Chapter II: Part 2

"Quite likely. I'll go into that and let you know. She can't be absolutely alone, anyway. There must be another some time."

"Yes."

"And what do you propose to do now?"

"Oh, I'll give him poison."

"You're sure it will be painless?"

"Quite."

"I wouldn't have him suffer for anything."

"That will be all right."

"Thank you very much. I shall tell my wife he died in his sleep. Good-bye."

E. V. L.

* * * * *

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE PROPHETS.

My dear Charles,--At Geneva there is, and was long before the arrival of the League of Nations, a mountain. There are many mountains in Switzerland, but Geneva's private mountain happens to be in France. It is called "The Salève," a nasty name, but not of my choosing. If, being in Geneva, you want to go up The Salève (as I personally do not) you have first to get your passport off the police. The police are always a little difficult about passports, but, if you mention the name of The Salève, you will find them easier. You have next to obtain the French _visa_ in order to get out of Geneva; then the Swiss _visa_ in order to get back again. Thus provided you have to compete with a complicated and long-drawn process of trams and frontier controls; even so you find yourself at the bottom and not at the top of The Salève.

Being a busy (or shall we say idle?) man yourself, you will thus understand the reasons of my policy; if the mountain will not come to MAHOMED then MAHOMED and the mountain are best kept apart.

The inhabitants of Geneva have long been contriving, intriguing, I will even say complotting, to get me up The Salève. My doctor, having made me thoroughly interested in myself, got on to the subject of exercise; when my banker passed from the subject of interest on overdrafts to the advisability of my seeing the great Geneva view, it was undoubtedly blackmail; and as for my dentist--well, you know what dentists are and what mean advantages they take. But this one, I think, over-stepped the limit when he allowed the crown of my tooth to remind him of the crown of Mont Blanc; paused in fixing the former to descant on the beauties of the latter; told me that from The Salève I should get a better view of the latter than he, where he was, was getting of the former; asked me almost simultaneously if he was hurting me and if I had been up The Salève, and told me that I must go up it and (which I took to mean "or") that he might have to hurt me.

That was the most critical moment in the whole Battle of The Salève; the military critics are unanimous that I should have then said, "I will go up," had I been in a position to say anything at all. Saved by the gag, I have won the war against the Genevois.

I have taken the standpoint of the prophet, who, as you know, is not without honour abroad--a prophet with the policy outlined above. When a prophet of my sort decides on a policy, and that policy consists of doing nothing, he takes a lot of shifting, even on the flat. And there the matter and I remained, when there arrived from England, on or about November 15th, a positive cloud of prophets, intent on the League of Nations. The busiest figure among them is the secretary of one of the delegates. Pretending to be my best friend he sought the occasion of a heart-to-heart with me. I took it he wanted to discuss Nations; it appeared he wanted to discuss mountains. I hoped he was considering them generally in mass, possibly with the view of making a League of them. He was thinking in the particular, and you can guess what particular. He was beginning to think of wanting to go up It.

In an effective speech, which brought tears to my eyes but merely gave him an opportunity to fill and light his pipe, I put all the "cons" before him, particularly the passport part. As a man speaking with the authority behind him of a world leagued together, he detailed all the "pros." We must act together, he and I; he would assemble the prophets, I the passports.

I refused to be bullied by him. He named some major prophets, whom I should find it more difficult to withstand. His propaganda amongst them apparently began at once. Mark the sequence of events:--

On Tuesday, November 16th, His Majesty's Minister-Plenipotentiary and Envoy-Extraordinary in Switzerland assembled the British element to dinner. I have reason to know that he had already been approached by the secretary. The Crown of Mont Blanc was freely discussed and curiosity was aroused as to the identity, the desirability, even the approachability of the nearer mountain.

On Wednesday, November 17th, I ran into Lieut.-Col. His Highness the JAM SAHIB of NAWANAGAR--"RANJI," in brief. He was standing at the entrance of his hotel in significant meditation. The entrance of his hotel looks upon The Salève and past it to the Crown of Mont Blanc. And that was where he looked.

On Friday, November 19th, I found the Right Hon. G. N. BARNES walking along the Quai de Mont Blanc in the fatal direction. His eyebrows pointed relentlessly upward.

On Saturday, November 20th, Mr. BALFOUR arrived. The secretary began to talk about a date for our excursion.

On Sunday, November 21st, I became involved in conversation with Lord ROBERT CECIL in his room in his hotel. He moved towards the window, and as he did so Armenia, Vilna and all the Powers that want to come into the League and all the Powers that want to stay out of the League faded from his mind, and he called attention to the Crown of Mont Blanc and fixed his eagle eye upon the mole-hill in between.

On Monday, November 22nd, the secretary came to me and ordered me to provide passports, duly _visaed_, for The Salève party--seven in all, myself included. I told him that I would appeal direct to the delegates themselves, with whom I had already done some defensive propaganda on my own. He told me it was nothing to do with the delegates; it was the delegates' ladies. Fool that I was, I had never thought of them!

That night I wrote in my diary: "At Geneva there is a mountain. It is called The Salève--a nasty name for a nasty mountain. On Saturday I shall be on the top of it. I always knew that the League of Nations would make trouble."

On Tuesday, November 23rd, I sent an emissary among the ladies to persuade them that the summit of The Salève was loathsome. The emissary succeeded in establishing this point by contrasting it unfavourably with the Crown of Mont Blanc. The ladies thanked the emissary cordially for her most interesting information and said they would take steps to see the Crown of _Mont Blanc_ more nearly, even if those steps had to be up The Salève.

That night I wrote in my diary: "For a year I have fought and won, but on Saturday the Crown of Mont Blanc will witness my defeat, and the whole range of the Alps will look on in silent contempt."

On Wednesday morning, November 24th, I met Mr. BALFOUR crossing the Pont du Mont Blanc. He was looking at It with that dreamy smile of his, which seems to laugh at the littleness of man and the futility of his policies. That finished me.

On Wednesday night, November 24th-25th (read your paper to witness if I lie), the Crown of Mont Blanc fell off ... I have left The Salève where it is. What does it matter now?

Yours ever, Henry.

* * * * *

"Y-YES. TERRIBLY SMALL, ISN'T IT?"]

* * * * *

Enough Said.

"Sir Henry apologised at the close for having made the lecture somewhat shorter than usual. Sir Donald ---- said that theirs was an unspoken gratitude to Sir Henry for having done what he had been able to do."--_Scots Paper._

* * * * *

"MADRID, Dec. 8.

"The Ministry of Public Works has announced that on January 15 next an opportunity will be offered to foreign firms to secure orders for 119 railway engines and tenders needed by the Spanish railway companies. Tenders must be handed personally by a duly accredited representative of the firm making the offer."--_Times._

The engines may, however, be done up in a parcel and sent by post in the usual manner.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE ARRIVAL OF THE MANX BALLET.

The first visit of the Manx Ballet to London is undoubtedly the most outstanding feature in the annals of choregraphic and corybantic realism since the historic _première_ of the Botocudo Troupe on September 31st, 1919. And it is all the more welcome as an indication of the emergence of a native school, fully equipped in technique and scenic resource and, above all, imbued from start to finish with a high sense of the paramount importance of psycho-analysis in eliminating all supra-liminal elements from the orchestro-mimetic drama.

The most ambitious as well as the most successful item in the programme presented on Saturday night at the Colossodrome was _The Cat of Ballasalla_, that wonderful old Manx legend of the Princess who was turned into a cat by the enchantments of the Wizard of Dhoon and subsequently sentenced to decaudation by the cruel Scandinavian invader, MAGNUS BARFOD. The scene of the trial in the great synclinorium of Greeba Castle--exhibiting contemporaneous carboniferous tuffs, soft argillaceous rocks with choriambic fossils as well as later dolerite dykes, amid which the feline amenities of the Princess were illustrated with miraculous agility by Miss Agneesh Crannoge--compares favourably with the most ambitious enormities ever perpetrated by the genius of BAKST, DIAGHILEV, or even COCODRILLO, the Sardinian neo-Gongorist.

The music, which is chiefly founded on Manx folk-songs, developed and adapted by Mr. Orry Poolvash, is richly suggestive of the psycho-analytic basic aroma which pervades the entire scenario. The absence of a Coda in the Funeral March which concludes the ballet is an exquisitely pathetic touch which could only have occurred to a composer of genius. The orchestration is sumptuous and sonorous, the usual instruments being supplemented by two Glory Quayle-horns, a quartet of Laxey-phones with rotating C and C sharp crooks, a Manx harp with three strings, and a Miaowola, which gives out the Death Motive of the Princess at the various crises of the drama in tones of sublimated anguish and intensity.

We have only space in this brief preliminary notice to remark that the programme includes a humorous extravaganza entitled _The Quirks of Quilliam_, in which a grotesque _pas de quatre_ for the _Deemster_, the _Doomster_, the _Boomster_ and the _Scrabster_, forms the central episode; and ends with a satiric sketch, _The Golden Calf of Man_, apparently aimed at the extravagance of Lancashire trippers, who are pursued by demons into Sulby Glen, and released, to the sound of sea-trumpets, by the beneficent intervention of _Lord Greeba_ on their promising to evacuate the island.

* * * * *

GOLFING "IFS."

If you bring your own lunch
And frugally munch
Your sandwich and cake
For economy's sake;
If you strictly abstain
From sloe-gin and champagne,
Never touching a drop
Save perhaps ginger-pop;
If you're clever enough
To keep out of the rough,
If you don't slice or hook
Into pond, dyke or brook
Your new three-shilling ball,
And, best saving of all,
If you carry your clubs,
You can pay heavy "subs.,"
Fees for entrance and greens,
Without straining your means,
And, though you're a middle-
Class man, not a peer,
Agree with LORD RIDDELL
That golf isn't dear.

* * * * *

_Rough Rider._ "MINE SEEM TO COME IN MOTOR LORRIES."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

The news that Mr. STEPHEN LEACOCK has published a fresh series of burlesques will, I do not doubt, add to the Christmas jollity of a vast crowd of laughter-lovers. The name of it is _Winsome Winnie, and other New Nonsense Novels_ (LANE), and I can only describe it in that pet phrase of the house-agents as "examined and strongly recommended" for the merriest five-shillings' worth that I have enjoyed this long time. If ever a volume demanded to be read aloud over the Yule log here it is. Which of the eight novels is the most irresistible must remain, I suppose, a matter of individual taste; for myself I found the opening chapter in the title-tale the funniest thing in the collection, and that not forgetting the billiard match in the detective story, a contest that I defy anyone to follow without tears. To attempt analysis of such happily unforced humour would be a dark and dreadful task; but I incline to think that, more than most, the fun of Mr. LEACOCK (to be accurate one should, I suppose, say Dr. LEACOCK) depends upon the sudden tripping-up of the reader in his moment of fancied security. The _cliché_, with its deceptive appearance of solid and familiar ground, conceals an unexpected trap. Thus _Winnie_, the thrown-upon-the-world heroine, asked by the family lawyer how she proposes to gain a livelihood, replies in consecrated phrase, "I have my needle." "_Let me see it_," says the lawyer. But I grow pedantic; far more important than the method of this little book is its gift of seasonable entertainment, for which we need only wipe our eyes and be grateful.

* * * * *

In _The Royal Artillery War Commemoration Book_ Messrs. G. BELL AND SONS have produced a noble volume worthy of the great record of the Royal Regiment. To the energy and enthusiasm of Mrs. AMBROSE DUDLEY is largely due the collection of the fine material which Major-General Sir HERBERT UNIACKE has here set out in fair order and proportion. Personal diaries dealing with various phases of the War on all fronts or with the daily routine of batteries are here interspersed with articles and poems of a more purely literary quality and with original illustrations, largely the work of Gunner-officers and extremely well reproduced. Among the most notable contributors are Brigadier-General J. H. MORGAN, Major V. R. BURKHARDT, D.S.O., Major The Master of BELHAVEN, Captain VICTOR WALROND (the last two killed in action), Captain GILBERT HOLIDAY, Captain H. ASQUITH, Lieut. ROBERT NICHOLS, Lieut. GILBERT FRANKAU, Gunner MEARS, the Hon. NEVILLE LYTTON, Mr. SEPTIMUS POWER, Mr. W. ROTHENSTEIN, Miss LUCY KEMP-WELCH and Mr. C. CLARK. _Punch_ is represented by several artists, including Captain E. H. SHEPARD, M.C., and Lieut. WALLIS MILLS (both of the Regiment), who have contributed some delightful colour-sketches, very faithfully observed. Many of the poems, too, that appear in the volume have been reprinted from the pages of _Punch_. There are brief records of those members of the Regiment who won the V.C., many portraits of "Representative Artillerymen," and a Roll of Honour of fallen officers, numbering 3,507. Lack of space alone prevented the inclusion of the names of the 45,442 Other Ranks who gave their lives for their country. Every Gunner who does not possess this splendid memorial work should have it given to him this Christmas by some proud relative or friend. Like the Regiment, it should go _Ubique_.

* * * * *

When Mr. ROBERT CHAMBERS decides to give his neurotic New York society women a miss, and exploit his more imaginative and adventurous vein, I always know that I am in for a late night and an extra large gas bill. Like the British soldier Mr. CHAMBERS does not carry the word "impossible" in his vocabulary. Why should he, since he can give the semblance of reality to the utterly unbelievable? Then one mutters, "What utter rubbish!" and sends round to the bookseller to enquire if by any chance there is a sequel coming out. In _The Slayer of Souls_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) Mr. CHAMBERS is at his best and most impossible. A race of dreadful magicians, the descendants of the Old Man of the Mountain, who have been multiplying and acquiring extraordinary psychic powers in the interior of China for centuries, come forth to do battle with the United Secret Service for the souls of men. They have inspired the Hun, and the Bolshevik has been their tool. Fortunately a beautiful young American girl, who was brought up in their midst and has learned all their grizzly powers and (as it seems) a bit more, is on the side of the "forces of law and order." The struggle is titanic, for these magicians can slay and be slain corporeally and incorporeally with equal ease. I do not need to tell you who wins out, but neither will I intimate how it is done. I can only say that I envy anybody who is fortunate enough to have a long evening before him and _The Slayer of Souls_ at his elbow, still unread.

* * * * *

In _Uncle Pierce's Legacy_ (METHUEN) Mrs. DOROTHEA CONYERS gives us once more all that we have learned to expect of her novels: the friendly, witty, blundering servants; the hunting society in which wealth and poverty, breeding and vulgarity, cheerfully rub shoulders; the descriptions of the wistful beautiful West of Ireland in autumn and winter; and above all the horses. Added to all this there are Sinn Fein raids, real and imaginary, to bring things up to date. A rather unconvincing plot, with a dash of _Great Expectations_ in it, yet offers a situation which has plenty of amusing possibilities. _Honor_ and _Evie Nutting_, two middle-aged spinsters, find themselves the possessors of eight thousand a year, on condition that they spend it all. That sounds, of course, a very pleasant arrangement; but they have been struggling for years to make ends meet and economy has become a habit. The end of the first quarter finds them sending _Harris_, the English manservant, in haste to buy a frying-pan with the last unspent three shillings and sixpence. That the _Uncle Pierce_ of the title should be really a brother, that characters should change their names without rhyme or reason from paragraph to paragraph, and that inverted commas should make their appearance just anywhere--all this, I think, is the author's clever way of suggesting an atmosphere of Irish irresponsibility, and it is quite successful. _Uncle Pierce's Legacy_ is a pleasant tale most pleasantly told, and it is not Mrs. CONYERS' fault, but her misfortune (and ours), that novels which describe the lighter side of Irish life, even with the tenderest humour, are more likely just now to make one sigh than smile.

* * * * *

I do not know whether _The Scar_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) first saw publication in any of our popular dailies, but from internal evidence I should be strongly inclined to suspect it. At least Miss RUBY M. AYRES has written an admirable example of the class of tale, beloved of our serial public, in which new every morning are the tribulations of the elect, only to vanish with startling suddenness in the last days of June or December. For example, _Mark_, the hero, begins as the misunderstood son of one of those widower-fathers who in such stories dwell for ever behind the locked doors of studies, leaving in this instance _Mark_ to be the victim of an aunt whose lack of sympathy approaches the pantomimic. All the usual results follow, even to the acquisition by _Mark_ of a faithful hound, which the least experience of sentimental fiction would have caused any insurance company to refuse on sight. When therefore _Aunt Midian_, following her appointed course, effaced this friend-of-man, I confess that my grief was to some extent tempered by a recognition of the inevitable. Of course, however, _Mark_ does not remain for long in what I might call these dog-days of his young affection; love, strong, passionate and not too slavishly restricted to a single object, soon has his world going round as fast as the most exacting reader could desire. For the decorous details of this delirium I need only add that, if you want them, you know where to go to find them.

* * * * *

Had I been asked to godfather _Smith and the Pharaohs_ (ARROWSMITH) I should have refused to stand, unless its name was changed to "Barbara who Came Back," for the tale of _Barbara_ is by far the best in this book of short stories. It would be boastful--as well as untrue--to say that I have read all of Sir H. RIDER HAGGARD'S many books, but as far as my experience of them goes I find a delightfully fresh quality in this tale. It may be old-fashioned and over-sentimental, but in spite of these defects it has a very definite charm, and its conclusion makes a curious and legitimate appeal to the emotions. All the other stories are well up to standard, and it is amazing that an author who has written so much still shows no symptoms either of weariness or vain repetition.

* * * * *

Those who appreciate Miss C. FOX SMITH'S familiarity with the ways and moods of sailormen and her flair for the true sea-tang will welcome the new collection of poems which she has brought out under the title, _Ships and Folks_ (ELKIN MATHEWS). Most of these verses have appeared in _Punch_, and no further commendation is here needed.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Transcriber's notes:

Page 465: Tristan d'Acunha--this spelling also appears in the
next issue of 'Punch'.

Page 478: choregraphic is a valid spelling of choreographic.
(Oxford Dictionary: Cho'regraph etc. See CHOREOGRAPH etc.)