Chapter MXCVII: Golgotha (2)

Look at Mr. Lloyd George. I have never actually seen him in one of his “family” hats--but I know his hatted appearance intimately through a picture. It is a photograph representing “the man who won the war,” as a vigorous smiling personage in a grey tweed suit. It seems to be very much the kind of suit that you or I might select for golf. But--here distinction creeps in--the upper part of his body is swathed in something that resembles a horse blanket ... and he is crowned with the headdress of a Tyrolean brigand.

I am going to be a great man. I know it by my hats.

SHAREHOLDERS’ BLOOD

GRAND (TRUNK) FEATURE SERIAL.

CANADIAN FILMS LIMITED.

We are in the Wild West of Canada--a land full of mustangs and moccasins. People with hard faces are riding about in strange clothes. Gently nurtured maidens are scrubbing out the cowshed, or digging up the manure heap. The hired-woman is sitting in the sunlight with a book. It is a typical scene in a British Dominion; we know it is Canada, however, because there’s a flick, and the screen says:

THIS IS THE CITY OF BISON SNOUT,
FED BY THE GRAND TRUNK RAILWAY,
CANADA’S PREMIER RAILROAD.

Then there’s another flick, and, lo! a magnificent train, racing across the prairie, gives us a hint that we are watching Canada’s premier railroad in operation. The screen obligingly confirms this impression by--FLICK:

LUXURY, SPEED, AND SECURITY.
THE GRAND TRUNK MILLIONAIRES’
LIMITED THUNDERING ACROSS THE
CONTINENT
ON ITS JOURNEY TO BISON SNOUT.

The scene changes, now, to a precipitous hill overlooking the smiling valley through which the train is thundering. Far away you can see her plume of smoke, racing across the sky. And here, in the foreground, are two sinister figures, mounted on the inevitable mustangs, masked and visored, grim and silent. Oo! They look like Irish gunmen; and as soon as they espy the train they turn simultaneously to each other and exclaim with sinister emphasis--SNICK:

THERE’S BOODLE IN THIS.

CLICK--and we’re back again with our two desperadoes, galloping like mad from their point of vantage towards their luckless prey. (_Noise off--cloppety, cloppety, cloppety, clop._)

Next we have a close-up of the train as it speeds over the landscape. The passengers are sitting back in their places, wreathed in smiles. They like their train. They think it particularly safe; and behind it all there is the feeling of immense security derived from the thought that they are travelling in a British Dominion of the British Empire under the waving protection of the Union Jack on which the sun never sets. The orchestra interprets their thoughts, and ours, by playing a selection of patriotic melodies.

Now we are shown something really out of the way. Thus: SNICK:

ON THE FOOTPLATE.

FLICK:

SWAYING ALONG AT HUNDREDS OF
MILES AN HOUR, THE JOVIAL
ENGINEER AND HIS MERRY COLLABORATORS
PASS THE TIME WITH
DANCE AND SONG.

CLICK: And there they are, swaying like dipsomaniacs, dancing like dervishes, and opening their mouths like bullfrogs in a drought. Of course, you can’t hear what they’re singing, but a gramophone (_off_) obligingly strikes up at this moment:

Sons of the sea,
All British born,
Sailing every ocean,
Laughing foes to scorn--

and so on. A little inappropriate to the setting perhaps; but, oh, how apposite to what follows!

Suddenly the face of the jovial engineer clouds over. He shades his eyes with his hands. Rushing to the eyeholes, he peers out into the day. His collaborators copy him. We know something is coming. We stir uneasily in our seats. Somehow we can’t help associating this action with the two sinister----What’s that? He’s beckoning to the chief mate (or whatever the fellow’s called). The chief mate’s beckoning to him. Neither dares leave the eyeholes. How can they communicate with each other? Still the train speeds on. Oh! the engineer’s drawing his revolver. Ah! it’s empty! So is the chief mate’s. So is everybody’s. He flings it down with a curse. He’s going to speak to the chief mate. He’s speaking: SNICK:

SAY, YOU GUYS, IT’S HELL OR HOME.
AND ME FOR HOME!

FLICK:

STOKE UP YOUR BOILERS, YOU BLEAR-EYED
SKUNKS!

An underling flings open the door of the furnace. He staggers back. Empty! He rushes with a shovel to the coal bunkers. The others rush after him. Oh, there’s no coal! The train’s slowing down every minute. The desperadoes are riding nearer and nearer. We can hear the thunder of their hoofs--I mean their horses’ hoofs. (_Noise off--cloppety, cloppety, cloppety, clop._)

Ah! what are they doing now? They’re going to throw one of the underlings into the furnace to keep the train going. They’re going to burn the engineer and the chief mate. They’re going to pull the engine to pieces and burn that. Anything to escape. Anything to escape....

Suddenly the chief mate, who’s looking through the eyehole, gives a great shout. He’s very excited and relieved. He’s speaking--listen, look, I mean.

FLICK:

WHY IT’S ONLY THE SHERIFF’S BOYS
HAVING A GAME WITH US!

The others do not agree with him. They point rudely at him, and curse him for a fool. But he only smiles and says through his smile:

CLICK:

SURE--IT’S THE SHERIFF RIGHT
ENOUGH. I SEEN HIS LIL’ BUTTON.
HIS DEPUTY’S WITH HIM.
I DONE SEE HIS BUTTON, TOO.

They rush to the eyeholes again. There’s no doubt this time. They throw up their hats and cheer. They are beside themselves. They even go so far as to pull up the train. The passengers crowd to the windows. At first they are alarmed. They shrink back. They mutter among themselves. CLICK:

IT’S A HOLD-UP.

BUSH-RANGERS.

and so on. But the engineer puts all that right. He descends royally from the footplate and walks along the train reassuring them. FLICK:

IT’S ALL RIGHT, LADIES AND GENTS.
IT’S ONLY THE SHERIFF OF THE
DOMINION COME TO PAY US A SURPRISE
VISIT.

What a joke! How they laugh! And cheer! They crowd to the window. They swarm out on to the line. They offer expensive drinks to the engineer and his collaborators, which are accepted. They pass round the hat.

And then the sheriff approaches. He asks them to line up. They are delighted. Another priceless joke. Ha! Ha! Ha! What a wit the man has, to be sure! He suggests they should produce their valuables. Only too delighted. Their stocks and shares, jewellery--everything, in fact, they have with them.

THEY’RE “OF NO VALUE” TO YOU
NOW.

Ha! Ha! Ha! They’re doubled up with laughter. They’re holding their sides. What a funny man. What a very fun----Eh? He’s speaking again.

GET A MOVE ON IF YOU DON’T WANT
A DOSE OF LEAD!

Oh, of course, very subtle. It’s all part of the joke. He’s acting so well, isn’t he?

What’s he doing? He’s putting all their valuables into a bag. He’s taking them away. He’s a----He’s a _robber_! Oh, no! Oh, not that! But he _is_. Old men are weeping over the loss of their life’s savings. Old women----Oh, this isn’t funny at all!

A handsome young woman is speaking to him. She’s pleading, she’s on her knees.

CLICK:

IF YOU TAKE THAT IT MEANS I
CAN’T GET MARRIED. WE WERE
GOING TO START HOUSEKEEPING
ON MY FIRST PREFERENCE STOCK.

She’s broken down. He’s laughing, the brute! He’s roaring with laughter. So’s his fellow desperado.

Who’s this? What a funny fat man! Oh, it’s going to end happily after all. He’s a policeman, I suppose, but his hat looks a bit queer. Oh, an American hat--I see. He’s very angry with the brigands--the sheriffs, I mean. He’s speaking.

CLICK:

THIS OUTFIT’S WORTH AT PAR
£37,073,492.

FLICK:

“THIS WOULD MAKE MY APPRAISEMENT
OF ALL THE STOCK, THE VALUE
OF WHICH IS HERE IN ISSUE, NOT
LESS THAN $48,000,000.”

Oh, it’s too bad! They’re laughing at him, too.

PLICK:

GET AWAY HOME, YOU FAT OLD GUY,
BACK TO THE STATES WHERE YOU
BELONG.

He’s very angry indeed. He’s turning away in high dudgeon. He makes a last appeal.

FLICK:

BUT AIN’T YOU THE SHERIFF?

BLICK:

WHY, YES; BUT WHAT’S THAT GOT
TO DO WITH IT?

SNICK:

WELL, I MEAN TO SAY----

CLICK:

A MAN’S GOTTER LIVE, AIN’T HE,
EVEN IF HE IS A SHERIFF? AND
THEY’RE ONLY DURNED ENGLISH
GUYS, ANYWAY.

THE PERSONAL COLUMN

The big events of the world, the things so remote from most of us, float serenely down the midstream of the day’s news, little heeded, I confess, by me; but the flotsam of life is brought to one’s very feet by the undercurrents and eddies of the Personal Column.

The news headings of one’s morning paper deal with subjects whole worlds away from one’s own humble existence. The movements of Marshal Foch; the Japanese Earthquake; the Recognition of Russia. Even (long since) when the “Date of the Peace Celebrations” was announced, it was a comparatively lifeless statement. To vitalise it, to humanise it, one had to go to the neighbourhood of the Personal Column. Thus:--

“CHAMPAGNE. APPROACHING PEACE CELEBRATIONS. Advertiser representing principals holding stocks of the best known brands of Champagne, etc., etc.... Apply to ‘Benefactor.’”

Here at last we were in the heart of things. “Stocks of the best known brands of champagne.” This unlocked the tongue, set speculation working. What brands? What is your favourite brand? One reviewed a pageant of sparkling names such as Ayala, Irroy, Heidsieck, Mumm, Moet, Pommery, Roederer and the Widow, the dainty Clicquot.... And then arose the question what to do on Peace Night--Jazz? Theatre? Opera? Or should it be a quiet dinner (preferably at home) with Jones, who shared one’s last Xmas in the Salient, and Smith the Silent, who never let one down, and Robinson?... I seem to remember that I wrote to “Benefactor.”

Actually “Benefactor” was not, so to speak, a Member of the Personal Column, though he dwelt very near to it. His announcement abutted on a poignant appeal for a “SUITABLE PLACE TO STOP” from a young minesweeping lieutenant who, having exhausted his patience in ransacking London for a bed, had lit upon the discovery that a large part of the hotel accommodation in this city was still in the clutches of Sir Alfred Mond and his Merry Men; but it was published (wrongly, of course) under the heading: “Business Opportunities.” What creature would sink so low as to make a business opportunity out of the sale of that golden drink, of those “best brands of Champagne”--and in the Peace season, too? Perish the thought! To the Personal Column let “Benefactor” be admitted.

The Personal Column is the quintessence of journalism, an inexhaustible lucky-bag of strange communications and curious announcements. Do you want a furnished caravan? Napoleon relics? Are you a philatelist? Would you like a summer outing in Kew Gardens? Have you a haunted house? These, after all, are things that touch one’s daily life. Marshal Foch might go to the Sandwich Islands, and the philatelist and I would wish him God-speed, and think of it no more; but a haunted house (even if it be only haunted by mice) brings one “up against it!” Are you bored with your life? The Personal Column is a constant provocation to plunge into the whirlpool of the unknown. Thus at random: An officer, aged 20, of cheerful artistic and musical tastes, wishes to correspond with somebody with a view to “real friendship.” There’s your chance. And what dark story, think you, is concealed behind the following:

“The Black Cat is watching: green eyes. S?”

What tale of a temptation spurned lurks in:

“Scalo: I may be poor but I love truth far better than gold--Misk?”

Under the influence of what jealous pangs came this to be penned:

“Ralph--Who is BABS--Remember Olga?” (The following, in a happier vein, tells presumably of a lovers’ quarrel made up:

“Whitewings. Darling you know really you are the only thing on earth I love. Snowdrop.”)

The big news columns tell us what our intellectuals consider it good for us to know, in the manner in which they consider it good for us to be told. The Ruhr Occupation, denounced by Mr. Garvin, upheld by Lord Rothermere--The Betrayal of the Country to Labour (in the Gospel according to Mr. Churchill)--The League of Nations--Bootlegging and Prohibition. But the Personal Column--ah!--the Personal Column gives us a peep into the throbbing lives of our neighbours; we become partakers in the bliss of Whitewings and Snowdrop, we share “S’s” apprehension of the Black Cat, and our hearts go out to Misk and Olga--poor forgotten Olga. Here are no world politics dished up by statesmen _manqué_, or camouflaged by great journalists, no subjects to be discussed in catchwords and manufactured phrases, but the myriad voices, from the streets around, crying out at the impulse of the eternal verities.

SOCIETY SIDESHOWS

EXTRACTED FROM THE PRIVATE DIARY OF THE HON. “TOOTHY” BADGER

Dined at the House last night. Ridiculous party given by “Bulgy” Gobblespoon to celebrate his wife’s election: the first husband and wife to sit together. To everyone’s dismay, it proved that she had only scraped in by the Prohibitionist vote, to win which she had to pledge herself never to allow any form of alcohol on any table at which she sat. Very restrictive of her dining out, I should imagine, and utterly destructive of her own dinners, which used to be rather fun. Impossible to imagine the gloom of that gathering! Even old Bitters, who was wheedled off the Front Bench to come down and say something amusing, was quite unable to sparkle on Schweppes’ ginger ale. Hurried away with little “Squeaky” Paddington (old Ponto’s new wife) to sample a drink and a spot of foot shuffling at Sheep’s. Very stuffy and a lot of ghastly people.

* * * * *

Somebody, turning out their lumber-room, has presented a whole shoot of pictures to the National Gallery; so I went to see who was looking at them. What that place exists for I can never understand. Hardly anyone there except a herd of frowsy old women, with paint-boxes, who took jolly good care that nobody should come within a mile of anything worth looking at. One rather jolly girl--but very severe. The rest awful. A couple of anxious-looking people walking up and down, looking intense and making speeches about Ghirlandajo or Cimabue to an audience of yokels that doesn’t know either from cream cheese; and the remainder of London seems to use the portico as a convenient meeting-place, and never goes inside at all.

* * * * *

Broke my rule against large parties last night in order to go and stare at the women Members of Parliament, who allowed themselves to be shown off by old Lady Paramount Nectar at Ambrosia House. Never again. The rooms are big enough Heaven knows; but they seemed to have invited everyone in London, who had a dress-suit. Lady Biltong, whose figure needs to be put under restraint, was carried out fainting. Poor Bottisford had two ribs stove in going up the staircase and didn’t know it till he got home--kept murmuring that he must have got a touch of pleurisy in the fog. And old Sir William Bylge trod on a lady’s train and brought it clean away from the gathers (whatever those may be). Needless to say, it proved to be a Royalty, but only a minor one. Never saw so many foreign potentates and creatures gathered together in my life before: the Duca di Corona Largo, Count Papryka da Chili, the Prince and Princess of Asta Mañana, a woman from New York, the Gizzawd of Abbyssinia, old Ramon Allones, looking younger than ever, and heaps of others. Nothing to eat, of course, and sickly sherbetty stuff masquerading as champagne. Hurried away to Stag’s with George Mossop to wash the taste out of our mouths. If old Paramount Nectar had lived, how different that supper would have been! As it is, if they took a bottle out of his cellar now, and poured it on his tomb, I believe he’d rise from the dead in very shame. Seems a bit too low to accept old Lady P.’s hospitality, and then slang the food; but, after all, he was my father’s cousin, and one feels it reflects on one’s own palate that a relation by marriage should give inferior wine.

Country house parties nowadays are becoming absurd. In the old days there was a lot to be said for country house visits. Even quite recently they could be profitably undertaken. But now! _Nous avons changê tout cela._ The advent of a Labour Government has put the final kybosh on even the limited hospitality one enjoyed last year. Three invitations this morning. One from Ditchwater Abbey--a place I loathe; one from Hugo Hamstringer, the fellow that made a fortune out of glue in the war, bought everything, lost the whole boiling in multiple eggshops during the slump, and is now trying to make two ends meet in that awful barrack of a place, Dundahead Hall, that he took over from “Wacker” with a block of dud oil shares in payment for his “calls” in Hamstringer, Limited, before the Company went bust--(nothing would induce me to go near _him_); and one from dear little Phyllis Biddiker, whose husband has lost everything in Southern Ireland, and who is scraping along somehow by letting off apartments at the Weir House (their place in Berkshire) to wealthy Colonials over here for the British Empire Exhibition. None asked me for more than a week-end. All say “Bring your own whisky if you want any.” Phyllis has had a present of Australian Burgundy from one of her lodgers, and offers to share it. I shall stay at home.

* * * * *

Because my brother Henry chose to marry, why should his almost-a-flapper daughter be motted on me to cart about London? A jade, a sly boots and a minx, she makes my life a burden. She makes me give her expensive meals, which I rather like; but I draw the line at being a decoy duck. Last night, having bled me of my entire income at Mah Jongg--a game I shall never hope to learn--she demanded to be taken to an unintelligibly highbrow play, knowing, I suppose, that, after the agony of listening to it, I should be as wax in her hands. Then she led me by easy stages to Sheep’s Club, by pretending she wanted to dance with me. There (by the merest accident, of course) we found young Geoffrey Bannister, the one young man in London I was cautioned against allowing her to meet--as if an uncle has any control whatever--and the whole plot stood revealed. Before I could contort my features into a frown, they were dancing in the middle of the room, where they seemed to spend the remainder of the evening. I was allowed to give them supper; they allowed me to take them away at two a.m. They were almost too good to be true till we got home--driving back in Geoffrey’s car; and then they suddenly insisted on starting off to “be in at the death” at the Hunt Ball at Hillsbury, looking in at Bridget Hanover’s dance in Brook Street on the way. Told them to go to the Hunt Ball at another place beginning with the same initial, sent Geoffrey home, and packed her off to bed. No more nieces for me.

* * * * *

They call them “winter sports.” You cram yourself, with everybody you dislike most, into the same train; stamp round the decks of the boat in a blizzard, swearing and trying to keep warm; ruin your digestion with the beastly food in the Train de Luxe; scrimmage with thirty other people for the sleeping berth you all booked six months before; turn out at the frontier to be browbeaten by hordes of _douaniers_; and arrive in the early morning feeling and looking like the Ancient Mariner, and discover that your rooms at the hotel have been swiped by somebody else. You turn out the manager, who shrugs his shoulders, and, after a fearful row, condescends to offer you sleeping room in an attic, on terms for which you could buy a large mansion in most countries. But your spirit is broken, and, rather than face the journey back, you accept with resignation, and crawl into the hovel allotted to you. You unpack your traps, and find that one of your skates is missing, or else that the straps have disappeared from your _skis_. But you are desperate now; you bind them on your feet with string, and rush out into the snow. You are immediately knocked down by some confounded beginner who has lost control and is flying down the hill at the rate of knots. You stagger to your feet gasping, with snow down your neck and both your _skis_ adrift. While you are readjusting them, a bob-sleigh whizzes into you, sweeps you off your feet on top of its crew, and obligingly overturns down an embankment. The occupants of the sleigh are people you’ve been trying to avoid for years; and, instead of cursing you for being in the way, they fall on your neck and invite you to dinner. You are in such pain from broken arms and legs, that you can’t think of an excuse, so you have to accept. After dinner they rob you at bridge, and, as a crowning blow, the man of the party borrows money from you. At last you break away, hurry back--and find the interesting girl you were hoping to talk to, deeply engaged with some wretched subaltern. And then the Lord Chancellor or some other fearful bore insists on talking about home politics--the one thing you were dying to forget. You mutter excuses and stumble off to turn in--still nursing your wounds. Some idiot has left the window open, and there are icicles hanging from the ceiling and a pile of snow in the middle of your bed. Next day you repeat the performance, which goes on for a fortnight at least. Winter “sports”! It must refer to the people, and not to the pastimes.

LATTER-DAY DRAMAS

MORALITY

(_In the manner of John Galsworthy._)