conscience, but they’re made ten times +worse by being pushed out in that ridiculous position. +Let’s push them back against the wall.’</p> + +<p>Now wherever Melba goes in Australia there is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> +always a little crowd in her wake, as though she were +the Queen of the Continent, which indeed she is. +And the prospect of moving pots in the entrance of +an hotel struck me as alarming in the extreme.</p> + +<p>I mumbled something about ‘waiting.’ She looked +at me scornfully. ‘Wait?’ she said. ‘What for? +Come on.’</p> + +<p>Without the faintest interest in the sensation she +was making, she bent over and began to move the +first pot into position. I shall never forget the sparkling +look of satisfaction on her face, the slight flush +that the effort caused, the waving ospreys in her hat, +and the cry of ‘There—isn’t that better?’ when the +first pot was placed in position.</p> + +<p>I saw a tall red-faced individual glowering down +on us.</p> + +<p>‘Excuse me,’ he said.</p> + +<p>‘I’m Melba,’ she said. ‘I’m doing some furniture-moving +for you.’</p> + +<p>He was quite speechless for a moment. Then, after +a gulp he managed to say, ‘But, Madame....’</p> + +<p>‘Oh, I shan’t charge you anything,’ she remarked.</p> + +<p>Those pots are as she placed them to this day.</p> + +<p>The next sketch is labelled ‘The Singing Lesson.’ +There are the outlines of a long bare room, a platform, +some seats in front, occupied by professor and +pupils. Melba sits by herself in a corner, biting a +pencil. A pupil steps on to the platform and begins +to sing. Suddenly the voice rings out, ‘Stop!’</p> + +<p>As though she had been shot, the pupil stops dead. +Melba gets up from her seat, goes to the platform, +says to the accompanist, ‘Let me sit down a minute,’ +and then turns to the girl.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span></p> + +<p>‘I’m not going to eat you,’ she says. Her own smile +brings an answering smile to the face of the girl.</p> + +<p>‘Sing me “Ah.”’</p> + +<p>‘Ah.’</p> + +<p>‘No—“Ah”—’ up here, in the front of the mouth.</p> + +<p>‘Ah!’</p> + +<p>‘No. You’re still swallowing it. Listen. Sing mah. +Close your lips, hum, and then open them suddenly. +Mah, mah, mah.’</p> + +<p>‘Mah, mah, mah.’</p> + +<p>‘That’s better. Now higher. Right. Higher.’</p> + +<p>She takes her up the scale. At F sharp she stops. +‘Piano. Please, please, <i>pianissimo</i>! You’ll ruin your +voice if you sing top notes so loud. Better, but still +too loud. <i>Pianissimo!</i>’ She leans forward, one finger +to her lips.</p> + +<p>Somewhere about the top B flat the girl cracks. She +blushes and turns appealingly to Melba. Melba takes +no notice and strikes a note higher.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t think I can....’</p> + +<p>‘I don’t care what you think,’ says Melba. ‘Sing it.’</p> + +<p>‘But I shall crack.’</p> + +<p>‘That doesn’t matter, I don’t mind what sort of +noise you make. I just want to hear it.’</p> + +<p>The girl attempts it again, the note is pure and +round.</p> + +<p>Melba rises from the piano and steps briskly from +the platform. ‘She’s got a lovely voice,’ she says. ‘A +lyric soprano. She’s taking her chest notes too high, +that’s all. Send her up to me and I’ll make that all +right.’</p> + +<p>I wonder how many other prima donnas there are in +this world who would do that, who would put themselves<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> +to endless pains and expense, simply for the +love of song.</p> + +<p>I have yet to be informed of their names and +addresses.</p> + +<p>The third sketch is labelled—the artist. The scene +is a rehearsal of <i>Othello</i>. For three hours she has +been singing, directing, talking at one moment to the +orchestra, at the next, to the stage hands, to anybody +and everybody. The scene is set for the last act, and +with her meticulous sense of detail she has been +busying herself with the crimson draperies that overhang +the bed. Now she is standing in mid-stage, +sending her voice up to the men who work the lights. +‘More yellow,’ she is crying, ‘more yellow. This +isn’t a surgery. You’re blinding me. That’s better. +Wait a minute. Not so much of that spot light on +the bed. I am not a music-hall artist.’ Then, <i>sotto +voce</i>, ‘How on earth does the poor man think that +Desdemona could go to sleep with a light like that +in her eyes?’</p> + +<p>She is almost the only woman I have ever known +who has an absolute horror of the slip-shod. Study +her day when she is singing in opera. She is up with +the lark. After breakfast she is in her boudoir, +‘warming’ her voice, studying her rôle from start to +finish. She lunches frugally, drinking only water. +After lunch she drives or walks. At five there is the +pretence of a meal—an omelette or a little fish. +From now onwards she eats nothing till after the +performance.</p> + +<p>She is in her dressing-room from an hour and a half +to two hours before the performance. Her make-up +is scrupulous. She describes in her autobiography<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> +the importance which she attaches to the minutest +details of make-up, but I don’t think that even her +own description quite makes one realize the perfection +of it. From her wig to her shoes, everything is +as it should be. I have seen her reject fifty shawls +for the part of Mimi, simply because they were not +in keeping with her idea of the character.</p> + +<p>Sketch four might be named Courage. I remember +a day when we were driving together, and, as she +stepped from the car, the chauffeur slammed the +door full on to her fingers, crushing them cruelly. +She cried—‘Oh, my hand!’ and the door was feverishly +dragged open again. She bit her lip, walked +into the theatre, sat down and closed her eyes. That +was all. There was no hysterics, no ‘Vapours,’ not +even a tear.</p> + +<p>It is not only in physical courage that she excels. +She has the sort of gay fearlessness which allows her +to motor late at night through the Australian Bush +with only a single chauffeur, and jewels of more +value than I should care to estimate. One night she +was motoring home with Lady Stradbroke, who is the +wife of the Governor of Victoria. The car broke +down in the middle of a forest. The chauffeur had +to run off into the darkness, leaving the women alone. +There they sat for a full hour. Any tramp, any +of the roving, husky ‘sun-downers’ with whom the +Bush abounds, might have come along and taken all +they wanted. Lady Stradbroke told me that though +she herself was shaking in her shoes, Melba kept up +a perpetual babble of chatter. I asked her when at +two o’clock in the morning they arrived, if she had +not been fearfully agitated. She laughed her unforgettable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> +laugh. ‘Agitated? Me? They wouldn’t hurt +<i>me</i>. I’m Melba.’</p> + +<p>‘I’m Melba.’ It is something to be able to say that. +Something to be able to go up to an old woman +selling roses in the streets of Paris and say ‘<i>C’est</i> +Melba’ and to have the roses pressed into your hands +in a sort of homage. Something to know that wherever +music is played or songs are sung all over the +world, the artist who is playing before you is giving +his utmost. Something to be able to lean back in the +theatre stalls at a first night, and to say to Bernard +Shaw, as I once observed, ‘I know who <i>you</i> are’ and +to receive the answer: ‘You don’t know me nearly as +well as I know you.’</p> + +<p>And to remain, at the end of it all, so simple that +you are never happier than when eating macaroni in a +restaurant where you may have your fill for two +shilling, so humble that you will kiss the cheek of +the youngest débutante whom, you feel, has in her +something of the divine fire.</p> + +<p>Melba, I salute you. It is not my fault that this +sketch of you is so inadequate. It is yours. I cannot +paint landscapes on threepenny bits.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c21">CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Hicks—Hicks—and Nothing but Hicks</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">t</span> is a matter of very small importance either to +Seymour Hicks or to anybody else that I regard +him as capable of the finest acting on our stage. It +merely gives a keynote to what is written below, if +you should be kind enough to read it.</p> + +<p>I never really knew Seymour until we went to +Australia on the same ship, and if you want to know +anybody well, go through that very disagreeable experience, +and nothing will be hidden from you. I +had of course met him in London, we had eaten together, +drunk together, and had feverish conversations +in his dressing-room when he had arrived late +for his Act and was endeavouring to put on grease +paint at the rate of greased lightning.</p> + +<p>But all that goes for nothing. Wait till you have +eaten stale fish and bottled cream at the same table +for six weeks, till you have been bitten by mosquitoes +at Colombo and rolled together in the Australian +Bight, till you have been bored silly by the ship’s +wits and driven almost crazy by the ship’s sopranos—wait +till you have done all those things, and somehow +managed to come through them smiling, and +then you can certainly call a man a friend.</p> + +<p>Admiration is never a bad basis on which to start a +friendship, and I passionately admired the artistry +of Seymour Hicks. Only recently I had seen his performance +in <i>The Love Habit</i>, and my eyes were still +dazzled by his performance. The accomplishment of +the man! The tricks! The diabolical cleverness! +Watch him <i>listen</i>, for example. There is no more +difficult or less understood art on the stage than<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> +this one of listening, and when you have seen Seymour +listening, you have seen the whole thing, inside +out, upside down, backwards. The head slightly +forward, the eyes fixed on the speaker, the whole +body set in a poise which seems to suggest a question +mark that gradually straightens itself out as +the question is resolved, to end as a mark of exclamation. +And the face! As each sentence is uttered, he +seems to hear it for the first time. A tiny flicker at +the mouth, a faint narrowing of the eyes, an almost +imperceptible wrinkling of the forehead ... if I +were an actor I should go and hide my head in +shame after such an example of virtuosity.</p> + +<p>And yet, with the exception of <i>The Man in Dress +Clothes</i>, things seem to have gone wrong with him +lately, while mediocre artists have made messes of +plays which he might have transfigured with his +genius.</p> + +<p>One of the first things he ever told me was the truth +about <i>The Man in Dress Clothes</i>—the play which +was changed, in one night, from a failure to a success +owing to the intervention of Northcliffe.</p> + +<p>‘Funny thing, isn’t it, what the Press can do for a +man?’ he said to me one day. We were gliding +silently one evening down the long, straight reaches +of the Suez Canal, and the atmosphere of desert and +clean-washed sky seemed to lend itself to conversation. +‘Take <i>The Man in Dress Clothes</i>, for example. +It had been running for three weeks when Northcliffe +saw it, and up till then it had been an absolute +failure.’</p> + +<p>‘Why did Northcliffe come at all?’ I asked.</p> + +<p>‘Max Pemberton. He told him about it, and Northcliffe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span> +wrote me a letter saying, “Dear Mr. Hicks, I +don’t usually like plays, but I will come to yours.” +He came to a matinée. After the first Act he sent a +special messenger down to Carmelite House to order +some of his staff up to the theatre at once, and when +I went to see him after the second Act he said to me:</p> + +<p>‘“These gentlemen have just been instructed to +boom your play, Mr. Hicks. It’s the best play I’ve +ever seen. There will be a photograph of it in every +edition of the <i>Daily Mail</i> for the next month, and a +paragraph in the <i>Evening News</i> telling London that +London has got to come and see it.”</p> + +<p>‘And, by Jove, they did come to see it. On the next +day, in the <i>Evening News</i> appeared an article about +my play headed “The best play in London,” and the +same night the receipts were multiplied five times +over. It became almost embarrassing. I used to get +almost afraid of opening the Northcliffe papers to see +what they had written next. All the same, it kept that +play running for a year, and I am eternally grateful +to Northcliffe for that.’</p> + +<p>One of the most interesting conversations I ever +had with him was, of all places, at the Sydney Zoo. +Not that the Sydney Zoo is like ordinary zoos. It is +very superior, in fact almost beautiful. It lies above +the eternal blue of Sydney harbour, looking over the +waves to where the white houses and red roofs glitter +in the sunshine. There are wattle trees to give you a +touch of yellow (how I wish Australians would call +wattle by its proper name—mimosa) and there are +flame trees to give you a touch of scarlet. And the +animals in this particular zoo do not seem to be in the +zoo at all, for there are not cages, but pits. So that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> +there is a fine thrill waiting for anybody who does not +know this, for all the animals look as though they +are about to leap out to devour.</p> + +<p>The zoo had nothing to do with our conversation, +but I cannot dissociate it from its surroundings. Seymour +was standing in front of a paddock containing +a number of kangaroos, which leapt about, disdainfully +regarding the stale monkey-nuts which were +thrown to them by sticky children. The kangaroo +does not eat stale monkey-nuts. I have no idea what +he does eat, but he does not eat that.</p> + +<p>He gazed absently at the kangaroo for a moment, +threw it a peppermint drop, and said:</p> + +<p>‘Of course the only critic who’s going to be of any +use to the English Theatre to-day is the man who +talks about the <i>acting</i>.’</p> + +<p>‘You mean the acting before the play?’ I said. ‘I +love talking to you, because you agree with everything +I say. You may say that the star system is +overdone, but no star, if he <i>was</i> a star, has ever done +anything but good to the theatre. He ennobles everything +he touches.’</p> + +<p>Seymour nodded. ‘Look at Edmund Kean. Columns +and columns of Press cuttings I’ve got about +him. They really criticized in those days. They +watched every movement, every gesture, they listened +to every intonation of the voice. They put him +through a third degree of criticism.’</p> + +<p>‘And he came out triumphant?’</p> + +<p>‘Not always. Pretty often. Anyway, what I mean +is, they concentrated on the <i>acting</i>, and they set tremendously +high standards. Look at half the critics +to-day. They don’t care a damn. They spend<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> +half their time in an analysis of the play itself, which +interests nobody, and then they say that somebody +or other was “brilliant.” It’s wrong. A critic ought +to have two ink-pots, vitriol and gold. And he ought +to be jolly sparing with the gold one.’</p> + +<p>‘The very first thing that struck me about the +theatre,’ I said (I wanted, you see, to encourage him +to talk), ‘when I began criticism, was that we were +too afraid of being theatrical. Now, I like a theatre +to look like a theatre, to smell like a theatre, to feel +like a theatre. I don’t like a theatre that looks like a +church or a town hall. I like....’</p> + +<p>This conversation is beginning to sound like a +dialogue in the deceased <i>Pall Mall Gazette</i>, but I +really don’t mind. Seymour agreed with me, and +said:</p> + +<p>‘I’d far rather see somebody come on and say, +“Gadsooks. My mistress has forsaken me,” and say +it as though he meant it, than see a young man in a +beautiful dinner-jacket light a cigarette, and mumble, +“Oh really, Flora seems to have gone off with +Rupert,” as though he were saying, “It’s a rather cold +morning, isn’t it?” The last thing an actor should +fear is to be thought theatrical. When a really good +actor of the old school came on he struck an attitude. +He bounced. He filled the stage. You said, “By +God, here’s an actor,” and you jolly well watched +what he did. Irving for example.</p> + +<p>‘Irving realized the enormous importance of a first +entrance. Look at his King Lear. Heralds approach. +A train of soldiers. More heralds. The suspense +increasing every moment. You can almost feel him +coming. You lean forward in your seat, awake, expectant.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> +And then—enter Irving, slowly, with a +falcon on his wrist. Now that’s <i>acting</i>. That isn’t any +nonsense about being life-like or trying to look as +though you weren’t an actor. As soon as a man does +that, he <i>doesn’t</i> look like an actor, because he isn’t +one, and never will be, and his place is in the thirtieth +row of a cinema, watching glycerine run down Mary +Pickford’s cheeks.’</p> + +<p>There is more sound sense—I <i>could</i> call it profound +wisdom, but I won’t—in those remarks than in half +the nonsense that is written to-day about ‘realistic’ +plays and ‘realistic’ acting. You might as well talk +about ‘realistic’ music and praise a composer who sits +down at the piano and tries to imitate a waterfall.</p> + +<p>One night I was dining with Ellaline Terris and +him, and it suddenly occurred to me to tell them the +plot of a rather gruesome short story which had +come into my head a few days before. When I had +finished Seymour said, ‘My word, what a play!’ In +fact, everybody said, ‘My word, what a play!’ And +there and then we hunched ourselves round the table +and began to talk it out.</p> + +<p>Of course, we never did talk it out. That is why it +is so charming a memory. But Seymour can teach one +more about play-making in a few hours than most +of the books (or, indeed, the plays) in the world. +And people seem to be interested in play-making. +They like to know ‘how it is done.’ So here goes.</p> + +<p>The first thing that he talked about was the absolute +necessity of deciding exactly who the characters +<i>were</i>. It sounds obvious enough, but if you have +ever thought of writing a play you will probably +remember that you thought of a woman in a certain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span> +situation, and beyond the fact that you knew she +was good, bad, or merely improper, you did not +know the first thing about her.</p> + +<p>But, before we decided on a single line, we had to +make those people real people. We had to know not +only what their lives were, but what they had been, +and why. In other words, we had to delve deep back +into the past (long before the period of my short +story), into the drama of the past, in order that we +might approach the drama of the present with minds +forewarned.</p> + +<p>And then, when we had decided who the people +were, we had to decide exactly what the story was. +All this sounds fantastically obvious, but I assure +you, it is not so obvious as it sounds. Take again +your own case, if you are an amateur playwright, as +I feel convinced you are, you have probably thought +of it all in <i>Acts</i>. You have said the first Act will be +set in an attic, and will end with the arrest of Joseph +on a charge of some vice—(naming your own +favourite one). The second Act will be in a ballroom, +in which Joseph’s fiancée will spurn the Duke. +And the third Act will be in a court of justice, where +Joseph is declared innocent. It is all wrong. You +mustn’t do that. You mustn’t even think of the +theatre at all. You must think of life, of what is +happening to these people in the open air, in bed, +when they are asleep, when they are in their baths. +Think of them as real human beings. And then, +when you have decided what they are doing, what +they have done, and what they are going to do, then +go at it for all you’re worth, and be as theatrical as a +Christmas fairy, and good luck to you.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> + +<p>And the other thing I learnt during those hours +after midnight in which we sat conspiring together, +was that not a line must be written before the construction +is absolutely water-tight. You have to build +a play—a good play—like a jigsaw puzzle. Every +little bit must fit. There must be so much this, and +so much that. There must be a place for everything, +and everything in its place. If you dribble into +dialogue too soon, you are done. God help you, for +you will be like a ship without a rudder, and you +will lose your way in a sea of talk, blown by the +winds of every passing mood.</p> + +<p>It sounds prosaic. There is nothing of the thrill, +which comes to those who dash to their tables at +midnight, and write out passionate speeches in which +perfect ladies declare their innocence and imperfect +women their guilt. But, after all, the greatest fun, I +should think, is seeing your play <i>played</i>. And the +impromptu, passionate sort of play doesn’t usually +get beyond the paper on which it is scrawled.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c22">CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Showing how a Genius worshipped Devils in the Mountains</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">ll</span> young men love paying pilgrimages, especially +when the pilgrimage is to some rather +exotic and remote hermit who happens to be in the +vogue. Incidentally, I am quite convinced that the +hermits like it too. How often has one read, in +memoirs, of the humble, too humble, delight of some +wild musician who is visited, in his retreat in the +Northern Hebrides, by young things from Oxford, +who group themselves in decorative attitudes round +his carpet slippers. ‘To me, living in the realm of +art,’ he writes, ‘these visits from fellow-spirits in the +outer world are infinitely sweet, infinitely welcome. +Mr. Bernard Bank, of Brasenose, arrived to-day at +dawn, praying that I might come down, so that he +should throw himself at my feet. I did. And he +did. I feel “remarkably refreshed.”’</p> + +<p>I rather wish that I had gone to see Norman Lindsay +in this way. He has all the qualifications for a +really good hermit scene. He lives in the heart of +the Blue Mountains beyond Sydney, he is an utterly +isolated figure in an immense continent, and his +finely erotic designs have given a great many dull +people fits.</p> + +<p>But my visit to him, though picturesque, was sophisticated. +I went out to see him with Melba in an +exceedingly comfortable car, and after three hours +of speeding along under tall white gum-trees, with +the flash of green parrots in the branches, we arrived +at the broken, tumble-down road which leads to the +house where Norman Lindsay lives with his wife and +children.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> + +<p>The instant I had passed through the wooden gate, +which was blistered by the eternal blaze of sunshine, +I had a feeling of stepping on to enchanted ground. +(You observe, the hermit complex was already at +work.) From some bushes over in the corner a +fawn’s head leered at me through the shadows, and +on the grass leading up to the house a concrete lady +with an enormous chest stared haughtily in front of +her. Advancing to the veranda one had a glimpse +of the same lady, flying in haste from presumably the +same fawn—a really beautiful piece of rough +statuary which Lindsay afterwards informed me had +been roughly ‘thrown together’ in the space of a +single afternoon.</p> + +<p>As for Lindsay himself—he did not walk towards +us—he fluttered to us, like a bird. So like a bird +is he that I had a feeling, all the time, that I must +catch hold of the end of his jacket in order that he +should not fly up to a gum-tree and pipe his distracting +arguments from the topmost branch. He +was so thin, so fluttering, his eyes were so bright, +his nose so like a beak, perched on top of the tiny +neck.</p> + +<p>As for his talk—that, too, was bird-like—the words +pouring out one after the other, making one think +of when the swallows homeward fly. As difficult to +follow, too, as a bird. In the first half-hour of our +conversation—(I say ‘our,’ although my contribution +was limited to negatives and affirmatives)—he +had smashed the whole Christian philosophy, set +Nietzsche on a pedestal, made at least a hundred +genuflexions to him, pulled a long nose at Rubens, +kicked Chopin out of the house, and invited me three<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> +times to have a drink without doing anything more +about it.</p> + +<p>We went for a walk in the garden, Lindsay still +talking. A child appeared—a rosy cheeked thing +with cherries embroidered round its collar. It was +clasping a doll firmly in its arms.</p> + +<p>‘The maternal instinct developed already, you see,’ +he said.</p> + +<p>Odd, I thought. I felt that Freud had dropped +something which Lindsay had picked up, taken to a +looking-glass, and read backwards.</p> + +<p>Somebody again suggested a glass of white wine. +This time his eyes sparkled. We went back into +the house and drank. I watched him. He talked of +the wine as though he were a Bacchanalian. One had +the impression that he was only five minutes off +a bout of drunkenness. Yet, he sipped only a mouthful, +and even that was taken with pursed lips, as an +old lady takes her tea.</p> + +<p>Odd, again. It was the <i>idea</i> of intoxication, you see, +that appealed to him. The gesture was the important +thing, not the reality. I honestly believe that Lindsay +could get quite drunk on coloured water, if he were +persuaded the water was wine.</p> + +<p>And then we went into lunch. I remember a room +with huge windows and sunshine blazing in. I +remember an enormous plate of chicken and some +very red carrots. And most of all I remember Lindsay’s +sudden pæan of praise in favour of Beethoven’s +Appassionata Sonata.</p> + +<p>‘He’s my god,’ he said excitedly, digging his fork +into a particularly beautiful carrot and waving it +wildly about. ‘My god. The Appassionata Sonata<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> +contains everything of life that life has to give. In its +rhythm you can find the secret of the entire universe.’ +He ran from the room and returned bearing a mask +of Beethoven which he triumphantly placed beside +him.</p> + +<p>I cannot give you much of Norman Lindsay’s talk +because I simply did not understand it. He talks at +such an immense speed, dragging so many tattered +philosophies in his wake, that one could only follow, +exceedingly faint, but pursuing.</p> + +<p>However, I did not give up the attempt. I tried to +keep him strictly to facts, and after lunch I led him +to one of his concrete ladies and asked him how he +did it.</p> + +<p>His thin hand stroked the concrete lady’s chin with +a lingering affection. But he took not the faintest +notice of my question, and started off on a different +tack.</p> + +<p>‘There are only two people whom I want to meet +in England,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you can guess +who they are?’</p> + +<p>Now, I never guess when asked. It is too dangerous. +Do you know the sort of people who have a face +massage, arrange the lights, hold their chins very +high, and say, ‘You won’t guess <i>my</i> age, I’m sure.’ +They are quite right. I won’t.</p> + +<p>Norman Lindsay relieved the suspense. ‘Aldous +Huxley and Dennis Bradley,’ he said.</p> + +<p>‘<i>What?</i>’</p> + +<p>There must have been something a little tactless in +my tone of voice, for he frowned and said, ‘Well, I +don’t see why you should be so surprised.’</p> + +<p>I was surprised, however, because it seemed such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> +an odd couple to choose. Lytton Strachey I could +have imagined. Shaw, at a pinch. Augustus John +more than most. But Aldous Huxley and Dennis +Bradley....</p> + +<p>I still do not know, from the whirl of words with +which he defended his two idols, exactly what he +meant. But from out of the chaos there did eventually +emerge something—that he considered them +both anti-Christian. Perhaps, after the psychic experiments +of Dennis Bradley, his ardour may have +abated. I don’t know.</p> + +<p>Lindsay hates Christ. He hates him as one man +hates another. It is in no way the feeble sort of dislike +which so many modern anti-Christians entertain—the +dislike which is explained merely by the fact +that Christ makes them feel uncomfortable, as though +he were a skeleton at the feast of life. It is a militant, +violent hatred, the clash of one philosophy against +another. He ranges himself, a solitary figure, +against the angels, his whole mind and body tense +with rage, his hand gripped grimly round an +unsheathed sword.</p> + +<p>It was not till I went with him to his studio, which +is a sort of wooden shack at the end of the garden, +that I began to understand this dislike. He danced +round with portfolio after portfolio, producing drawings +which were a riot of pagan beauty, a miracle of +design. But the beauty and the art he seemed to pass +by. It was the satire—the anti-Christian satire—which +he was longing to show me.</p> + +<p>‘Look,’ he said. I looked. He was holding up an +immense engraving crowded with figures. I have a +dim memory of light shining through pillars, of an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> +endless staircase, of a conglomeration of strange, +dishevelled shapes, darkly etched in the foreground.</p> + +<p>‘Amazing,’ I said.</p> + +<p>‘Yes—yes—but don’t you see him?’</p> + +<p>‘Him?’</p> + +<p>‘Jesus Christ, man. Look.’</p> + +<p>He put his finger on to the design. It touched a +pale face—sickly, anæmic, almost half-witted. It was +like a patch of fever in the riotous health and +brutality which crowded it in on all sides.</p> + +<p>He laughed loud and long. I could not laugh. I +felt absurdly, desolatingly shocked. Not, I think, by +what Lindsay had shown me of Christ. But by +something which he had shown me of—myself.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c23">CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">A Defence of Dramatic Critics</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap1">A</span> <span class="smcap">little</span> while ago Mr. Philip Guedalla (that +squib who never stops fizzing) annoyed me +very much by making rude remarks about dramatic +critics. He said that they looked like waiters or +conjurers. I should not in the least mind looking +like some waiters I have seen, but he was not +referring to face or figure. He was being sartorial. +And when Guedalla is sartorial, God alone knows +what will happen.</p> + +<p>He referred to the ‘dingy uniform’ of this ‘Sad +Guild.’ It struck me as slightly vulgar and entirely +inaccurate. I would match my own exquisite +waistcoats (you know the sort—nothing at the back +and a broad pique in front) with Mr. Guedalla’s any +day. It would be rather an entertaining match. I +can imagine our respective laundresses panting for +days beforehand, and I can see us strutting round and +round, examining each other for the faintest sign +of a wrinkle.</p> + +<p>But it is not of clothes that I would write, but of +dramatic criticism, and the only excuse I have for +holding up an imaginary Guedalla by the scruff of +his neck is because of that phrase ‘Sad Guild.’ It is +a childish, facile, meaningless phrase. It calls up +the stale conventional vision of rows of gloomy faces, +‘like Micawbers waiting for something to turn down.’ +It is the sort of phrase that an unsuccessful playwright +might use, to excuse his failure. As if critics, +by some Satanic grace, were gifted with power to +fool <i>all</i> the public, in <i>all</i> the theatres, <i>all</i> the time.</p> + +<p>I am a dramatic critic. I know of no sad guild. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span> +have yet to wear a dingy uniform. Every time that +I go to a theatre it is with a heart beating high in +hope. Every time that I open a programme and +read that ‘the curtain will be lowered for thirty +seconds in Act II to denote the passing of a hundred +years,’ I tremble with the satisfaction that only make-belief +can give. Every time I read that Mr. Clarkson +has sold a few more wigs, my being trembles with +delight. To be a dramatic critic does not imply that +one must be old and shrivelled and pessimistic.</p> + +<p>I was absurdly young when I began. And I +didn’t care a damn. If love of the theatre was any +qualification for criticism, then I was qualified with +the highest degrees. My first toy was a toy theatre. +In the misty days of the late King Edward VII I +have laid for whole seasons on my small stomach +putting pink heroines and black villains in their +proper places. I have burnt candles for footlights +as ardently as any human saint burnt candles for +sacrifice. I have drawn thunder from a tin can and +lightning from a piece of tinsel. And at school, +when I should have been engaged on more orthodox +matters, I have routed out ancient books on the +theatre—as Æschylus knew it in Greece, as Goldoni +knew it in Italy, and, in dreams, have fought my +youthful battles on those vanished stages, made mock +love with adolescent passion, closed my eyes, and +been, in rapid succession, hero, heroine, cynic, +clown, every emotion tearing my young heart to +tatters.</p> + +<p>If you please, therefore, Mr. Guedalla, protrude +your pink tongue, apply your blue pencil to it, and +erase that phrase about the sad guild in its dingy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> +uniform. It is unworthy of you, for you can fizz +very prettily, at times.</p> + +<p>I forget the name of the first play which I was ever +called upon to criticize, except that it was a worthless +‘comedy’ in the West End by somebody who was +evidently not fit to produce even a one-act sketch. +But with what infinite conscientiousness I attacked +my task! I went armed with pencils, one of +which I produced from time to time in order to +scribble furtively on the back of the programme, +trying not to be seen and yet half hoping that somebody +would see me, and realize that I really was a +dramatic critic. However, it was exceedingly difficult +to work under such conditions. One had rather +to bend down and crumple one’s waistcoat (which +would bring one perilously near the condition of +‘sad uniform’), or else content oneself with a few +desultory scrawls which were usually illegible at the +end of the performance.</p> + +<p>From such scraps, at first, was the criticism written, +late at night, while the echo of the drama still seemed +to hover in the air. But after a time I learnt that +far the best criticisms were written entirely from +memory, at least a day after the play. Sometimes, +if there was a première on the night in which we +were going to press, it would be necessary to dash +into the office and write half a column in twenty +minutes, surrounded by the buzz and clash of great +machines printing late editions. But criticizing in +those circumstances was dangerous—very dangerous. +So elating, so intoxicating is the atmosphere of the +theatre, that a good actress seems transfigured, for +the moment, into a great genius. Not until the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span> +morning comes do we realize only too often that +she is just—good.</p> + +<p>For every capable play I saw—not great, but well-constructed +and interesting—I must have seen, at +a very charitable estimate, twenty bad ones. A +mysterious thing the theatre. Entirely incalculable, +one would imagine, for the average run of men. I +have asked myself time and again, during the last +year or so, by what dark process certain plays have +ever been born at all. I have sat back in my stall, +in wide-eyed innocence, listening to the sort of +dialogue that, one imagines, takes place during the +meat-teas of our lesser lunatic asylums, endeavouring +to be interested in situations that contain nothing +new, nothing dramatic, nothing vital in any way +whatever. And I say why? Why?</p> + +<p>I ask myself the same question during the <i>entr’acte</i> +in the bar, with its warm humanity, its grotesque +barmaids, its sparkling taps and glasses. Here, +where life is throbbing and intense, where the +presumably evil passions of those who have not +drunk are offset by the soft desires of those who have, +the drama which one has just been observing seems +infinitely petty—the <i>dramatis personæ</i> as ghosts +blown willy-nilly across a desolate stage by the +winds of nonsense. Again I wonder why?</p> + +<p>Before I endeavour to answer that question let me +say that when I see a real play I do not go to the +bar. I either remain attached to my seat in a state of +trance, or else I go out by myself into the street, +collide violently with the stomachs of large fat men, +get splashed by motor-buses, and creep back, like a +worshipper, just as the lights are being turned down.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span></p> + +<p>We have still not answered the question, Why do +such bad plays get produced at all? The chief +reason, I believe, is that one of the most important +people in the theatre is still paid rather less than +the ladies who sweep the carpets. That person is +the play-reader. Mr. Edward Knoblock was a play-reader +before he wrote <i>Kismet</i>, and told me that he +used to read something like three thousand plays a +year, working all day and a good deal of the night, +for some fantastically small sum, like two pounds a +week. Yet, on his decision (and very often on his +extra work in re-writing them), depended the expenditure +of thousands of pounds, and the making +or losing of a small fortune.</p> + +<p>We have recently had a very illuminating illustration +of the mentality of the play-reader. A woman +who for twenty years has been reading plays for +London managers (who, presumably, have been +guided by her advice), suddenly wrote a play herself, +in collaboration with a man whose name I forget.</p> + +<p>The play was duly produced, and it ran, by a +miracle, for a week. It was a farce, in both senses of +the word. No adjective in any language can describe +its dreariness. (I believe there is a word in +Russian, which deals with a particular mental +disease known only among grave-diggers, but I have +forgotten it.) If a nonconformist father and a +Baptist mother had produced a daughter of the +lowest intelligence, who had sedulously been kept +from entering the theatre until she was thirty, at +which date she had been to a pierrot performance on +a small sea-side pier on a rainy day at the end of the +season, and had then returned with a splitting headache<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span> +to record her impressions, that was the sort of +play she would write. Ten sentences of it, in typescript, +would have given the average reader a feeling +of desolate despair that the human brain could +conceive such banalities.</p> + +<p>And yet, the author, for twenty years, has been +(and to the best of my knowledge, still is) a form of +despot before whom all aspiring young playwrights +must make obeisance. She is the gate through which +they must pass, the play-doctor who must pronounce +them sound. It is all wrong. She may be a good +mother, a brave woman, with a positive passion for +dumb animals. But she never has, never will, and +never can, be qualified to judge of any matter even +remotely connected with the theatre.</p> + +<p>With one notable exception—I need not name +him—we know practically nothing about ‘scene’ +in the sense that Mr. Gordon Craig uses the word. +We use a lighting system as casually as we switch on +a light in our own bathrooms. We stick chairs +higgledy-piggledy all over the room, not realizing +that in a play a chair is a perpetual <i>note</i>, a monotone +perhaps, but still playing its part in the general +harmony or discord. We have had one or two +attempts at significant scenery in England lately, +but the scenery was so significant that it entirely +dwarfed the actors, who themselves were none too +strong that they should be robbed of even a little +of their personality. One had a sense of infinite +sideboards, one was caught in the rapture that +belongs to a really seductive sofa. And the play +went to pot.</p> + +<p>It has needed an American to show us what scenery<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> +can be. Need I say that I refer to Mr. Robert Jones’s +designs for John Barrymore’s production of <i>Hamlet</i>? +It is the most superb scenery I have seen in any part +of the world—the soaring arch, lost in gloom, +brooding, sometimes outlined in a sudden fretted +splendour, tremendously aloof, like the gesture of +some genius who alone fully comprehended the +recessed mysteries of Hamlet’s soul. If I know +the smallest thing about the theatre, that was great +scenery—as great, in its way, as the play itself.</p> + +<p>Writing of Robert Jones—who, as one of the most +important men in the modern theatre, ought to be +as well known in this country as Bernard Shaw is in +America—makes me want to ‘have you meet him,’ +because hardly anybody over here seems even to +have heard of him at all. He is exquisitely erratic. +I have spoken of the marvellous arch which he made +for <i>Hamlet</i>, but I did not betray the secret of its +inspiration. That came from Mont St. Michel. +And this was Robert Jones’s method of getting to +Mont St. Michel.</p> + +<p>He was going to Paris with an old friend. By some +strange freak they entered a train which was continually +stopping at stations. After an hour or so it +stopped at a tiny station, surrounded by fields of +blue flowers, with hills beckoning in the distance.</p> + +<p>‘Let’s get out,’ said Robert.</p> + +<p>‘Let’s,’ replied the friend, who, with geniuses, +always acquiesced.</p> + +<p>They got out, seized their luggage. Outside was +an old Ford car. The luggage was placed upon it.</p> + +<p>Robert took out a map. ‘It is only a few hundred +miles from here,’ he said, ‘to the sea. If we go<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> +straight across country we shall reach Mont St. +Michel.’ He made a rapid calculation. ‘We should +arrive at dawn. The towers will be rising out of the +mist.’ (To the coachman)—‘Drive to Mont St. +Michel.’</p> + +<p>And by that fiery spirit was created the scene which, +to me, is the only setting worthy of <i>Hamlet</i>.</p> + +<p>It would be interesting to know the extent to which +the censor has contributed to the present state of +affairs. I think he is more objectionable as a distasteful +symbol than as a functioning official. The +obvious and natural idea that censorship in any +form whatever is more immoral than the most +indecent work that can come from a human brain +has not yet penetrated our still medieval intelligences, +but it is gradually becoming evident.</p> + +<p>Professor A. M. Low, that brilliant young inventor, +once said to me that in a few hundred years an +umbrella will seem as monstrously absurd to our +descendants as witch-burning seems to-day. The +idea of censorship will, I believe, share the fate of +the umbrella. If a dramatist wishes to express an +idea by filling his stage with naked and debased +creatures, it seems to me amazing that anybody +should have the impudence to stop him. You are +not forced into a theatre, any more than you are +forced to observe the antics of dogs in the streets. +You can stay away. You can....</p> + +<p>But there. This is not 2125. It is 1925. One +must wait—like the witches.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c24">CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">In which William Somerset Maugham makes a Delicate Grimace</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">illiam Somerset Maugham</span> has no public +personality. Although <i>Lady Frederick</i> has +been prancing about the stages of the world for nearly +twenty years—dear thing—although the ‘leaves’ +still ‘tremble,’ and although ‘Rain’ is apparently +never going to cease showering golden drops into +the pocket of its creator, William Somerset +Maugham remains William Somerset Maugham. +He does not, like other successful authors, suddenly +develop piercing eyes, or a villa in Capri, or a pony, +or a rose garden, or any of the usual accompaniments +of fame.</p> + +<p>Why there are so few tales about him, I can’t +imagine, for his life abounds in the sort of ‘copy’ +which would bring a flush to the cheeks of even the +weariest Press agent. The story of his early struggles, +for example. He told it to me on one evening +full of hope, when the first adolescent strawberries +had been discovered in the Café Royal, and were +blushing at the last oysters, the like of which they +would never see again, it being the last of April’s +days.</p> + +<p>I can see him now, one cheek pink by the light of +the red lamp by his side, the other pale by the light +of nature. His black eyes sparkled like sloes dipped +in wine, and, had a hundred others not forestalled +me, I should have said that ‘the eyelids were a little +weary, as though this were the head upon which all +the ends of the world were come.’ Maugham’s +eyelids always are a little weary, but his mouth is +invariably on the verge of a smile.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p> + +<p>‘When I came to London,’ he said, ‘I had £3,000. +I was twenty years old, and I made up my mind that +I should write for a living. For ten years I wrote, +but I hardly lived. Nobody would put on my plays, +and though my novels were published, nobody +appeared anxious to read them.</p> + +<p>‘When I was thirty I had reached my last hundred +pounds. I was mildly desperate. And then, somebody +suddenly decided, in a moment of aberration, +that they would produce a play of mine. The play +was <i>Lady Frederick</i>.</p> + +<p>‘I knew that if <i>Lady Frederick</i> was a failure I +should have to give up the idea of writing any more, +and should spend the rest of my days in an office. I +had no particular hope that it would be anything but +a failure, especially as the producer came to me, a few +days before the first night, and told me that there +weren’t enough epigrams. “We want at least two +dozen more epigrams,” he said. I blinked at him, +went away to have a cup of tea, and put in the epigrams +with a trembling hand, rather as though I +were a new cook sticking almonds on to the top of +her first cake.</p> + +<p>‘Well, I arrived at the theatre on the first night, +knowing that I should leave it either as an accomplished +dramatist or an embryo bank clerk. I left +it as the former. I knew, from the very beginning +that the play was a success, because they began to +laugh almost as soon as the curtain had risen. I +think it’s a great thing to get a laugh in one’s first +few lines.’</p> + +<p>The adjective which is always used as a sort of +sign-post when Maugham is under discussion is the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> +one word in the English language which I thoroughly +detest. I mean, of course, ‘cynical.’ It is the +sort of word that is used by speckled young women +at tennis parties, when one attempts to vary the +monotony of the game by making a few gentle +reflections to one’s partner on the futility of existence. +I once met somebody (this is terrible, but +true), who said to me the meaningless, damning +words, ‘I’m an awful cynic, you know.’ That person +went to prison. I understand the warders were so +kind to him that he is now a raving sentimentalist.</p> + +<p>We will, therefore, if you please, rule out this +epicene adjective from our discussion of William +Somerset Maugham. Let us say, rather, that he has +the honesty to admit that he finds life quite meaningless, +seeing it merely as a procession of grotesque, +painted figures winding out of the darkness into a +momentary patch of light, and then drifting into a +deeper darkness still. But he does not beat his +breast, in the manner of Thomas Hardy, and rend +the clouds over Bryanston Square with blasphemies. +He lies back, lights a cigarette, beckons to a few of +the more ridiculous persons in the procession, and +sets them dancing on the stage of his own imagination. +And I can quite believe that the substantial +royalties which result are far more satisfactory than +any misty philosophies.</p> + +<p>I am not speaking without the book. He summed +it all up once by saying to me, ‘I think that life has +a great deal of rhyme and absolutely no reason. I +entirely fail to see that it means anything whatever. +It justifies itself only by the amusement it gives one.’</p> + +<p>The occasion on which these bold and bad words<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> +issued from his lips was, if I remember rightly, at a +party where he, in the velvet smoking-jacket which +he wears on all possible occasions, was lying gracefully +against the back of a sofa. H. G. Wells was +sitting bolt upright in an arm-chair, while I sat most +appropriately on the floor. Thus I was at the feet +of two masters at the same time. A sensation which, +had I been an American tourist, would probably +have resulted in apoplexy. H. G. Wells had admitted +to a completely open mind on the whole +problem of existence, which, I presume, was the +cause of Maugham’s confession.</p> + +<p>But I don’t wish to give the impression that he +strikes one merely as a facile, elegant figure, skating +on the surface of things, cutting arabesques on the +ice. His polished agnosticism is the result of a +deeper thought than the hearty optimism of many +tiresome philosophers. He told me once of the +lasting emotion he experienced when, in a remote +cave in Java, he discovered frescoes, a thousand +years old, of peasants, using almost precisely the +same instruments as were used in the fields of +Devonshire and Cornwall to-day.</p> + +<p>For a moment he looked entirely serious. ‘It gave +me an overwhelming realization of the changelessness +of man,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t so much the fact +that they were using the same sorts of spades and +hoes. One saw beyond that into the essential sameness +of their personalities. Nothing is ever altered.’ +And then the smile came back again. ‘I can’t make +out whether it depresses me or not.’</p> + +<p>His style, in the same way, is no airy stringing of +words, no naïve and unstudied grouping of language.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> +Like his philosophy, it has emerged from +many experiments. ‘I think I have at last got down +to the bare bones of style,’ he said. ‘I try to say what +I have to say with the greatest possible economy of +language. I used to be terribly elaborate and ornate. +Now I write as though I were writing telegrams. +And when I have finished, I go over it all again to +see what can be deleted.’</p> + +<p>Maugham, I think, is eternally surprised that +people find him shocking. It is odd, but not so odd +as the fact that <i>The Circle</i> (which was regarded in +London as so innocent that hardly a single bishop +fell out of his pulpit about it) was found so hideously +immoral in Paris that the great majority of managers +refused to take the responsibility of putting it on. +I was even more amazed when he told me that <i>Lady +Frederick</i>, which the Edwardians so genteelly applauded, +caused a great many heads to be shaken in +Germany, and apparently provided the Teutonic +race with an excellent proof of the decadence of +English society.</p> + +<p>Speaking of the translations of his plays reminds +me of a good story. I once asked him what sort of +sensation one had when one heard one’s work +played in a foreign language; if it made the author’s +breast swell with pride, or if it was merely irritating.</p> + +<p>‘I once found myself in Petrograd,’ he said, ‘and +I was excessively bored. I hardly understood +Russian at all, but I decided that the only way in +which to cheer myself up was to go to the theatre. +I went to the theatre, choosing the largest and +cleanest-looking one I could find, and sat down to +watch the play.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span></p> + +<p>‘It was a comedy, and, as far as one could judge, +the audience seemed to find it amusing. It did not +amuse me in the least, because I couldn’t understand +a single word of what it was about. But towards the +end of the first Act it seemed to me that there was +something vaguely familiar about the situation on +the stage. I had a sense of listening to something +I had heard in a dream. I looked down at the programme +to discover who had written it. The +author’s name was Mum. And the name of the +play was <i>Jack Straw</i>.’</p> + +<p>It was at Wembley, strangely enough, that he +made the most provocative statement which I have +ever heard him make—the sort of statement which +sticks uncomfortably in one’s mind, like a burr. +It was really my fault, because Wembley, as usual, +had depressed me to distraction. To wander through +halls of bottled gooseberries, called ‘Canada,’ and +bottled peaches, called ‘Australia’; to drag one’s feet +past hideous engines, labelled ‘Industry,’ and to +listen to the indecent shrieks of young women on +toboggans, called ‘Amusement,’ strikes me as one +of the grimmest jests which life has to offer.</p> + +<p>There was only one thing to do in this sort of +environment, and that was, to talk about love. To +talk at it, rather. I began to mutter platitudes +about love being a condition impossible of attainment, +an alchemy that had never been discovered. +That no two people ever loved each other with an +equal fire. That the only possible love implied the +most rigid and exacting fidelity, in thought as well +as in deed. And that nobody (except bores and half-wits) +ever achieved this condition.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> + +<p>Then suddenly Maugham cut through these +gloomy clouds with one shattering sentence. ‘<i>I +don’t see why one shouldn’t love people flippantly</i>,’ +he said.</p> + +<p>‘Flippantly!’</p> + +<p>There danced before my eyes the ghosts of light +ladies on broad terraces, terraces which only knew +the moonlight and were always mysterious with the +heady scent of dark roses. Flippantly! So many +difficulties solved, so many problems blown, like +a puff of smoke, over the thick forest in which I was +wandering. If only one could recapture the age in +which those remarks really expressed a mode of life. +Here, in the British Empire Exhibition, the idea of +‘loving anybody flippantly’ sounded almost like +treason, as though one had stolen into the Australian +pavilion by night, and had extracted one of the +bottled gooseberries to see if they really tasted as +nasty as they looked.</p> + +<p>And yet, I believe it is the right attitude.—No, I +don’t. I believe it is the most comfortable attitude. +It is neither right nor wrong, it is simply a matter +of temperament. If, however, there were a little +more flippancy in the world, there might be a few +less wars. Swords cannot be unsheathed flippantly. +Poison cannot be made with an airy gesture. Notes +cannot be flicked across the Channel from one ambassador +to another, like blowing kisses. If they +could, they might not cause so much trouble.</p> + +<p>That is, I think, the tremendously important +function that Maugham plays in the world to-day. +He says to the world, ‘I know no more about things +than you. I have not the faintest idea where I came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> +from, whither I am going. Yes, I quite agree that +we are in a very distressful condition. But, just a +moment ...’ (and here he takes one by the arm), +‘if you look over in that direction, you will see a +man with an extraordinarily amusing face. He is +talking to a woman who is pretending to be in love +with him. How tragic? Not in the least. If you only +realized, it is exceptionally amusing. Now listen, +and I will tell you a story....’</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c25">CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">In which Michael Arlen Disdains Pink Chestnuts</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">n</span> 1870, had you chanced to be walking over one +of the rough and alarming roads that stretched +across the Balkans, from Roustchouk to Constantinople, +you might have met a young man driving a +bullock cart. He would have been tall and dark, with +a certain weariness round his black eyes, and what +might be described as ‘a grim determination’ round +his lips. (Yes—we will get to Michael Arlen in a +moment.)</p> + +<p>The young man was setting out to make his +fortune. And he made it. Not all at once, it is true, +for the road from Roustchouk to Constantinople is +long, and I should imagine, in 1870 it was even +longer. And one cannot make a great fortune +quickly when one has only £20 with which to buy +Turkish delights, even when one sells them at +double the money. Bandits, too, who emerged from +the forlorn countryside and attacked one in the rear, +were apt to make great inroads into one’s fortune. +However, in time, the young man had saved £50, +at the age of 19. (Yes, Michael Arlen is getting +nearer and nearer.)</p> + +<p>When the young man had made his £50 he bought +a beautiful coat of blue velvet, with a scarf of coloured +wool, and he was the beau of the village. All +the Armenian girls cast their black eyes in his +direction. His weariness, in consequence, was +slightly alleviated. (I can hear Michael Arlen +chafing in the next paragraph.)</p> + +<p>One Sunday, this fine young man put on his +velvet suit and went for a drive round the town in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> +an open cab. Apart from the open cab, it was perhaps +the greatest day in his life. For as he was +passing under a certain high window, he looked up +and saw a girl who was fairer than any girl he had +ever seen. Their eyes met, and they were in love. +She drew back from the window, and cried, as all +true lovers should. He frowned, told the cab to +drive him home, and went in his blue velvet coat to +demand her hand from her father. And as soon as +her father had said ‘yes,’ the first line, one might +say, was written of <i>The Green Hat</i>. For the young +man was Michael Arlen’s father.</p> + +<p>I have introduced Michael Arlen in this manner +because it seems in some way to heighten the +romance of his career. They had a great deal in +common, his father and he. They both treated life +as an adventure, and doing so, gained a rich reward. +The only difference being that Arlen senior went +into business, whereas Arlen junior kept out of it. +Arlen senior lost his money in the war. Arlen junior +made his money in the peace.</p> + +<p>A very dainty young man I thought him, when we +first drank wine together at an hour when the last +silk hat has drifted shamelessly home in the Mayfair +dawn—(which is as no other dawn). I use the word +‘dainty,’ not to indicate effeminacy, but to convey a +certain nicety of manner, a delicacy of tact. A very +charming young man, it seemed, after the third +glass of wine. A very brilliant young man, I was +convinced, after the sixth. And I keep to the latter +opinion, now that I am sober.</p> + +<p>So few people know him. He has such a tiresome +legend attached to him—a gilt-edged legend. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> +has been dehumanized in the popular imagination +by his success. I hate writing biographies of anybody +but myself and so, if I scrawl down a few disjointed +lines, it is all the information that you will get. But +it is more than most people will give you.</p> + +<p>Eleven years ago—a pound a week—alone in +London. ‘So lonely I was,’ he told me once, ‘I +had nobody to speak to but my landlady. And even +landladies, after a time, lose their charm. They are +the last people who do, but still, it is inevitable.’</p> + +<p>‘The New Age’—essays for two years—one friend. +The friend, oddly enough, was young Frank Henderson, +whose delightful old father ties a red tie +better than any other Socialist in London, and runs +‘The Bomb Shop,’ where one may buy the sweetest +seditious literature on this side of the English +Channel. ‘I used to sit at the back of the shop, +without a bob, talking to Frank,’ he said. ‘I still do. +We roar with laughter as we see people coming in +to buy <i>Mayfair</i>.’</p> + +<p><i>The London Venture</i>—£30 profit—a visit to Bruce +Ingram, the Editor of <i>The Sketch</i>—a commission +to do twelve short stories of 1,500 words each, at +a remuneration of £8 apiece. ‘And now,’ he tells +me, ‘I have a contract for the rest of my life, +which brings me in £900 for every short story +I write, whether it is published or not. Isn’t it +silly?’</p> + +<p>I liked that remark, ‘Isn’t it silly?’ It is the sort of +remark that any young man, with his pockets full +of unexpected dollars, might make. He sits down +and writes. His stories are sent drifting round the +world. They come drifting back. Then, one day,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> +they do not drift back. They are published. They +create a sensation. And he is ‘made.’</p> + +<p>‘I have never met anybody who liked my books.’ +Now that I have put it down, that seems to me the +most extraordinary sentence I have ever written. +‘Never met anybody who liked my books.’ I can +see him now, as he said it, propped up against a +pile of cushions in his flat in Charles Street. The +flat in question is at the extreme end of the street, +rather crowded out by its richer relatives, like a raw +recruit who has just shuffled hastily into line, and +tries to look as though he had been there from the +beginning.</p> + +<p>‘You see,’ he went on, ‘I’m not really a fashion. I’m +a disease. An international disease. Nobody likes +me. Most of the people who read me say, “How +horrid, or how silly, or how tiresome.” And yet +they read me. They’ve <i>got</i> to, don’t you see? That’s +really the cleverest thing I did. I saw the rather +feverish state of the body politic and social. And I +disseminated my poisonous prose right and left. +They did not catch it at first. A few people who +have been thoroughly inoculated by a habit of +taking Wordsworth neat have not caught it even +yet. But the great majority have fallen by the +wayside. And how they hate it!’</p> + +<p class="gtb">******</p> + +<p>I don’t like people who do not adore their mothers. +It seems a strange thing to say, just like that, in the +middle of this little caper with Michael Arlen, but +it is not quite so irrelevant as you think. Michael +Arlen is a nice young man, and he adores his +mother. The first proceeds of <i>The Green Hat</i> may<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> +now be seen round Mrs. Arlen’s neck, in the shape +of a chain of glistening pearls.</p> + +<p>‘She reads <i>The Green Hat</i> serially in an Armenian +paper published in Constantinople, which is +sent to her in Cheshire,’ he told me. ‘You see, she +hardly speaks a word of English. But,’—and here +he looked almost earnest for a moment—‘I defy +anybody to tell me that I write English like a +foreigner.’</p> + +<p>He doesn’t. He analysed his style to me as ‘influenced +by an early study of de Quincey, with a +side glance at the eighteenth century.’ I think it a +very beautiful style. A liqueur style, of course, +to be sipped with discretion. But one does not +sneer at yellow chartreuse because one cannot turn +it on from a tap. There is a lingering cadence +about it, a lazy passion, as though he were lying +on a sofa by a bowl of roses and picking them to +pieces one by one. I shudder at that awful simile. +But it shall stand. It vaguely expresses what I +mean.</p> + +<p>I mentioned yellow chartreuse. Immediately it +brought into my mind’s eye the huge yellow Rolls-Royce +which he suddenly bought, and equally suddenly +gave away—(to his mother). Somehow that +car seemed to help me to understand him. It was +luxurious, and he adores luxury. It was six inches +longer than any other car in London, and who +would not, in their heart of hearts, delight in that +distinction? And it had, on the number plate, M.A. +He had taken the car all the way to Manchester to +be registered, in order to have that mark put on +it. ‘It is exactly the sort of car that my sort of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span> +success demands,’ he said, a little wistfully. It +was.</p> + +<p>I remember driving round and round Hyde Park +in this car, on one of those early summer evenings +when one feels one’s whole life has been devoted to +the consumption of strawberries. We drove round +until I felt slightly dizzy. But in spite of the dizziness +I remember a great many things we said, for +we were in good form just then, and Michael had +been lying in bed all day, ‘from fatigue.’</p> + +<p>‘One day,’ he said, and his eyes were half closed, +‘there will be a house in a square—fountains and +silky animals—women....’</p> + +<p>I wondered. Silky animals? Women? Which was +which? Or was each, neither? If you understand +me....</p> + +<p>‘And,’ he said, ‘I shall go away, sell everything, go +right away.’ The car whirled round a corner. +‘With two innovation trunks.’</p> + +<p>We were on a straight piece of road, and my head +was clearer.</p> + +<p>‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘about <i>The Green Hat</i>.’</p> + +<p>‘There is nothing to tell.’</p> + +<p>‘There is everything to tell about something which +makes one a millionaire.’</p> + +<p>‘Ah!’ The Albert Memorial hove in sight, and +we were both silent, and a little awed. Then, ‘It +was written in two months. At a place called Southport, +in Lancashire. I wrote solidly every day for +ten hours. Lots of drink and no friends. I would +write all the morning. Then, in the afternoon, I +would read what I had written. Then in the evening +I would re-write it again.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span></p> + +<p>The Albert Memorial had vanished into the distance, +as even Albert Memorials do (which is the +consolation of life), and he told me more.</p> + +<p>‘And on each new morning,’ he said, ‘I would begin +by writing the last two pages over again, to get me +into the mood of the thing. There are a hundred +thousand words in <i>The Green Hat</i>.’</p> + +<p>‘It makes me feel exceedingly hearty,’ I said, ‘to +think that “we authors”’ (you see, the Albert +Memorial was still with us in spirit), ‘are capable of +such a physical strain.’</p> + +<p>The car whizzed once more round a bend. ‘Look +quickly,’ I said. ‘Over there. A pink chestnut has +forgotten the time of year. It ought to have been +over long ago. And look at it now. <i>Please</i>....’ +I was becoming agonized.</p> + +<p>‘I never look at views,’ he said, examining his +small hands with intense interest.</p> + +<p>‘A pink chestnut is not a view. It is an emotion.’</p> + +<p>He flicked his fingers, and sighed. ‘Only people,’ +he said. ‘And streets, of course. But I hate views. +Going across America I never looked out of the +window. I was too excited by the people inside. +Trees and hills and valleys say nothing to me. +Weather says very little to me. Environment +leaves me cold.’</p> + +<p>We had whizzed far enough. I called a halt, and +I got out. And Michael Arlen waved his hand with +an eighteenth-century grace, the pink chestnut +outlining his head like a halo that has missed its +way.</p> + +<p><i>Au revoir</i>—you charming person! I seem to see +you wandering away from me, rather inconsequently,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span> +down one of the grey, misty streets of the Mayfair +which you love. You make, in some vague way, +romance even of Berkeley Square. I had always +regarded it as dull. But to you, it has a beauty. It +tells you so many secrets. And though, in the +morning, I feel that I know the answer to those +secrets, at night you touch them with magic, you +colour them with something of your own subtle +spirit.</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c26">CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">Containing the Hideous Truth about Noel Coward</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap1">I</span> <span class="smcap">should</span> like to draw Noel Coward rather than to +talk about him—to take up my pen and trace, +with infinite subtlety, the rather bumpy forehead, the +keen nose, the darting eyes—the mouth, especially +the mouth, which seems constantly on the point of +uttering delicious impudences.</p> + +<p>But when I draw people, they are always Queen +Victoria. They have invariably the same dejected +eyelids, the same flaccid lips. Even the addition of a +moustache fails to conceal the resemblance. And +though Queen Victoria and Noel Coward have much +in common—(e.g., an invincible determination, and +a well-founded conviction that they are typical of +their age)—I must content myself with words, and +not with lines.</p> + +<p>I first really began to know him one evening before +the production of <i>London Calling</i>. It was a cold +night, there had been a party, and, as far as I remember, +a number of us found ourselves in a long, golden +room, faintly fragrant with something of Coty’s. It +was late, but nobody minded, for there was a feeling +about the room which was neither of night nor of +day, but of that exquisite indetermination which +lulls the senses into a lazy oblivion. To complete +the picture, you must add an immense couch, +covered with green cushions and purple women, +and one of those sleek, black pianos that simply +demand to be played upon.</p> + +<p>It was played upon, by Noel Coward. I wish I +could recapture that scene—his curious, agile fingers, +the husky voice in which he half sang, half spoke,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span> +his lyrics—rather insolently tossing us an occasional +spark of wit, drifting with complete indifference, +into a line of baroque poetry:</p> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘<i>Parisian pierrot, society’s hero</i>....’</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>And all the time, propped up against the piano, a +languid French doll was regarding him with painted +eyes, as though it were saying, ‘<i>You</i> are the only +person who understands me here.’</p> + +<p>But it wasn’t. I think I understood him, too, +rather better than the purple women. For he was +outside this curious and typical scene, as a spectator, +not as a participator. Even though he was the centre +of attraction, he was, in a sense, hovering on the +edge of it all, intensely interested, entirely detached. +Somebody would say to him, ‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ +And though he replied, ‘<i>too</i> marvellous,’ with exactly +the intonation that was required of him, there was a +look in his eyes which suggested that he really +meant, ‘It is not marvellous at all. And you, my +dear, are an empty-headed fool for calling it so.’</p> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘<i>Parisian pierrot, society’s hero</i>....’</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>There is more in those four words than most of +the amiable young ladies who play it in the wrong +key would imagine. Something of a sneer, I believe. +I have an imaginary picture in my mind which +illustrates the phrase. The party is over, the last +cigarette has burnt itself into an obscene mess in +the ash tray, the roses have drooped their expensive +and artificial heads in a despairing gesture. Only +the doll remains alert, staring in front of it with the +same painted eyes. This is the doll’s hour. And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span> +Noel goes up to it, smiling—(I should like to say +‘sardonically,’ but it sounds too like a tailor’s advertisement), +and negligently twitches its hand, and +fingers its ruff, and probably, as a final gesture of +contempt, flicks his finger on its stumpy nose.</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, no such touching scene was +enacted after this particular party, for we walked +back to my flat together, and there, in an atmosphere +devoid of dolls, in front of one of those gas fires +which look like skulls roasting in hell, I learnt a +great deal about Noel which I had never hitherto +suspected.</p> + +<p>I learnt, for example, that his first trip to the United +States, which was announced with so harmonious a +flourish of trumpets, had been accomplished on the +sum of £50. ‘Nobody would put on any of my plays,’ +he said. ‘There was nothing for me to do in England. +So I sold some songs and went to America. I published +a book which nobody read. I was a failure. +But—oh—how successful I pretended to be.’</p> + +<p>That was typical of Noel. His conceit he reserves +only for his public. For himself and for his friends +he has none at all. That bold and impudent mask +with which he covers his real feelings when attacked +by the Press is gently lowered as soon as the last +reporter has vanished through the front door, and +with a sigh he returns to the abnormal, weary of +misrepresenting himself to mediocre minds. He is +not in the least affected by the numerous women +who powder their noses at his newly erected shrine. +He demands criticism.</p> + +<p>One picture of him will always remain in my mind. +It was behind the stage at the Everyman Theatre<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span> +after the first night of <i>The Vortex</i>. Noel was +hunched up in a chair in front of a fire, on which a +kettle was making pleasant domestic noises. His face +was still haggard from the ghastly make-up which he +wears in the third Act, and he flaunted a dressing-gown +of flowered silk which I have never ceased to +covet. We were in semi-darkness. As the firelight +flickered, so did our conversation—staccato, a little +taut and weary.</p> + +<p>‘You’re terribly kind,’ he said. ‘And now please +tell me the truth.’</p> + +<p>‘I’ve told you nothing but the truth.’</p> + +<p>‘The whole truth?’</p> + +<p>I laughed. ‘Well—the last Act—the very last few +minutes....’</p> + +<p>The flowered silk rustled. He was sitting upright.</p> + +<p>‘Yes.’</p> + +<p>‘I thought it too indeterminate. You plunged us +into that terrible swamp of emotion and you left us +there, sticking. I wanted some sort of sign-post. I +didn’t know whether I was going to sink or swim.’</p> + +<p>‘I know. You’re absolutely right. I muddled that +to-night.’</p> + +<p>I thought to myself how infuriated I should have +been if anybody in that triumphant moment had +dared to suggest imperfections, especially if I had +asked them to do so.</p> + +<p>‘There <i>is</i> a sign-post,’ he went on. ‘Just the words, +“we’ll both try.” I meant to say them very clearly. +I always shall in future.’</p> + +<p>It is the habit among many dreary young men, +whose failure in life may be measured by the faultless +fit of their waistcoats, to croon to each other:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span> +‘Noel, twenty-five? My dear, he’s at least thirty.’ +One has the impression that their pockets are +stuffed with the birth certificates of their enemies. +It is not on the tedious evidence of a birth certificate +that I should accept the evidence of Noel’s youth. +There have been moments when I have felt, although +we are about the same age, that I was old enough to +be his grandfather.</p> + +<p>One such moment was when we were lunching together +and he suddenly said, ‘I’ve got a secretary!’ +He said it with such gusto, such a ring of glee, that +I felt exactly as though some pink and perfect child +had approached me, saying, “Look what <i>I’ve</i> got! +And if you wind it up it will run right across to the +fender.’ I am sure that Noel’s secretary does not +need to be wound up.</p> + +<p>On another occasion—(I do trust that I am not +being impertinent. I am only trying to put before +you the real Noel. If he wished to pose as a rich +dilettante whose first epigrams had echoed under +expensive and ancestral roofs, it would be different). +On another occasion, I met him in the street, +strangely enough, opposite a toy shop, and he said, +in an awed whisper, ‘I almost bought a manor house +the other day.’ There was something magnificent +in that remark. I stood quite still, slightly pale at +the thought, and looked fixedly at one of the most +beautiful golliwogs I have ever seen. ‘I almost +bought a manor house.’ That wasn’t the remark +of a depraved, doped genius. ‘I almost bought a +golliwog.’ Almost, you note. I knew, and he knew, +in that rare and transient moment, that he could +not really mean what he said. It was only bluff.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span> +It was a doll’s house that he was talking about.</p> + +<p>That last paragraph is involved, but it is meant to +convey to you the spirit for which nobody ever gives +him any credit—the spirit of gay adventure which +is perhaps the most attractive thing about him.</p> + +<p>I wish I could be a Boswell, but I am quite sure +that I couldn’t. I should always be writing down +my own remarks instead of those of other people, +which is probably what Boswell really did. And so, +out of all the delicious flow of impudences which +has sparkled through Noel’s lips, I can gather up +not one single drop.</p> + +<p>But at least one thing I must say—that if Noel +Coward could fall in love, he would certainly write +a greater play than <i>The Vortex</i>, in the truest sense of +that much-abused word. It may sound foolish, but +I should imagine that he found it exceedingly +difficult to fall in love. Love, in the accepted sense +of the word, demands quite a great deal of stupidity +on the part of both concerned. Most of us have it. +Noel hasn’t. In the firm contours of his mind there +appear none of those unsuspected cracks through +which occasionally the divine foolishness may escape. +It is as though his brain were like a perfect emerald +without a flaw in it, which is a paradox, for as +Monsieur Cartier will tell you, no emerald which +does not possess a flaw is perfect. One day, I +believe, he <i>will</i> fall in love, and the prospect is so +intriguing that I could close my eyes and allow my +pen to scrawl ahead indefinitely at the delicious prospect +of Noel singing lyrics (‘as clean as a whistle’) in +the scented darkness outside many magic casements.</p> + +<p>And when he does, something amazing is going to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span> +happen. For he writes as a bird flies, swiftly, without +looking back. With a bird’s-eye view, too, of the +theatre, which seems to give to his work a poise and a +dexterity which is almost uncanny. He showed me +once the original manuscript of <i>The Vortex</i>. The +words, lightly written in pencil, darted down the +pages like a flight of swallows. They were eloquent +of the ordered frenzy which produced them.</p> + +<p>Finally, when anybody tells me that Noel Coward is +‘decadent,’ I feel like hitting them across the mouth. +Do you realize, you outraged mothers and fathers +of England, who sit back in your stalls deploring the +depravity of the author of <i>Fallen Angels</i>, that you are +watching a young man who for sheer pluck can give +you all the points in the game? Is it decadent to go +on the stage as a little boy, and fight, and fight, and +fight, when your own sons are learning to be fools +in the numerous academies for English gentlemen +which still mysteriously flourish in our midst?</p> + +<p>Is it decadent to go on writing, without money, +without encouragement, with very few friends, +always in the dim hope that one day, perhaps, a play +may be produced? And when that play is produced, +to see it a commercial failure—and the next play +too? And when success comes, at the age of twenty-five, +to work harder than ever, to stand up to the +critics and to say, ‘I don’t care a damn’? Is that +decadent? Or are you merely being slightly more +silly than usual?</p> +<hr class="full x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="c27">CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN</h2> +</div> + +<p class="c sp less">In which I allow Myself to be entirely Sentimental</p> + + +<p><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">nd</span> thus, abruptly, I end. A line drawn, a +cigarette thrown out of an open window, a pile +of manuscript pushed into the corner of one’s desk, +waiting to be sent to the typist.</p> + +<p>And thus, I suppose, youth ends. A line drawn +under one’s eyes, a sudden realization, as one is +laughing or drinking, that the ‘stuff which will not +endure’ has worn itself threadbare. To what purpose? +God alone knows. Not I.</p> + +<p>I have enjoyed the writing of this book far too +much to indulge in any sudden moralizations. But I +know my generation, this post-war generation which +has so baffled the middle-aged onlookers, who, from +the gallery, have watched the dance whirling beneath. +And I know that the one thing of which we are +always accused—that we live for the moment only—is +the one thing of which we are disastrously innocent.</p> + +<p>We are none of us living for the moment. We are +far too self-conscious for that. We have formulated +a creed of which the first principle is that happiness, +as an actual emotion, does not exist. ‘Happiness,’ +we proclaim, ‘consists either in looking forward to +things which will never happen or in remembering +things which never have happened.’ We are therefore +young only as long as we can cheat ourselves, +as long as we can go on dressing the future in bright +garments, and spinning a web of illusion over the +past. But in both cases the kind stuff of imagination +has to be produced out of our innermost cells, like +spiders forced every day to spin two webs. The +process is apt to be exhausting.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span></p> + +<p>And yet—we are constantly forgetting our philosophy. +A bright summer morning will do it. An +apple tree in fluffy and adorable bloom will do it. +Sometimes (for those of us who are most depraved), +pink foie gras will do it. But even then, we will not +allow that we are happy. We only admit the possibility +of happiness—i.e., that there may be some +form of heaven, or even a mildly exhilarating hell.</p> + +<p>Again—I have done. Twelve o’clock strikes. +There should really be slow music playing outside +my window, so that I might work myself into a +frenzy of pathos at the thought that another day +has arrived to carry me on to middle-age. I should +rather like to stay, just a little longer. But then—better +not. Accept the joke of life for what it is +worth. It is not such a very brilliant one, after all. +And was there not a man, called Browning, who +wrote:</p> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Grow old along with me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The best is yet to be.’?</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + + +<p class="c"><i>The End</i> +</p> + +<hr class="full"> + +<div class="transnote"> + +<p class="c">Transcriber’s Notes:</p> + +<p>Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.</p> + +<p>Perceived typographical errors have been changed.</p> + +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76494 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/76494-h/images/cover.jpg b/76494-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4199f54 --- /dev/null +++ b/76494-h/images/cover.jpg |
