Chapter LIX

MY DEAR CHARLES,--Reference the German withdrawal. The matter is proceeding in machine-like order, and one of the first great men to cross No-Man's Land was myself in the noblest of cars. It was, I confess, a purely temporary and fortuitous arrangement which put me in such a conveyance, but I had the feeling that it was excellently fitted to my particular form of greatness, and there were moments when I was so enamoured of it that I was on the verge of getting into a hole with it and staying hid there till the end of the War. Just the right hole was provided at every cross-roads, but the driver wouldn't try them and went round by the fields.

Of the flattened villages and the severed fruit-trees you will have read as much as I have seen. It's a gruesome business, but one charred village is much like another, and the sight is, alas, a familiar one nowadays. For me all else was forgotten in speechless admiration of the French people. Their self-restraint and adaptability are beyond words. These hundreds of honest people, just relieved from the domineering of the Master Swine and restored to their own good France again, were neither hysterical nor exhausted. They were just their happy selves, very pleased about it all, standing in their doorways, strolling about the market-place, watching the march of events as one might watch a play. Every house had its tricolor bravely flying; where they'd got them from so soon I don't know, but no Frenchman ever yet failed, under any circumstances, to produce exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. There was a nice old Adjoint at the Mairie who wasn't for doing any business at all, with the English or anyone else, until a certain formality had been observed. He had a bottle of old brandy in his cellar, which somehow or other had escaped the German eye these last two years. This, said Monsieur, had first to be disposed of before any other business could conceivably be entertained ... I gathered he had risked much, everything possibly, in keeping this bottle two years; but nothing on earth would induce him to retain it two minutes longer.

Madame, the doctor's wife, approached me as a friend with a request. Would I expedite a letter to her people, to announce her restoration to liberty? I was at Madame's disposal. She handed me the letter. I observed that the envelope was not closed down. Madame's look indicated that this was intentional, and her expression indicated that this was the sort of thing she was used to.

There was no weeping, no extreme emotion. There was a philosophical detachment, a very prevalent humour, and, for the rest, signs of a quiet waiting for "The Day." There is only one day for France, the day of the arrival of Frenchmen on German soil. When the English arrive in Germany there will be nothing doing, except some short and precise orders that we must salute all civilians and pay double for what we buy; but when the French arrive in Germany ... and Heaven send we are going to help them to get well in!

There is a story current, turning on these events, of a young German officer and an official correspondence. It just possibly may be true, since even among such a rotten lot there might conceivably have been one tolerable fellow. The Higher Command had been much intrigued as to a church window, wanting to know (in writing) exactly why and how it had been broken; or rather, as it was the German Higher Command, exactly why and how it had been allowed to remain unbroken. You know how these affairs develop in interest and excitement as the correspondence passes down and down, from one formation to another, and what an air of urgency and bitterness they wear when they reach the last man. In this case the young German subaltern, who had no one else below him on whom to put the burden of explaining in writing, took advantage of his position, and wrote upon a slip, which he attached to the top of the others: "To Officer Commanding British Troops. Passed to you, please, as this town is now in your area...."

Probably the tale isn't true, for if the officer was a German he must have had German blood in him, and if he had German blood in him there couldn't be room for anything else, certainly not for a sense of humour.

We stayed longer than we should have done; this was an occasion upon which one could not insist on the limit of ten handshakes per person. I was delayed also by the Institutrice, who wanted to borrow my uniform, so that she might put it on and so be in a position to start right off at once, paying back. She meant it too, and I should not be surprised to hear that she's been caught doing it by this time. Her mother was there in great form. Asked for her opinion of the dear departed, she said she had already told it to themselves and saw no reason to alter it. "They make war only on women and children; they are _lâches_." My N.C.O. got out his pocket-dictionary to discover the exact meaning of the word. She told us he needn't trouble; it meant two months' imprisonment. She had a face like a russet apple--a very nice russet apple, too.

We didn't get away before dark, and we found it very hard to discover our way about new country when large hunks of it were missing altogether. One of the party would walk on to find the way, and later I would go forth to find him. We could see the road stretching away in front of us for kilometres; but between us and it there would be twenty yards of nil.

However, the car eventually learnt to stand on its back wheels, climb hedges and make its way home across country, having confirmed its general opinion of the Bosch, that he is only good at one thing, and that is destroying other people's property. I am now back in comfort again, and able to remember your suffering. I send herewith a slice of bully beef (one) and potatoes (two), hoping that they will not be torpedoed, and urging you to hang on, for we are now beginning to think of moving towards Germany, if only to see, when we get there, exactly what the Frenchman has been evolving in his mind all this time.

Yours ever, HENRY.

* * * * *

"OH, ONLY WOMEN OVER THIRTY, YOU KNOW."]

* * * * *

"General Ludendorff has received the Red Eagle of the First Class."--
_Central News_.

An appropriate reward for his rapid flight.

* * * * *

_New Assistant_. "WELL, YOU CAN'T BE PARTICKLER WHAT YOU DO NOWADAYS. I NEVER WAS A BARBER AFORE, AND I 'ATE AND DESPISE THE JOB--SEE?"]

* * * * *

COMRADES.

In every home in England you will find their wistful faces,
Where, weary of adventure, lying lonely by the fire,
Untempted by the sunlight and the call of open spaces,
They are listening, listening, listening for the step of their desire.

And, watching, we remember all the tried and never failing,
The good ones and the game ones that have run the years at heel;
Old Scamp that killed the badger single-handed by the railing,
And Fan, the champion ratter, with her fifty off the reel.

The bitches under Ranksboro' with hackles up for slaughter,
The otter hounds on Irfon as they part the alder bowers,
The tufters drawing to their stag above the Horner Water,
The setters on Ben Lomond when the purple heather flowers.

The collie climbing Cheviot to head his hill sheep stringing,
The Dandie digging to his fox among the Lakeside scars,
The Clumber in the marshes when the evening flight is winging
And the wild geese coming over through the rose light and the stars.

And my heart goes out in pity to each faithful one that's fretting
Day by day in cot or castle with his dim eyes on the door.
In his dreams he hunts with sorrow. And for us there's no forgetting
That he helped our love of England and he hardened us for war.
W.H.O.

* * * * *

_AUTRE TEMPS--AUTRES MOEURS._

When MOSES fought with AMALEK in days of long ago,
And slew him for the glory of the Lord,
'Is longest range artill'ry was an arrow and a bow,
And 'is small arms was a barrel-lid and sword;
But to-day 'e would 'ave done 'em in with gas,
Or blowed 'em up with just a mine or so,
Then broken up their ranks by advancing with 'is tanks,
And started 'ome to draw his D.S.O.

When ST. GEORGE 'e went a-ridin' all naked through the lands--
You can see 'im on the back of 'arf-a-quid--
'E spiked the fiery dragon with a spear in both 'is 'ands,
But to-day, if 'e 'd to do what then he did,
'E 'd roll up easy in an armoured car,
'E 'd loose off a little Lewis gun,
Then 'e 'd 'oist the scaly dragon upon a G.S. wagon
And cart 'im 'ome to show the job was done.

Then there weren't no airyplanes and there weren't no bombs and guns;
You just biffed the opposition on the 'ead.
If the world could take all weapons from the British and the 'Uns,
Could scrap the steel, the copper and the lead;
If we fought it out with pick-'andles and fists,
If the good old times would only come agin,
When there weren't no dirty trenches with their rats and lice and
stenches,
Why, a month 'ud see us whoopin' through Berlin!

* * * * *

SPOOP.

A REPERTORY DRAMA IN ONE ACT.

["A repertory play is one that is unlikely to be repeated."--_Old
Saying_.]

CHARACTERS.

_John Bullyum, J.P._ (Member of the Town Council of Mudslush).
_Mrs. Bullyum_ (his wife).
_Janet_ (their daughter).
_David_ (their son).

SCENE.--_The living-room of a smallish house in the dullest street of a
provincial suburb._ [_N.B.--This merely means that practically any
scenery will do, provided the wall-paper is sufficiently hideous.
Furnish with the scourings of the property-room--a great convenience
for Sunday evening productions._] _The room contains rather less than
the usual allowance of doors and windows, thus demonstrating a fine
contempt for stage traditions. An electric-light, disguised within a
mid-Victorian gas-globe, occupies a conspicuous position on one wall.
You will see why presently. When the curtain rises_ Janet, _an awkward
girl of any age over thirty_ (_and made up to look it_) _is seated
before the fire knitting. Her mother, also knitting, faces her. The
appearance of the elder woman contains a very careful suggestion of the
nearest this kind of play ever gets to low-comedy._

_Janet_ (_glancing at clock on mantelpiece_). It's close on nine. David is late again.

_Mrs. B._ He's aye late these nights. 'Tis the lectures at the Institute that keeps him.

[_N.B.--Naturally both women speak with a pronounced accent, South
Lancashire if possible. Failing that, anything sufficiently unlike
ordinary English will serve._

_Janet_. He's that anxious to get on, is David.

_Mrs. B._ Ay, he's fair set on being a town councillor one day, like thy feyther.

_Janet_ (_quietly_). That 'ud be fine.

_Mrs. B._ You'd a rare long meeting at the women's guild to-night.

_Janet_ (_without emotion_). Ay. They've elected me to go to Manchester on the deputation.

_Mrs. B._ You'll like that.

_Janet_ (_suppressing a secret pride so that it is wholly imperceptible by the audience_). It'll be well enough. I'm to go first-class. (_A pause._) Young Mr. Inkslinger is going too.

_Mrs. B._ (_with interest_). Can they spare him from the boot-shop?

_Janet_. He's left them. He's writing a play.

_Mrs. B._ (_concerned_). Dear, dear! And he used to be such a steady young fellow.

[_All that matters in their conversation is now finished, but as the
play has got to be filled up they continue to talk for some ten minutes
longer. At the end of that time_--

_Janet_ (_glancing at clock again_). It's half-past nine, and neither of they men back yet.

[_Which means that, while the attention of the audience was diverted,
the stage-manager must have twiddled the clock-hands round from behind.
This is called realism._

_Mrs. B._ Listen! Yer feyther's comin' now.

[_A door in the far distance is heard to bang. At the same instant_
John Bullyum _enters quickly. He is the typical British parent of
repertory; that is to say, he has iron-grey hair, a chin beard, a
lie-down collar, and the rest of his appearance is a cross between a
gamekeeper and an undertaker._

_Bullyum_ (_He is evidently in a state of some excitement; speaks scornfully_). Well, here's a fine thing happened.

_Mrs. B._ What is it, feyther?

_Bully_, (_showing letter_). That young puppy, Inkslinger, had the impudence to write me asking for our Janet. But I've told him off to rights. He's nobbut a boot-builder.

_Janet_ (_in a level voice_). Ye're wrong there, feyther. Bob Inkslinger's a dramatist now.

_Bully_, (_thunderstruck_). What?

_Janet_ (_as before_). He's had a play taken by the Sad Sundays Society.

_Bully_. Great Powers, a repertory dramatist! And I've insulted him!--me, a town councillor. (_He has grown white to the lips; this is not easy, but can be managed._) There'll be a play about me--about us, this house-- everything. But (_passionately_) I'll thwart him yet. Janet, my girl, do thee write at once and say that I withdraw my opposition to the engagement.

_Janet_ (_dully_). But I don't want the man.

_Bully_, (_hectoring_). Am I your feyther or am I not? I tell you you shall marry him. And what's more, he shan't find us what he looks for. No, no (_with rising agitation_), he thinks that because I'm a town councillor I'm to be made game of, does he? Well, I'll learn him different! (_Glaring round_) This room--it's got to be changed. And you (_to_ Janet) put on a short frock, something lively and up-to-date--d' ye hear? At once!

_Mrs. B._ (_as_ Janet _only stares without moving_). Well, I never.

_Bully_. And let's have some books about the place--BERNARD SHAW--

_Janet_ (_icily_). He's a back number now, feyther.

_Bully_. Well, whoever's the latest. Then you must go to plays and dances, lots of dances. (_Struck with an idea_) Where's David?

[_As he speaks_ David _enters, a tall ungainly youth with spectacles
and a projecting brow._

_David_. Here I yam, feyther.

_Bully_. It's close on ten. (_Hopefully_) Have ye been at a night-club?

_David_. I were kept late at evenin' class.

_Bully_. Brr! (_In an ecstasy of fury_) See ye belong to a night-club before the week's out. (_He does his glare again._) I'll establish frivolity and a spirit of modernism in this household, if I have to take the stick to every member of it.

_Janet_ (_springing up suddenly_). Feyther! (_A pause; she collects herself for her big effort._) Feyther, I'm one o' they dour silent girls to whom expression comes hardly, but (_with veiled menace_) when it does come it means fifteen minutes' unrelieved monologue. So tak' heed. We're not wanting these changes, and to be up-to-date, and all that. I'm happy as I am, and so's David. He has his hope of the council, and the bribes and them things. And I've my guild and my friends, with their odd clothes and variable accents. That's the life I want, and I won't change it. I won't--

[_Quite suddenly she breaks from them and rushes out of the room,
slamming the door after her. The others remain silent, apparently from
emotion, but really to see if there will be any applause. When this is
settled in the negative old_ Bullyum _speaks again._

_Bully_, (_slowly and as if with an immense effort_). Why couldn't she wait?... She might have known we wouldn't decide anything--that we never do decide anything--because it would be too much like a rounded climax. Well (_rousing himself_), let's put out the gas. [_He moves heavily towards the conspicuous bracket._

_David_ (_protesting)_. But, feyther, 'tisn't near time for bed yet.

_Bully_, (_grimly_). Maybe; but 'tis more than time play was finished. And this is how.

[_He turns the tap. A few moments later the light is switched off with
a faintly audible click, and upon a stage in total darkness the curtain
falls._

* * * * *

_Recruit._ "ABOUT A PACKET OF WOODBINES A DAY, SIR."

_Officer._ "DO YOU INHALE?" _Recruit._ "NOT MORE THAN A PINT A DAY, SIR."]

* * * * *

THE WOBBLER.

My friend, whom for the purpose of concealing his identity I will call Wiggles, opened fire upon me on March 1st (coming in like a lion) with this:

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I have not been well and my doctor thinks it might do me good to come to Cornwall for a few weeks. May I invite myself to stay with you?..."

I accepted his invitation, if I may put it so, and on March 6th received the following:--

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I am not, as I think I said, at all well, and my doctor considers I had better break the journey at Plymouth, as it is a long way from Malvern to Cornwall. Would you recommend me some hotels to choose from? I hope to start by the middle of the month ..."

I recommended hotels, and on the 12th heard from him again:--

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I am very obliged to you. In this severe weather my doctor says that I cannot be too careful, and I doubt if I shall be able to start for ten days or so. Has your house a south aspect, and is it far from the sea? I require air but not wind. And could you tell me ..."

I told him all right, though as a guest I began to think him a little _exigeant_. But he was unwell.

On the 17th he answered me:--

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I understand you live _quite_ in the country. Would you tell me whether a doctor lives near to you and whether you have a chemist within reasonable distance? My doctor, who really understands my case, won't hear of my starting until the wind changes: but I hope ..."

I drew a map showing my house, the nearest chemist's shop, the doctor's surgery and a few other points of interest, such as Land's End and the Lizard. This I sent to him, and on the 22nd he replied:--

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I acknowledge your map with many thanks. There is one more thing. My doctor insists on a very special diet. Can your cook make porridge? I rely very largely on porridge for breakfast and ..."

I saw myself smiling at Lord DEVONPORT and wired back, "Have you ever known a cook who couldn't make porridge?"

And on the 27th he issued his ultimatum:--

"DEAR WILLIAM,--I have consulted my doctor and he thinks I ought not to tempt Providence by travelling at present, so I have decided to remain in Malvern. I do hope ..."

To this I replied:--

"DEAR WIGGLES,--Holding as you do the old pagan view of Providence, you are quite right not to tempt it. The loss is mine. I hope you will soon be rather less unwell."

Then I went away for three days without leaving an address, and when I returned it was to learn that Wiggles had arrived on the previous evening. And in my study I found him, together with four wires (two to say he wasn't coming and two to say he was) and a table loaded with prescriptions.

He eats enormously.

* * * * *

INKOMANIA.

(_Suggested by Mr. SIMONIS' recently published volume._)

O Street of Ink, O Street of Ink,
Where printers and machinsts swink
Amid the buzz and hum and clink;
By night one cannot sleep a wink,
There is no time to stop or think,
One half forgets to eat or drink,
One's brains are knotted in a kink,
One always lives upon the brink
Of "happenings" that strike one pink.
One day the dollars gaily chink,
The next your funds to zero shrink.
And yet I'm such a perfect ninc-
Ompoop I cannot break the link
That binds me to the Street of Ink.

* * * * *

* * * * *

CHILDREN'S TALES FOR GROWN-UPS.