Chapter VIII (5)

One wicket for no runs! We flung the scarlet symbol backward and forward in a great state of excitement, with visions of a freak match, the whole side of our opponents being out for ten runs, and so on. I remember the glum face of their umpire, a genial corn merchant, dressed in a white coat and a bowler hat, with a bewildering number of sweaters tied round his neck, glancing apprehensively at the pavilion. I remember that the next man in was the little wheelwright, and he looked very solemn and tense. The first three balls missed his wicket by inches, then he stopped them. My recollection of the rest of that morning was a vision of the little wheelwright, with his chin thrust forward, frowning at the bowlers. He had a peculiarly uncomfortable stance at the wicket, but he played very straight. He kept Dawkin out for about five overs, then he started pulling him round to leg. The wicket was rather fiery, and Dawkin was very fast. The wheelwright was hit three times on the thigh, twice on the chest, and numberless times on the arms, and one ball got up and glanced off his scalp, but he did not waver. He plodded on, lying in wait for the short ball to hook to leg. I do not remember how many he made, but it was a great innings. He took the heart out of Dawkin and encouraged one or two of the others to hit with courage. He was caught at last by a brilliant catch by Arthur Booth running in from long leg.

One advantage of a village team like Celminster is that they have no “tail,” or, rather, that you never know what the tail will do. You know by the costume that they have a tail, for the first four or five batsmen appear in complete outfits of white flannels and sweaters, and then the costumes start varying in a wonderful degree. Number six appears in a black waistcoat with white flannel trousers, number seven with brown pads and black boots, number eight with a blue shirt and brown trousers, and so on to the last man, who is dressed uncommonly like a verger. But this rallentando of sartorial equipment does not in any way represent the run-getting ability of the team, for suddenly some gentleman inappropriately garbed, who gives the impression of never having had a bat in his hand before, will lash out and score twenty-five runs off one over.

On this particular occasion I remember one man who came in about ninth, and who wore one brown pad and sand-shoes, and had on a blue shirt with a dicky and a collar, but no tie, and who stood right in front of his wicket, looked grimly at Dawkin, and then hit him for two sixes, a four, and a five, to the roaring accompaniment of “Good old Jar-r-ge!” from a row of small boys near the pavilion. The fifth ball hit his pad and he was given out l.b.w. He gave no expression of surprise, disappointment or disgust, but just walked grimly back to the pavilion. Celminster were all out before lunch, but I cannot let the last man--the verger--retire (he was bowled first ball off his foot) before speaking of our wicket-keeper, Jimmy Guilsworth.

Jimmy Guilsworth was, in my opinion, an ideal wicket-keeper. He was a little chap and wore glasses, but his figure was solid and homely. He was by profession something of a poet, and wrote lyrics in the celtic-twilight manner. He played cricket rarely, but when he did, he was instinctively made wicket-keeper. He had that curious, sympathetic mothering quality which every good wicket-keeper should have. The first business of a wicket-keeper is to make the opposing batsmen feel at home. When the man comes in trembling and nervous, the wicket-keeper should make some reassuring remark, something that at once establishes a bond of understanding between honourable opponents. When the batsman is struck on the elbow it is the wicket-keeper who should rush up and administer first-aid or spiritual comfort. And when the batsman is bowled or caught, he should say: “Hard luck, sir!”

At the same time it his business to mother the bowlers on his own side. He must be continually encouraging them and sympathizing with them, but in a subdued voice, so that the batsman does not hear. And, moreover, he must be prepared to act as chief of staff to the captain. He must advise him on the change of bowlers and on the disposition of the field. All of this requires great tact, understanding and perspicacity.

All these qualities Jimmy Guilsworth had in a marked degree. If he sometimes dropped catches and never stood near enough to stump any one, what was that to the sympathetic way he said “Oh, hard luck, sir!” to an opposing batsman when he was bowled by a long hop, or the convincing way he would call out, “Oh, well hit, sir!” when another opponent pulled a half-volley for four. What could have been more encouraging than the way he would rest his hand on young Booth’s shoulder after he had bowled a disappointing over, and say: “I say, old chap, you’re in great form. Could you pitch ’em up just a wee bit?” When things were going badly for the side, Jimmy would grin and whisper into Cartwright’s ear. Then there would be a consultation and a change of bowlers, or some one would come closer up to third-man, and, lo! in no time something would happen.

But it is lunch-time. In the pavilion a long table is set, with a clean cloth and napkins and with gay bowls of salad. On a side-table is a wonderful array of cold joints, hams, cold lamb, and pies. We sit down, talking of the game. Curiously enough, we do not mix with our opponents. We sit at one end, and they occupy the other, but we grin at one another, and the men sitting at the point of contact of the two parties occasionally proffer a remark.

Girls wait on us, and a fat man in shirt-sleeves, who produces ale and ginger-beer from some mysterious corner. And what a lunch it is! Does ever veal-and-ham pie taste so good as it does in the pavilion after the morning chasing a ball? And then tarts and fruit and custard and a large yellow cheese, how splendid it all seems, with the buzz of conversation and the bright sun through the open door! Does anything lend a fuller flavour to the inevitable pipe than such a lunch, mellowed by the rough flavour of a pint of shandy-gaff?

We stroll out again into the sun and puff tranquilly, and some of us gather round old Bob Parsons, the corn merchant, and listen to his panegyric of cricket as played “in the old days.” He’s seen a lot of cricket in his time, old Bob. His bony, weather-beaten face wrinkles, and his clear, ingenuous eyes blink at the heavens as he recalls famous men: “Johnny Strutt, he was a good ’un. Aye, and ye should ha’ seen old Tom Kennett bowl in his time. Nine wicket’ he took against Kailhurst, hittin’ the wood every toime. Fast he were, faster’n they bowl now. Fower bahls he bahl fast, then put up a slow.”

He shakes his head meditatively, as though the contemplation of the diabolical cunning of bowling a slow ball after four fast ones was almost too much to believe, as though it was a demonstration of intellectual calisthenics that this generation could not appreciate.

It is now the turn of the opponents to take the field, while we eagerly scan the score-sheet to see the order of going in, and restlessly move about the pavilion, trying on pads, and making efforts not to appear nervous.

And with what a tense emotion we watch our first two men open the innings! It is with a gasp of relief we see Jimmy Guilsworth cut a fast ball for two, and know, at any rate, we have made a more fortunate start than our opponents did.

I do not remember how many runs we made that afternoon, though as we were out about tea time, I believe we just passed the Celminster total, but I remember that to our joy Bunty Cartwright came off. He had been unlucky all the week, but this was his joy-day. He seemed cheerful and confident when he went in, and he was let off on the boundary off the first ball! After that he did not make a mistake.

It was a joy to watch Bunty bat. He was tall and graceful, and he sprang to meet the ball like a wave scudding against a rock. He seemed to epitomize the dancing sunlight, a thing of joy expressing the fullness of the crowded hour. His hair blew over his face, and one could catch the gleam of satisfaction that radiated from him as he panted on his bat after running out a five.

He was not a great cricketer, none of us were, but he had a good eye, the heart of a lion, and he loved the game.

I believe I made eight or nine. I know I made a cut for four. The recollection of it is very keen to this day, and the satisfying joy of seeing the ball scudding along the ground a yard out of the reach of point. It made me very happy. And then one of those balls came along that one knows nothing about. How remarkable it is that a bowler who appears so harmless from the pavilion seems terrifying and demoniacal when he comes tearing down the crease toward you!

Yes, I’m sure we passed the Celminster total now, for I remember at tea time discussing the possibilities of winning by a single innings if we got Celminster out for forty.

After tea, for some reason or other, one smokes cigarettes. We strolled into a yard at the back of the “Bull” inn, and there was a wicket gate leading to a lawn where some wonderful old men, whose language was almost incomprehensible, were drinking ale and playing bowls. At the side were some tall sunflowers growing amid piles of manure.

Some one in the pavilion rang a bell, and we languidly returned to take the field once more.

I remember that it was late in the afternoon that a strange thing happened to me. I was fielding out in the long field not thirty yards from the stream. Tony Peebles was bowling from the end where I was fielding. I noted his ambling run up to the wicket and the graceful action of his arm as he swung the ball across. A little incident happened, a thing trivial at the time, but which one afterward remembers. The batsman hit a ball rather low on the off side, which the doctor’s son caught or stopped on the ground. There was an appeal for a catch, given in the batsman’s favour, but for some reason or other he thought the umpire had said “out,” and he started walking to the pavilion. He was at least two yards out of his crease when the doctor’s son threw the ball to Jimmy Guilsworth at the wicket. Jimmy had the wicket at his mercy, but instead of putting it down he threw it back to the bowler. It was perhaps a trivial thing, but it epitomized the game we played. One does not take advantage of a mistake. It isn’t done.

The sun was already beginning to flood the valley with the excess of amber light which usually betokens his parting embrace. The stretch of level grass became alive and vibrant, tremblingly golden against the long, crisp shadows cast from the elms. The elms themselves nodded contentedly, and down by the stream flickered little white patches of children’s frocks. Everything suddenly seemed to become more vivid and transcendent. As if aware of the splendour of that moment, all the little things struggled to express themselves more actively. The birds and little insects in solemn unison praised God, or, rather, to my mind, at that moment they praised England, the land that gave them such a glorious setting. The white-clad figures on the sunlit field, the smoke from the old buildings by the inn trailing lazily skyward, the comfortable buzz of the voices of some villagers lying on their stomachs on the grass. Ah! My dear land!

I don’t know how it was, but at that moment I felt a curious contraction of the heart, like one who looks into the face of a lover who is going on a journey. Perhaps a townsman gets a little tired at the end of a day in the field, or the feeling may have been due to the Cassandra-like dirge of a flock of rooks that swung across the sky and settled in the elms.

The bat, cut from a willow down by the stream, the stumps, the leather ball, the symbol of the wicket, the level lawn, cut and rolled and true--all these things were redolent of the land we moved on. They spoke of the love of trees and wind and sun and the equipoise of man in Nature’s setting. They symbolized our race, slow-moving and serene, with a certain sensuous joy in movement, a love of straightness, and an indestructible faith in custom. Ah, that the beauty of that hour should fade, that the splendour and serenity of it all should pass away! Strange waves of misgiving flooded me.

If it should be all _too_ slow-moving, _too_ serene! If at that moment the wheels of the Juggernaut of evolution were already on their way to crush the splendour of it beneath their weight!

Ah! my dear land, if you should be in danger! If one day another match should come in which you would measure yourself against--some unknown terrors! I was aware at that moment of a poignant sense of prayer that when your trial should come it would find you worthy of the clean sanity of that sunlit field; and if in the end you should go down, as everything in nature _does_ go down before the scythe of Time, the rooks up there in the elm should cry aloud your epitaph. They are very old and wise, these rooks: they watched the last of the Ptolemys pass from Egypt, they moaned above Carthage and Troy, and warned the Roman prætors of the coming of Attila. And the epitaph they shall make for you--for _they_ saw the little incident of Jimmy Guilsworth and the doctor’s son--shall be: “Whatever you may say of these people, they played the game.”

I think those small boys down by the pavilion made too much fuss about the catch I muffed. Of course, I did get both hands to it, and as a matter of fact the sun was _not_ in my eyes; but I think I started a bit late, and it seemed to be screwing horribly. Ironical jeers are not comforting. Bunty, like the dear good sportsman he is, merely called out:

“Dreaming there?”

But it was a wretched moment. I remember slinking across at the over, feeling like an animal that has contracted a disease and is ashamed to be seen, and my mental condition was by no means improved by the cheap sarcasms of young Booth or Eric Ganton. We did not get Celminster out for the second time, and the certainty that the result would not be affected by the second innings led to introduction of strange and unlikely bowlers being put on and given their chance.

I remember that just at the end of the day even young “Togs” was tired. He sent down three most extraordinary balls that went nowhere within reach of the batsman, the fourth was a full pitch, and a young rustic giant who was then batting, promptly hit it right over the pavilion. The next ball was very short and came on the leg side. I was fielding at short leg and I saw the batsman hunching his shoulders for a fearful swipe. I felt in a horrible funk. I heard the loud crack of the ball on the willow, and I was aware of it coming straight at my head. I fell back in an ineffectual sort of manner, and despairingly threw up my hands in a sort of self defence. And then an amazing thing happened: the ball went bang into my left hand and stopped there. I slipped and fell, but somehow I managed to hang on to the ball. I remember hearing a loud shout, and suddenly the pain of impact vanished in the realization that I had brought off a hot catch.

It was a golden moment. The match was over. I remember all our chaps shouting and laughing, and young “Togs” rushing up and throwing his arms round me in a mock embrace. We ambled back to the pavilion and it suddenly struck me how good looking most of our men were, even Tony Peebles, whom I had always looked upon as the plainest of the plain. My heart warmed toward Bunty with a passionate zeal when he struck me on the back and said: “Good man! You’ve more than retrieved your muff in the long field.”

I know they ragged me frightfully in the pavilion when we were changing, but it was no effort to take it good-humouredly. I felt ridiculously proud.

We took a long time getting away, there was so much rubbing down and talking to be done, and then there was the difficulty of getting Len Booth out of the “Bull” inn. He had a romantic passion for drinking ale with yokels, and a boy had stuck a pin into one of Ganton’s tires, and he had to find a bicycle shop and get it mended. It was getting dark when we all got established once more in the brake.

I remember vividly turning the corner in the High Street and looking back on the solemn profile of the inn. The sky was almost colourless, just a glow of warmth, and already in some of the windows lamps were appearing. We huddled together contentedly in the brake, and I saw the firm lines of Bunty’s face as he leaned over a match lighting his pipe.

The grass is long to-day in the field where we played Celminster, and down by the stream are two square, unattractive buildings, covered with zinc roofing, where is heard the dull roar of machinery. The ravages of time cannot eradicate from my memory the vision of Bunty’s face leaning over his pipe, or the pleasant buzz of the village voices as we clattered among them in the High Street, or the sight of the old corn merchant’s face as he came up and spoke to Bunty (Bunty had stopped the brake to get more tobacco) and touched his hat and said:

“Good noight, sir. Good luck to ’ee!”

Decades have passed, and I have to press the spring of my memory to bring these things back; but when they come they are very dear to me.

I know that in the wind that blows above Gallipoli you will find the whispers of the great faith that Bunty died for. Eric Ganton, young Booth, and Jimmy Guilsworth, where are they? In vain the soil of Flanders strives to clog the free spirit of my friends.

“Good noight, sir. Good luck to ’ee!”

Again I see the old man’s face as I gaze across the field where the long grass grows, and I see the red ball tossed hither and thither, with its story still unfinished, and I hear the sound of Jimmy’s voice:

“Oh, well hit, sir!” as he encourages an opponent.

The times have changed since then, but you cannot destroy these things. Manners have changed, customs have changed, even the faces of men have changed; and yet this calendar on my knee is trying to tell me that it all happened _two years ago to-day_!

And overhead the garrulous rooks seem strangely flustered.

MRS. BEELBROW’S LIONS

Mrs. Poulteney-Beelbrow is the kind of woman who drips with refinement. Everything else has been squeezed out of her. Even her hair, which once was red, has been dried to a rusty gray. Her narrow face is pinched and bloodless; the lines of her figure blurred by shapeless and colourless materials, as though she resented any suggestion of organic functioning, as though blood itself were not quite “nice.” The voice is high pitched, toneless, ice-cold. She speaks with dead monotony, without enthusiasm. And yet one can hardly describe Mrs. Beelbrow as a woman who has not had enthusiasms. Lions!--lions have been the determining passion of Mrs. Beelbrow’s life. A life amidst lions can hardly be called an apathetic life, you might say.

I would like to have known Mrs. Beelbrow when she was quite young, although the condition is difficult to visualize. She is now--that quite indeterminate age which æsthetic women sometimes arrive at too soon and forsake too early. She might easily be in the early thirties; on the other hand she might be in the late forties; even later, even earlier--she is _so_ refined, you see. You can imagine her doing nothing so vulgar as visiting the Royal Academy or reading a popular magazine. As for the cinema, or a revue--oh, my dear!

It is only her eyes which sometimes give you an inkling of a restless soul. They are almost green with a tiny gray pupil. She sometimes smiles with her lips, but never with her eyes, which are always roaming--searching--lions.

She was a Miss Poulteney (you know, the Hull shipping people), and she married Beelbrow the stockbroker. God knows why! You can seldom find Beelbrow. Sometimes you may observe him standing against the wall at one of those overpowering receptions she gives. He is tubby, genial and negative. He smiles at his wife--busily occupied with lions--and mutters:

“Wonderful woman, my wife--wonderful! um-m.”

And then he retires to the refreshment-room and waits on people.

Everyone will tell you that Mrs. Beelbrow was once a remarkably talented violinist, though we have never met any one who has heard her play. She certainly knows something about music, and can talk shiveringly about every ancient and modern composer of note, in addition to many composers without note. But do not imagine that her discriminations are confined to music. She shivers about architecture, sculpture, painting, and literature. She dissects tone-poems, eulogizes discords, subdivides futurism into seven distinct planes, considers Synge too sensational, professes a pallid admiration for Bach when performed in an empty church, is coldly contemptuous of the Renaissance, dislikes Dickens, Scott, Zola and Tolstoi (in spite of the latter being a Russian and a lion). By the way, everything Russian exercises a curious influence over her--Russian and Chinese. Things Japanese she condemns as _bourgeois_. She is enormously refined, a sybarite of æsthetic values. She has no children, but she keeps a marmoset, a Borzoi, five chows, two smoke-gray Persian cats, a parakeet, and some baby crocodiles in a sunk tank in the conservatory. The latter she keeps because they remind her of the slow movement of some sonata by Sibelius.

But it is of the lions she keeps that we would speak. They are not real lions, of course. Real lions are peculiarly commonplace--reminiscent of Landseer and the Zoölogical Gardens. Mrs. Beelbrow’s lions roar in drawing-rooms and concert halls. They are mostly indigenous to the soil of Central or Eastern Europe. She imports them from Russia, Bohemia, Hungary, Austria, or Tcheko-Slovakia. No other breeds are any good. Neither must they be popular in the generally accepted sense. If you say to Mrs. Beelbrow: “I heard Kreisler play the Bach _chaconne_ very finely last night,” she shivers and says: “Ah! but have you heard De Borch play the slow movement of the Sczhklski sonata?”

You weakly reply “No.” The name of De Borch seems familiar, but you had never heard of him as a violinist.

She leans backward and regards you through half-closed eyes. Upon her face there creeps an expression of genuine sympathy. There is an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, and she turns away. You mutter “Damn!” and also repair to the refreshment-room, where Mr. Beelbrow waits on you. (The refreshments are very good.) He says:

“Have you seen my wife? She’s a wonderful woman--wonderful--um-m!”

We should mention that this “um-m” of Mr. Beelbrow is a curious kind of low hum that he affixes at the end of every statement. It seems to deliberately contradict just what he has said. It is like a genteel “I don’t think!”

It is said that in the old days Mrs. Beelbrow used to make a hobby of genuine lions, famous opera singers and painters. There is a full length of her by Sarjeant in the billiard-room; a very good portrait, too, if somewhat merciless. It is characteristic of her that it should now be in the billiard-room--a room that is only used on the night of a great crush to deposit hats and coats that are crowded out of the cloak-room. Sarjeant is _passé_. If you mention the portrait to her, she says:

“Ah! but have you seen the pastel of me by Splitz?”

The pastel by Splitz is in the place of honour in the drawing-room. You suspect that it is meant to be a woman by the puce-coloured drapery and what appears to be long hair--or is it a waterfall in the background? She says of it:

“It is wonderful! Splitz got into it the expression of all that I have yearned for and never achieved. You can feel the wave-lengths of my thoughts vibrating esoterically.”

(Good luck to Splitz! I hope he got his cheque.)

The day came when Mrs. Beelbrow tired of genuine lions.

They were a little disillusioning, too business-like, and too fond of being waited on by Mr. Beelbrow in the refreshment-room. And so she said:

“I will make my own lions.”

She travelled abroad, taking with her the marmoset, two of the chows, one smoke-gray Persian cat, the parakeet, the crocodiles in a special tank, and Mr. Beelbrow. It was in Budapest that she discovered her first embryo lion. His name was Skrâtch. She heard him playing the fiddle in an obscure café. She went to hear him three nights running. On the third night she went up to him after the performance, and she said:

“Come with me. I will make you a lion.”

Now we are anxious to deal fairly by Skrâtch. He was young, talented, poor and hungry. He had the normal ambitions, desires, appetites, and the weaknesses of the normal young man. He had often dreamed of being a lion, and after one or two beers he frequently persuaded himself that the accomplishment was not impossible. Nevertheless, he had never been blind to its difficulties. And here was a woman who came to him and said, quite simply: “I will make you a lion,” in the same way that she might have said, “I will cut you a liver-sausage sandwich.”

How could you expect Skrâtch to take it?

When he arrived in London he impressed us as being quite a pleasant, amiable young man. He had a thin body, but rather puffy, sallow cheeks, jet black hair, and brown eyes. He was obviously at first a little apprehensive, suspicious. The eyes seemed to say:

“Oh, well, anyway they can’t eat me.”

He lived at Mrs. Beelbrow’s and had what she called finishing lessons with a Polish professor. It was exactly a year before Skrâtch was launched into lionhood. During that time no one heard him play a note. And yet a most remarkable thing happened in connection with the launching. Months before Skrâtch appeared in public the newspapers were always containing paragraphs about “a remarkable young violinist shortly expected from Budapest. Said to be a second Ysaye.” Mrs. Beelbrow’s drawing-room was always crowded, but Skrâtch never played. He was introduced to all kinds of people, and whispered about. I remember meeting there the critics of the--no, perhaps this kind of revelation is not quite fair. Anyway, when Skrâtch gave his first orchestral concert at the Queen’s Hall the affair had been so cleverly prepared that the place was packed. The Press reviews, when not eulogistic, were for the most part non-committal. Dogs are afraid to bark at a lion. It would be a terrible blunder to condemn a real lion. One must wait and see what the general verdict is.

There is no denying also that Skrâtch did play very well. He was what is known as a talented violinist. One may assert without fear of contradiction that there were at that time in London probably thirty or forty violinists (leaving out, of course, the few supreme artists) equally as talented as Skrâtch. But they had not the _flair_ of lions. They just went on with their job, playing when an opportunity occurred but for the most part teaching.

The following day an advertisement appeared in the papers announcing that “owing to the colossal success of Herr Skrâtch’s concert, three more would follow on such-and-such dates.” (The advertisement must have been sent in before the colossally successful concert took place.) From that day forward Skrâtch did indeed become a qualified lion. The more responsible papers certainly began to damn him with faint praise, and even to pull him to pieces. But if you assert a thing frequently enough, insistently enough, and in large enough type, people will come to accept it. He became a kind of papier-mâché lion, and it didn’t do the boy any good. For two years the hoardings and the newspapers reeked with advertisements and notices about the “great violinist Skrâtch.”

And then he began to develop in other ways. From a slim, nervous boy he rapidly became a robustious, self-assured, florid man. His body filled out, his cheeks reddened, his hair grew unmanageable. He adopted an eccentric mode of dress. And Mrs. Beelbrow? The affair reacted upon her just as one might expect. She became more precious, more aloof, more impossible. She floated round the drawing-room with her protégé with an air which implied:

“Look at me! I’m the woman who made a lion!”

She wore a tiger skin and left Mr. Beelbrow at home to look after the live stock.

And after the first flush of triumph and excitement, Skrâtch treated Mrs. Beelbrow with complete indifference and contempt. He left lighted cigar-ends on the lid of the grand piano, spilt wine on his bed-linen, walked about the house all day in a dressing-gown, threw his boots at the servants, and snubbed visitors. He would get up from table in the middle of a meal and walk out of the room without an apology. He was even rude to her in public, and she revelled in it. The ruder he was the more delighted she appeared. She would glance round the room proudly, as much as to say:

“There! didn’t I tell you I had made a lion?”

They went about everywhere together. They went to the opera, the theatre, to concerts and receptions, for motor rides in the country, and they were always alone. Mr. Beelbrow was very busy, you see, making money in the city. (He had to do that to pay for Herr Skrâtch’s publicity campaign.) Of course, people began to talk. They might have talked on much less evidence than they had. The thing was simply thrown at them. She glued herself to him, and he accepted her and what she gave him as only right and proper. Sometimes he would treat her with playful familiarity. He would put his arm round her shoulders and call her “ol gel!” All very well, but how old really was Mrs. Beelbrow? What was happening in the dark places of _her_ heart? Of course, it couldn’t go on for ever. We all shook our heads and were very wise, and we were right. It went on for nine months, and then Mr. Beelbrow--no, Mr. Beelbrow did nothing. He just sat tight, helped people to hock-cup, and expatiated upon his wife’s remarkable character and abilities. The disruption came from outside.

Another woman appeared on the scene. Her name was Fanny Friedlander. She was an accompanist. Now, if you had wanted to invent a complete antithesis to Mrs. Beelbrow, Fanny would have saved you the trouble. She was it. She was young, common, ignorant and frivolous; at the same time she had emotional warmth. There was something sympathetic and lovable about her. She was not exclusively a man-hunter. She liked to be petted and admired. When she accompanied she wore red carnations in her hair, and cast glad, furtive glances at the audience, and sometimes at the soloist, who, of course, was Herr Skrâtch.

Herr Skrâtch was not the kind of gentleman to make any bones about such a position. He flirted with her outrageously, even on the platform. Whether Mrs. Beelbrow made any protest about this affair at its inception is not known. By the time the infatuation was apparent it was too late. Inflated by his meretricious successes, he was in no mood to brook interference. Mrs. Beelbrow’s face expressed little. I really believe she was rather fascinated by the girl herself. She seemed to be watching a little bewildered and uncertain how to act.

It ended in the three of them going about everywhere together, the usual unsatisfactory triangle. The fact that she had to play his accompaniments was sufficient excuse for Fanny Friedlander to go with him to concerts where he was playing, and to call at Mrs. Beelbrow’s for rehearsals, but hardly an excuse for her to go to the opera, the theatre, and motor rides, or even to stop all the afternoon at Mrs. Beelbrow’s and then to stay on to dinner. It was surmised that Mrs. Beelbrow only tolerated it because she knew that if she turned the girl out, Skrâtch would have gone with her. She appeared to be content with the crumbs the younger woman left over. Ah! but only for the moment, we were convinced.

At that time, as if conscious of his delinquency, Herr Skrâtch was a little more polite to Mrs. Beelbrow; whilst the girl made no end of a fuss of her in a loud common way that must have jarred the good lady’s sensibilities horribly. We waited to see what would happen next, what would be the next move of Mrs. Beelbrow to rid herself of this dangerous rival. To our surprise, a few weeks later the girl went there to live. She was actually living in the Beelbrows’ house! Was there ever a queerer _ménage à quatre_? There was Mrs. Beelbrow, the lion-hunter, badly mauled by one of her own lions, entertaining her most dangerous enemy. She must have shut her eyes to all kinds of things. Skrâtch was behaving abominably. The girl was not the kind you could trust anyway. There was Mr. Beelbrow, quite negative, merely earning the money to support the absurd drama.

“It’s incredible,” said Jimmy Beale, one night in the club, “that a woman as conceited as Mrs. Beelbrow is could possibly put up with such a damned indignity. It’s making her look the prize fool of London.”

“Love is more powerful than a sense of dignity,” remarked some sententious bore from the corner.

Love? Well, an unanalyzable quantity. I was perhaps the only one fortunate enough to have the opportunity to judge of the _dénouement_ by any practical evidence. And even then it was only a fluke, a glance. It occurred a few nights before Skrâtch disappeared. Some say he went back to the obscure café in Budapest, taking the girl with him. It is hardly likely in view of the handsome _dot_ which someone presented to Fanny.

It was one of Mrs. Beelbrow’s most overwhelming crushes. You could not hear yourself speak for the roar of lions. I was squeezed against the folding doors. Behind a palm in the corner was an empire mirror, tilted at an angle. It was about the only thing I could see. It gave me a good view of certain people a little farther down the room. The first person I saw was Mrs. Beelbrow, and as I glanced at her I saw an expression come over her face, an expression I can only describe as one of blind jealousy--a nasty, vindictive, dangerous look.

“Oh, ho!” I thought, and sought for the reflection of Fanny or Herr Skrâtch. But to my astonishment I realized very clearly that her glance was not directed at these two at all. She was looking at Mr. Beelbrow, whose wicked, malevolent little eyes were fixed on Fanny’s. Skrâtch for the moment was occupied with some other woman.

You might imagine that the defection of Skrâtch would have broken Mrs. Beelbrow’s heart for the business. But, oh dear, no! don’t you believe it. Whatever you may say or think about Mrs. Beelbrow she has proved herself a true and indomitable lion-hunter. Only last Thursday I was again in her crowded drawing-room. A little East-end Jewess was playing the piano quite nicely. Mrs. Beelbrow was standing by the folding-doors, her face set and taut. When the child had finished, she murmured:

“Ah, if Teresa Carreño could have heard that! Teresa never reached that velvety warmth in her mezzo passages. I believe the child must be the reincarnation of--who would it be? Liszt? No, someone more southern, more Byzantine. I will make her a lion.”

In the refreshment-room Mr. Beelbrow was ladling out hock-cup as usual. When I approached him he said:

“Halloa, old boy! Have some of this? Good! Have you seen my wife? She’s a wonderful woman--wonderful--um-m.”

A MAN OF LETTERS

ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS

MY DEAR ANNIE,

I got into an awful funny mood lately. You’l think I’m barmy.
It comes over me like late in the evenin’ when its gettin
dusky. It started I think when I was in Egypt. Nearly all
us chaps who was out there felt it a bit I think. When you
was on sentry go in the dessert at night it was so quite and
missterius. You felt you wanted to _know_ things if you know
what I mean. Since I’ve come back and settled in the saddlery
again I still feel it most always. A kind of discontented
funny feelin if you know what I mean. Well old girl what I
mean is when we’re spliced up and settled over in Tibbelsford
I want to be good for you and I want to know all about things
and that. Well I’m goin to write to Mr. Weekes whose a
gentleman and who lives in a private house near the church.
They say he is a littery society and if it be so I’m on for
joinin it. You’l think I’m barmy won’t you. It isn’t that old
dear. Me that has always been content to do my job and draw my
screw on Saturday and that. You’l think me funny. When you’ve
lived in the dessert you feel how old it all is. You want
something and you don’t know what it is praps its just to
improve yourself and that. Anyway there it is and I’ll shall
write to him. See you Sunday. So long, dear.

ALF.

ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, ESQ.

DEAR SIR,

Someone tells me you are a littery society in Tibbelsford. In
which case may I offer my services as a member and believe me.

Your obedient servant
ALFRED CODLING.

PENDRED CASTAWAY (SECRETARY TO JAMES WEEKES,
ESQ.) TO ALFRED CODLING.

DEAR SIR,

In reply to your letter of the 27th inst. I beg to inform
you that Mr. James Weekes is abroad. I will communicate the
contents of your letter to him.

Yours faithfully,

PENDRED CASTAWAY.

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING

MY DEAR ALF,

You are a dear old funny old bean. What _is_ up with you. I
expeck you are just fed up. You haven’t had another tutch of
the fever have you. I will come and look after you Sunday. You
are a silly to talk about improvin considerin the money you
are gettin and another rise next spring you say. I expeck you
got fed up in the dessert and that didn’t you. I expeck you
wanted me sometimes, eh? I shouldn’t think the littery society
much cop myself. I can lend you some books. Cook is a great
reader. She has nearly all Ethel M. Dells and most of Charles
Garvice. She says she will lend you some if you promiss to
cover in brown paper and not tare the edges. They had a big
party here over the weekend a curnel a bishop two gentleman
and some smart women one very nice she gave me ten bob. We
could go to the pictures come Wednesday if agreeable. Milly is
walking out with a feller over at Spindlehurst in the grossery
a bit flashy I don’t like him much. Mrs. Vaughan had one of
her attacks on Monday. Lord she does get on my nerves when
she’s like that. Well be good and cheerio must now close. Love
and kisses till Sunday.

ANNIE.

JAMES WEEKES, ESQ. (MALAGA, SPAIN) TO ALFRED
CODLING

DEAR SIR,

My secretary informs me that you wish to join our literary
society in Tibbelsford. It is customary to be proposed and
seconded by two members.

Will you kindly send me your qualifications?

Yours faithfully,
JAMES WEEKES.

ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS

MY DEAR ANNIE,

Please thank Cook for the two books which I am keepin rapt up
and will not stain. I read the Eagles mate and think it is
a pretty story. As you know dear I am no fist at explaining
myself. At the pictures the other night you were on to me
again about gettin on and that. It isn’t that. Its difficul to
explane what I mean. I expeck I will always be able to make
good money enough. If you havent been throw it you cant know
what its like. Its somethin else I want if you know what I
mean. To be honest I did not like the picturs the other night.
I thought they were silly but I like to have you sittin by me
and holding your hand. If I could tell you what I mean you
would know. I have heard from Mr. Weekes about the littery and
am writin off at once. Steve our foreman has got sacked for
pinchin lether been goin on for yeres so must close with love
till Sunday.

ALF.

ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, ESQ.

DEAR SIR,

As regards your communication you ask what are my
quallifications. I say I have no quallifications sir
nevertheless I am wishful to join the littery. I will be
candid with you sir. I am not what you might call a littery
or eddicated man at all. I am in the saddlery. I was all
throw Gallipoli and Egypt L/corporal in the 2/15th Mounted
Blumshires. It used to come over me like when I was out there
alone in the dessert. Prehaps sir you will understand me when
I say it for I find folks do not understand me about it not
even the girl I walk out with Annie Phelps, who is as nice a
girl a feller could wish. Prehaps sir you have to have been
throw if it you know what I mean. When you are alone at night
in the dessert its all so big and quite you want to get to
know things and all about things if you know what I mean sir
so prehaps you will pass me in the littery.

Your obedient servant
ALFRED CODLING.

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING

DEAR ALF,

You was funny Sunday. I dont know whats up with you. You never
used to be that glum I call it. Is it thinking about this
littery soc turnin your head or what. Millie says you come
into the kitchen like a boiled oul you was. Cheer up ole dear
till Sunday week.

ANNIE.

JAMES WEEKES, ESQ., TO ALFRED CODLING

DEAR SIR,

Allow me to thank you for your charming letter. I feel that
I understand your latent desires perfectly. I shall be
returning to Tibbelsford in a week’s time when I hope to make
your acquaintance. I feel sure that you will make a desirable
member of our literary society.

Yours cordially,
JAMES WEEKES.

JAMES WEEKES TO SAMUEL CHILDERS

MY DEAR SAM,

I received the enclosed letter yesterday and I hasten to send
it on to you. Did you ever read anything more delightful? We
must certainly get Alfred Codling into our society. He sounds
the kind of person who would make a splendid foil to old
Baldwin with his tortuous metaphysics--that is, if we can only
get him to talk.

Yours ever,
J. W.

SAMUEL CHILDERS TO JAMES WEEKES

MY DEAR CHAP,

You are surely not serious about the ex-corporal! I showed his
letter to Fanny. She simply screamed with laughter. But of
course you mean it as a joke proposing him for the “littery.”
Hope to see you on Friday.

Ever yours,
S. C.

ALFRED CODLING TO ANNIE PHELPS

MY DEAR ANNIE,

I was afraid you would begin to think I was barmy dear
I always said so but you musnt take it like that. It is
difficult to tell you about but you know my feelins to you is
as always. Now I have to tell you dear that I have seen Mr.
Weekes he is a very nice old gentlemen indeed he is very kind
he says I can go to his hous anytime and read his books he
has hundreds and hundreds. I have nevver seen so many books
you have to have a ladder to clime up to some of them he is
very kind he says he shall propose me for the littery soc and
I can go when I like he ast me all about mysel and that was
very kind and pleesant he told me all about what books I was
to read and that so I think dear I wont be goin to the picturs
Wendesday but will meet you by the Fire statesion Sunday as
usual.

Your lovin
ALF.

EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO JAMES WEEKES

MY DEAR WEEKS,

I’m afraid I cannot understand your attitude in proposing and
getting Childers to second this hobbledehoy called Alfred
Codling. I have spoken to him and I am quite willing to
acknowledge that he may be a very good young man in his place.
But why join a literary society? Surely we want to raise the
intellectual standard of the society, not lower it? He is
absolutely ignorant. He knows nothing at all. Our papers and
discussions will be Greek to him. If you wanted an extra hand
in your stables or a jobbing gardener well and good, but I
must sincerely protest against this abuse of the fundamental
purposes of our society.

Yours sincerely,
EPHRAIM BALDWIN.

FANNY CHILDERS TO ELSPETH PRITCHARD

DEAR OLD THING,

I must tell you about a perfect scream that is happening here.
You know the Tibbelsford literary society that Pa belongs to,
and also Jimmy Weekes? Well, it’s like this. Dear Old Jimmy is
always doing something eccentric. The latest thing is he has
discovered a mechanic in the leather trade with a soul! (I’m
not sure I ought not to spell it the other way). He is also an
ex-soldier and was out in the East. He seems to have become
imbued with what they called “Eastern romanticism.” Anyway,
he wanted to join the Society, and old Weekes rushed Pa into
seconding him, and they got him through. And now a lot of the
others are up in arms about it--especially old Baldwin--you
know, we call him “Permanganate of Potash.” If you saw him
you’d know why, but I can’t tell you. I have been to two of
the meetings specially to observe the mechanic with the
soul. He is really quite a dear. A thick-set, square-chinned
little man with enormous hands with a heavy silver ring on
the third finger of his left, and tattoo marks on his right
wrist. He sits there with his hands spread out on his knees
and stares round at the members as though he thinks they are
a lot of lunatics. The first evening he came the paper was on
“The influence of Erasmus on modern theology,” and the second
evening “The drama of the Restoration.” No wonder the poor
soul looks bewildered. He never says a word. How is Tiny? I
was in town on Thursday and got a duck of a hat. Do come over
soon.

Crowds of love,
FAN.

JAMES WEEKES TO ALFRED CODLING

MY DEAR CODLING,

I quite appreciate your difficulty. I would suggest that you
read the following books in the order named. You will find
them in my library:

Jevon’s “Primer of Logic,”
Welton’s “Manual of Logic,”
Brackenbury’s “Primer of Psychology,” and
Professor James’ “Text book of Psychology.”

Do not be discouraged!

Sincerely yours,
JAMES WEEKES.

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING

DEAR ALF,

I dont think you treat me quite fare You says you are sweet
on me and that and then you go on in this funny way It isnt
my falt that you got the wind up in Egypt I dont know what
you mean by all this I wish the ole littery soc was dead and
finish. Cook say you probibly want a blue pill you was so glum
Sunday. Dont you see all these gents and girls and edicated
coves are pullin youre leg if you dont know what they talkin
about and that Your just makin a fule of yourself and then
what about me you dont think of me its makin me a fule too.
Milly says _she_ wouldent have no truck with a book lowse so
there it is.

ANNIE.

ALFRED CODLING TO JAMES WEEKES, ESQ.

DEAR SIR,

I am much oblidged to you for puttin me on them books It beats
me how they work up these things. I’m afeard I’m not scollard
enough to keep the pace with these sayins and that. Its the
same with the littery I lissen to the talk and sometimes I
think Ive got it and then no. Sometimes I feels angry with the
things said I know the speakers wrong but I cant say I feel
they wrong but I dont know what to say to say it. Theres some
things to big to say isnt that sir. Im much oblidged to you
sir for what you done Beleive me I enjoy the littery altho I
most always dont know the talk I know who are the rite ones
and who are the rong ones If you have been throw what I have
been throw you would know the same sir Beleive me your

obedient servant
ALFRED CODLING.

EPHRAIM BALDWIN TO EDWIN JOPE, SECRETARY TO
THE TIBBELSFORD LITERARY SOCIETY

DEAR JOPE,

For my paper on the 19th prox. I propose to discuss “The
influence of Hegelism on modern psychology.”

Yours ever,

EPHRAIM BALDWIN.

EDWIN JOPE TO EPHRAIM BALDWIN

DEAR MR. BALDWIN,

I have issued the notices of your forthcoming paper. The
subject, I am sure, will make a great appeal to our members,
and I feel convinced that we are in for an illuminating and
informative evening. With regard to our little conversation
on Wednesday last, I am entirely in agreement with you
with regard to the quite inexplicable action of Weekes in
introducing the “leather mechanic” into the society. It
appears to me a quite superfluous effrontery to put upon our
members. We do not want to lose Weekes but I feel that he
ought to be asked to give some explanation of his conduct. As
you remark, it lowers the whole standard of the society. We
might as well admit agricultural labourers, burglars, grooms
and barmaids, and the derelicts of the town. I shall sound the
opinion privately of other members.

With kind regards,
Yours sincerely,
EDWIN JOPE.

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING

All right then you stick to your old littery. I am sendin
you back your weddin ring you go in and out of that place
nevver thinkin of me Aunt siad how it would be you goin off
and cetterer and gettin ideas into your head what do you care
I doant think you care at all I expeck you meet a lot of
these swell heads there men _and women_ and you get talkin
and thinkin you someone All these years you away I wated for
you faithfull I never had a thowt for other fellers and then
you go on like this and treat me in this way Aunt says she
wouldn’t put up and Milly says a book lowse is worse than no
good and so I say goodby and thats how it is now forever You
have broken my hart

ANNE.

ANNIE PHELPS TO ALFRED CODLING

I cried all nite I didndt mean quite all I says you know how
I mene dear Alf if you was only reesonible I doant mind you
goin the littery if you eggsplain yourself For Gawds sake meet
me tonight by the fire stachon and eggsplain everything.

Your broke hearted
ANNE.

JAMES WEEKES TO SAMUEL CHILDERS

MY DEAR SAM,