Chapter I: Queen Elizabeth and Sir Walter Raleigh (1)

It was a wet and windy day
The ground was damp and dirty
But yet the Queen she would not stay.
They pressed her, she grew shirty.

“A murrain on you,” she replied
“_I_ care not for the weather.”
And she went forth in all her pride
In silk and ruff and feather.

Beside her walked her courtiers gay
Although with cold they shivered;
How cold they were they dared not say
Lest with a glance be withered.

Look! in the middle of the road
A puddle wide and frightening.
“Wait, Madam!”—forward Raleigh strode
His satin cloak untightening.

Down in the wet he flung his cloak,
She stepped across quite dryly,
Then with her sweetest smile she spoke,
Commending him most highly.

“PANSY”

RULES AS TO BIRTHDAYS

FOR THE BENEFIT OF PARENTS

The person whose birthday it happens to be should be allowed to get up when they choose. There should be sausages for breakfast.

It seems hardly necessary to point out that there should be no lessons, and no walk.

Lunch should be chosen by the birthday person.

Sample Menu for a Birthday Lunch:—

Roast Chicken.
Bread Sauce.
Green Peas.
Squiggly Potatoes.
Trifle, with chocolate éclairs as an alternative.

In choosing birthday presents people should remember that the whole point of a present is that it is an extra. Clothes should never be given for birthday presents, because one _has_ to have clothes and it is not at all exciting to be given a pair of stockings. Handkerchiefs do not count as clothes because they are pretty.

Some really good entertainment should be arranged for the afternoon. If in London a matinée is suggested, followed by tea at Rumpelmayer’s. Bedtime should come at least two hours later than usual. If only these few simple rules could be committed to memory by those in authority what completely satisfactory occasions birthdays would be.

“CHRYSANTHEMUM”

A FABLE

There was once a pine wood on the slope of a hill, and in the middle of the wood was a lovely silver birch which could not grow as it should because the pine trees were so closely packed about it.

Instead of being sorry for it, the pine trees were insulting.

“What are you doing here anyway?” they said. “You weren’t invited. This is a pine wood. Why aren’t you out there on the common, among the brake fern, with all the others of your finicking useless tribe? Who wants silver birches? They do no good in the world.” And so on.

The silver birch, who was a perfect lady, made no reply.

And then a war came and it was necessary to get timber for all kinds of purposes, and all over the country the woods were cut down, among them this pine wood, for pine is very useful for planks for building huts.

The men came with their axes and felled tree after tree, but when they reached the silver birch they said, “We’ll leave this—it’s no good for timber, and when all these others are gone it will have a chance.”

And so it was left, and soon it stood all alone and very beautiful, surrounded by the dead bodies of the unkind pine trees, absolute queen of the hill.

Being a perfect lady it still said nothing to them, nor had it even smiled as they tottered and fell.

The moral is that every one’s good time _may_ come.

“CARNATION”

STRAY THOUGHTS ON PARENTS

Parents are always saying that they once were children too, but they give no signs of it.

It is a peculiarity of parents that they always want you to change your boots.

Parents have several set forms of speech, of which “You seem to think I’m made of money” is one, and “I never did that when I was your age” is another. They also wonder “What the world is coming to.”

Parents live in houses, usually in the best rooms. They can’t bear doors either to be left open or shut with a bang.

A funny thing about parents is that they can find interesting reading in newspapers.

“TULIPE NOIRE”

CORRESPONDENCE

DEAR EDITOR,—You did me the honour to ask me to contribute to your magazine, but as I am no writer I can send you nothing of my own. But I have arranged for a very nice piece of nonsense to be copied out for you. It was written by a mathematician and philosopher named W. K. Clifford and was published years ago but seems now to be forgotten. It was Mrs. W. K. Clifford who wrote a delightful book for children called _The Getting-well of Dorothy_ and a delightful book for grown-ups called _Aunt Anne_. Wishing every success for _The Beguiler_ in its most admirable campaign,—I am, yours faithfully,

RICHARD HAVEN
His mark X

THE GIANT’S SHOES

BY W. K. CLIFFORD

Once upon a time there was a large giant who lived in a small castle: at least, he didn’t all of him live there, but he managed things in this wise. From his earliest youth up his legs had been of a surreptitiously small size, unsuited to the rest of his body: so he sat upon the south-west wall of the castle with his legs inside, and his right foot came out of the east gate, and his left foot out of the north gate, while his gloomy but spacious coat-tails covered up the south and west gates; and in this way the castle was defended against all comers, and was deemed impregnable by the military authorities. This, however, as we shall soon see, was not the case, for the giant’s boots were inside as well as his legs: but as he had neglected to put them on in the giddy days of his youth, he was never afterwards able to do so, because there was not enough room. And in this bootless but compact manner he passed his time.

The giant slept for three weeks at a time and two days after he woke his breakfast was brought to him, consisting of bright brown horses sprinkled on his bread and butter. Besides his boots the giant had a pair of shoes, and in one of them his wife lived when she was at home: on other occasions she lived in the other shoe. She was a sensible practical kind of woman, with two wooden legs and a clothes-horse, but in other respects not rich. The wooden legs were kept pointed at the ends, in order that if the giant were dissatisfied with his breakfast he might pick up any stray people that were within reach, using his wife as a fork. This annoyed the inhabitants of the district, so they built their church in a south-westerly direction from the castle, behind the giant’s back, that he might not be able to pick them up as they went in. But those who stayed outside to play pitch-and-toss were exposed to great danger and sufferings.

Now, in the village there were two brothers of altogether different tastes and dispositions, and talents and peculiarities and accomplishments, and in this way they were discovered not to be the same person. The elder of them was most marvellously good at singing and could sing the Old Hundredth an old hundred times without stopping. Whenever he did this he stood on one leg and tied the other round his neck to avoid catching cold and spoiling his voice; but the neighbours fled. And he was also a rare hand at making guava dumplings out of three cats and a shoehorn, which is an accomplishment seldom met with. But his brother was a more meagre magnanimous person, and his chief accomplishment was to eat a wagon-load of hay overnight, and wake up thatched in the morning.

The whole interest of this story depends upon the fact that the giant’s wife’s clothes-horse broke in consequence of a sudden thaw, being made of organ pipes. So she took off her wooden legs and stuck them in the ground, tying a string from the top of one to the top of the other, and hung out her clothes to dry on that. Now this was astutely remarked by the two brothers, who therefore went up in front of the giant after he had his breakfast. The giant called out “Fork! fork!” but his wife, trembling, hid herself in the more recondite toe of the second shoe. Then the singing brother began to sing: but he had not taken into account the pious disposition of the giant, who instantly joined in the psalm, and this caused the singing brother to burst his head off, but, as it was tied by the leg, he did not lose it altogether.

But the other brother, being well thatched on account of the quantity of hay he had eaten overnight, lay down between the great toe of the giant, and the next, and wriggled. So the giant, being unable to bear tickling in the feet, kicked out in an orthopodal manner: whereupon the castle broke and he fell backwards, and was impaled upon the sharp steeple of the church. So they put a label on him on which was written “Nupides Giganteus.”

That’s all.

_End of Number 1 of THE BEGUILER; or THE INVALID’S FRIEND._

LXIV

VERENA RABY TO EVANGELINE BARRANCE

MY DEAR EVANGELINE,—_The Beguiler_ is by far the best magazine I ever read. I prefer it to all others, and if I were allowed to get up I should try it in my bath; but I can’t yet and therefore have to be washed by a nurse. I never knew before that flowers wielded such graceful pens and the next time I go into the garden—which I hope will be this year—I shall walk up and down the borders with a new respect for them.

_The Invalid’s Friend_ has served its purpose wonderfully. I have read it three times with delight. It has made all its rivals on my table here look very foolish—the _Nineteenth Century_ is conscious, beside it, of being too wordy, and _Blackwood’s_ of being without method, and the _Cornhill_ of coming out too often, with a vulgar frequency, and the _Strand_ of being too serious.

I am very proud of having a niece who is also such an editor. The only reason in the world why I don’t want to get well instantly is because I want to read the next number.—Your affectionate and grateful aunt.

VERENA, B.I.

(_Beguiled Invalid_)

LXV

JOSEY RABY TO VERENA RABY

DEAREST OF AUNTS,—Now you are up to writing letters, I do wish you would send a line to father to try and make him more reasonable. He actually takes up the line that no girl should marry under the age of twenty-one and then not before she has known the man for a year. Just think of being so out-of-date as that! And he is so sensible in almost every other way, except about ices.

There are some men of course who need time for knowing, but Vincent is not one of them. I feel that I have known him all my life, although it is really only two months, but then he is so simple and open. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t call me his Sphinx, would he? For there is nothing mysterious about me really.

Don’t you think that our first duty is to ourselves and that the fulfilment of ourselves is sacred? I do, and I can fulfil myself only by marrying Vincent. Do, do help me!—Your loving

J.

LXVI

VERENA RABY TO JOSEY RABY

MY DEAR JOSEY,—I am sorry for all your perplexities; but I can’t offer any help. Your father probably knows best, but even if he doesn’t, he must be considered too, because he is your father and you are a child. Besides, I find myself agreeing with what he says. Since you have asked my advice you must listen to it, and my advice is to obey your father and tell Vincent that you intend to do so. Your father has been very understanding. He has not forbidden you to see Vincent at all, as many fathers would have done; he has merely said that there are certain rules between you and him which must be respected. I think he is right, for two reasons. One because it is his house and he must be the head of it, and the other because you would be losing such a lot of your young life if you had your way and married now. Girls should be engaged; women married. To leave school and come into a world such as yours and then miss all the fun of it between your age and twenty-one, is to be very foolish. It is throwing away a very delightful freedom.

Another thing—don’t you owe anything to your father? You say that our first duty is to ourselves. I am not sure that we can always separate ourselves. Very often, and usually while we are living under other people’s roofs and taking other people’s money, we are not ourselves but a blending of ourselves and themselves. Aren’t you and your father a little bit mixed up like that? Isn’t he entitled a little longer to the company of the daughter he is so fond of? Think about it from his point of view.—Your loving

AUNT V.

LXVII

VINCENT FRANK TO JOSEY RABY

JOSEY PET,—My own sphinxling, I adore having your letters, but don’t you think it might be best to put all three or four each day into one envelope and post them. With special messengers so constantly coming, the fellows here get to suspect things and are so poisonously funny about it. There is no chaff I wouldn’t stand so long as you loved me, but now and then too much chipping gets on one’s nerves, darling. I shall be at the Pic. on Saturday at 7.5 and have taken our usual table.—Yours ever,

VIN ORDINAIRE

LXVIII

SIR SMITHFIELD MARK TO BRYAN FIELD

MY DEAR FIELD,—By a most extraordinary chance, I do know of a man in the country—and the desired country at that—Herefordshire, in fact. He is a Bart’s contemporary and a very old friend, and he not only needs a holiday but is going to take one with me. Everything is arranged. I have secured him by holding you out as the best possible substitute. I am grateful to you for writing to me, for it is too long since we went away together and too long since I threw a fly in Sutherland, where we are going.

Communicate with him direct: Sinclair Ferguson, Kington, Herefordshire.—I am, yours sincerely,

SMITHFIELD MARK

LXIX

HORACE MUN-BROWN TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR AUNT,—You will remember my failure to establish a business-man’s cinema in the City. I may have been discouraged but I was not dismayed, because I am convinced that there is still an enormous field for picture palaces and that the industry will increase rather than decay. I have now hit upon another and more practicable scheme and that is to build picture palaces just inside the great London termini. The idea came to me while waiting at Paddington the other day after just missing my train. The next train was not for two hours, and meanwhile I had nothing to do. The thing to remember is that every day crowds of people are in the same position as mine, while there are countless others with time to kill for different reasons. If a cinema theatre were adjacent, with a continuous performance, it could not but be a very popular boon and should pay handsomely. Even the staff would probably often steal a few minutes there; I don’t mean the station-master, but certainly the porters, and the inhabitants of the neighbourhood would come too.

All that is needed is to obtain permission from the various Railway Companies to erect the buildings on their premises and then collect the capital; a mere trifle would be needed, because the site would be either free, or negligibly cheap. If you agree, would you invest, say, £1000 in it?

If I do not mention Hazel it is not because I have ceased to love her, but because I have nothing to report. I wish she could be got away from her father, whose cynical influence is bad for her. Detached, she might soon come to see things more romantically and then would be my chance.—I am, yours sincerely,

HORACE MUN-BROWN

LXX

RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR, I am deeply interested in your desire to spend money at once, while living. Personally, I expect you do a great deal more with it than you know, or at any rate than you led me to understand. I happen to be acquainted with your character.

The question is, are you strong enough to go into this matter?—for the best almsgiving, I take it, is that which has not been asked, but comes unexpectedly, dropping like gentle dew from a clear sky; and this needs imagination and the willingness to enter into all kinds of investigating trouble. It is in essence the very antithesis of facile cheque-writing; but so irksome, and unlocking so much distress and squalor, that most of us shy at it and reach for the cheque-book again in self-defence. My friend Pagnell, who is all logic, insists that philanthropists are of necessity busy-bodies, and mischievously self-indulgent ones too, and that the broken and the helpless should go to the wall. That, he holds, is Nature’s plan, which meddling man disturbs and frustrates. But the English character is not sufficiently scientifically de-sentimentalized for that.

One of the things that I should like to see done with money is to reform education. This you could easily do at a very trifling cost, at once,—and have the fun of watching it go on—by endowing certain experiments in your own village. If they were successful there, their fame would be noised abroad and others would copy and gradually the seed would fructify. The smallness of the seed never matters. The interest on a thousand pounds would do it—fifty pounds a year to an associate teacher whose duty it was to fit the children for the world they are to live in. Reading, writing and arithmetic would go on as usual, but concurrently with them there would be instruction in life: directed chiefly at the girls, who are to be the wives and mothers and home upholders of the future. If the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world, the hand should be better trained. One of the first things to be taught is the amount of tea required in a tea-pot. The old story about the wealth of mustard-makers being derived from our wastefulness with their commodity is probably far more true of the wealth of tea-merchants.

The difficulty would be to find the teacher. That always is the difficulty—finding the right person to carry out one’s ideas. And, imagination being the rarest quality in human nature, the difficulty is not likely to decrease. The best way would be to interest some cultured and well-to-do resident to take it on—someone like your Mrs. Carlyon—but, then you would be up against the village schoolmaster, who, not having any imagination, would resent her rival influence, and so the scheme would end where so many others equally sensible have ended; in the realm where, I am told, the battles of the future are to be fought—in the air.

One of the reasons why progress is so piecemeal is that the thinkers have to delegate, whereas it is usually only the man that thought of a thing who is really capable of carrying it out. We saw enough of that in the War, where most of the muddles and scandals were the result of delegation; and most of them, for that reason, were unavoidable.

R. H.

To-day’s poem:—

O World, be nobler, for her sake!
If she but knew thee what thou art,
What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done
In thee, beneath thy daily sun,
Know’st thou not that her tender heart
For pain and very shame would break?
O World, be nobler, for her sake!

LXXI

ANTOINETTE ROSSITER TO HER MOTHER

DEAREST MUMMIE,—A man has been here to cut wood and we watched him. He said that every time the clock ticks some one dies and some one is born. He said that the best food for rabbits is Hog-weed and he is going to give us two baby rabbits. He said that jays suck pheasant’s eggs. I can’t remember anything else, but he is one of the nicest men who have ever been here. Oh yes, he said that when he was a boy he and the other boys used to put little teeny-weeny frogs on their tongues and make them jump down their froats, but don’t be alarmed, I don’t mean to try this, not till we see what happens to Cyril. Do come home soon.—Your lovingest

TONY

x x x x x
x x x

Love to Lobbie.

LXXII

ROY BARRANCE TO VERENA RABY

DEAR AUNT VERENA,—It is extraordinary how things happen for the best, and I am sure that I am being looked after by fate in some strange particular way. I never have gone in much for religion, but that there is a kind of guardian spirit for people who behave decently I am convinced. You remember about Trixie? Well, for quite a long time I was heart-broken and couldn’t enjoy food or anything. But I see now that it had to happen, it was all done for my good, because it gave me more depth and maturity so as to be ready to meet Stella on level terms.

Stella is the loveliest girl you ever saw and quite the best partner I have yet danced with, almost my own height and so extraordinarily light and supple without being too thin. She also has a tremendous sense of humour, which I consider most important in a perfect marriage. Lots of marriages, I am convinced, have gone wrong because the husband and wife had different ideas of a joke. Poor mother, for instance, never sees that father is pulling her leg, and it makes her querulous where she ought to laugh.

I wish I could bring Stella to see you. She sings divinely and can play all the latest things by ear after hearing them only once; which is, I think, a wonderful gift and makes her the life and soul of parties. She would do you a world of good. On a houseboat at Hampton last week-end she never stopped. It was smashing.

Her people are very well off, her father being on the Stock Exchange. They live at Wimbledon and have a full-sized table. Do write and send me your congratulations. I have not seen her father yet, but my idea is to make him take to me so much that he finds a place for me in his office. As there are no sons, he will probably want someone to carry on the business and I don’t doubt my ability to pick up the threads very quickly. I wish it was Lloyd’s, because I am told that is child’s play, but I don’t doubt I could cut a figure on the Stock Exchange too.

Stella has a retroussé nose and the most adorable smile. We have thousands of things in common, besides a love of dancing. She says she doesn’t want an engagement ring, she would much rather have a deer-hound, so I am trying to get one. I wonder if anybody breeds them in your neighbourhood?

Father wants me to go to Oxford, just as if there had been no War, but I don’t feel that I could possibly endure the restrictions there. Besides, what would Stella do? During the War she worked too, for all kinds of Charities. She was splendid. When you feel well enough, you must let me bring her down to play and sing to you.—Your affectionate nephew,

ROY

LXXIII

VERENA RABY TO RICHARD HAVEN

DEAR RICHARD,—Some of your special privileges seem to be coming my way, for I am now largely occupied in writing letters of counsel, chiefly to nephews and nieces in whom the fever of love burns or does not burn. Theodore’s girl is the last—so very much a child of the moment as to think that wanting a thing and having it should be synonymous. I am feeling very grateful I am not a mother and I felicitate with you on your non-paternity. Parents just now are anything but enviable. None the less....

It’s funny how the young people come to me for help, just as though I were a flitting Cupid instead of a weary stationary horizontal middle-aged female, whose only traffic in the emotions occurred in the dim and distant past and is for ever buried.—Good night,

V.

LXXIV

NICHOLAS DEVOSE TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR SERENA,—If I may call you again by that name, which to me, in spite of everything, is sacred still—I have only just had, from my sister, the news of your illness, having in this far spot few letters from home, and I write at once to say that I am deeply grieved and hope that already you are better.

If you can bring yourself to write, or to send a message by another hand, I implore you to do so. You may think it hard that it needed a serious injury to occur to you before I wrote again, but that would not necessarily convict me of callousness. I swear to you, Serena, that not a day has passed without my thinking of you—and always with the tenderest devotion to you and always with self-reproach and regret that, so largely through my fault, or, even more, my own impossible temperament, your life may have been circumscribed and rendered less happy.

I know, through various channels, certain things about your life to-day, but of course only externals. I know, for instance, that you have not married; but whether that is because of me (as my own singleness is certainly associated with you, or rather with us), I do not know. I know by how many years you are my junior, and I am forty-nine next week. If you are conscious of loneliness and it is my influence that has kept you from marrying, I am sorry; but there are worse things than celibacy and it is probable that both of us are best suited to that state. I certainly am. The common notion that every one ought to marry is as wrong-headed as that every one ought to be an employer of labour. Very few persons are really fitted to live intimately with others; and the senseless heroic way in which the effort is made or the compromise sustained is among the chief of those human tragedies which must most entertain the ironical gods peering through the opera-glasses of Heaven.

I must not suggest too much melancholy. I don’t pretend that life has nothing in it but wistful memories and regrets. On the contrary, I taste many moments of pleasure. But—even while enjoying my own somewhat anti-social nature—I should, were I asked to stand as fairy godfather beside cradles, wish for no child a sufficient income to indulge impulses, nor too emphatic a desire to be sincere, nor, above all, any hypertrophied fastidiousness. In a world constructed not for units but for millions, such gifts must necessarily isolate their possessor.

When the War broke out I was in Korea. Since last we met I have been all over the world and at the present moment am in Fez. I have thousands of sketches stored away, some of which might be worth showing, but I can’t bring myself to the task of selection and all the other arrangements; I can’t sometimes bear the thought that anyone else should see them, so you will gather that I am very little more reasonable than of old and probably even less fitted to take a place in the daily world.

If it would be any kind of pleasure to you to see me—if I could help you in any way—you have but to let me know. I shall be in Madrid, at the Grand Hotel, till the end of next month and will do as you tell me.

N. D.

LXXV

JOSEY RABY TO VINCENT FRANK

DARLING VIN.,—Every one is against me and therefore I must act alone. Will you be at Euston with two tickets on Saturday evening and we will be married in Scotland. It is the only way. After I am married they will all understand and be reasonable.

If you would rather fly to Scotland, let me know and I will meet you anywhere.

I have got a wedding ring.—Your devoted

J.

LXXVI

VINCENT FRANK TO JOSEY RABY

[_Telegram_]

Impossible. Writing.

VINCENT.

LXXVII

RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR VERENA, to return to the great money problem, I think you ought to know that the papers print particulars of the will of a Hastings innkeeper who set apart the interest on £300 for an annual supper to sixty Hastings newsboys. And a little while ago I cut from the _Times_ a will in which the testator, a fellmonger and a gunner, killed during the War, left “£1000 in trust during the life of his wife to apply the income for a treat for the children of the Chelsea and District Schools, Banstead, such treat to consist of sweets, strawberries, or a visit to the pantomime, and to be in the nature of a surprise.”

Well, there would be no difficulty in arranging for little things like that. All you want is a good almoner and perhaps Miss Power would take the post. And here again you could see the fun going on, which the dead cannot. At least we used to think they couldn’t, but the evidence on the other side is accumulating. There is a conspiracy afoot to make us think that the dead “carry on” too much as we do.

All you need is to ask yourself which kind of worker is least rewarded, or you are most sorry for, and go ahead. Lamb’s friend, James White, would have chosen chimney-sweeps. The late landlord of the Royal Oak at Hastings would have replied “Newsboys.” Miss Rhoda Broughton would reply, “Overworked horses.” On my own list would occur railway porters. Also compositors. And what about the little girls who carry gentlemen’s new garments all about Savile Row and the tailors’ quarters—is anything done for them? And the window-cleaners—they can’t have much fun. And oyster-openers—what a life! And carpet-beaters—Heavens! And the little telegraph girls, in couples, with the grubby hands. No, the list would not be hard to compile.

There are possibilities of social regeneration in it, too. Certain horrible imperfections—due to haste and false economy and a want of thoroughness—are allowed year after year to persist, to the serious impairing of the nation’s nerves, which might be removed, or at any rate reduced in number, if some warm-hearted living hand, like yours now, or wise dead hand, like yours in the distant future, were outstretched. For example, a legacy of a thousand pounds would not be thrown away if the interest on it were offered every year as a prize to the maker of chests-of-drawers which would open most easily, or the maker of looking-glasses which remained at the desired angle without having to be wedged. The details would have to be worked out, perhaps through some furniture trade paper, but what a heightening of effort and what a saving of temper might result! And if a prize were offered to the firm of haberdashers whose buttons were most securely sewn on, what a wave of comfort might be started! I bought some soft collars at a first-class shop only last week and the buttons were all loose and some of the button-holes were too small; and it was I who suffered, not the haberdasher. All he did was to spread his hands and complain about post-war carelessness; whereas he might just as well have supervised the things before they were sent home as not. One of the most infuriating things in Peace-time is the impossibility of punishing anybody—except oneself. The world is so prosperous that one can’t touch it. Once one could set a tradesman’s knees shaking by merely expressing the intention of going elsewhere in future; but it is so no longer.

But this is dull reading for Herefordshire. Are not these lines on the toilet table of Marie Antoinette poignant?—

This was her table, these her trim outspread
Brushes and trays and porcelain cups for red;
Here sate she, while her women tired and curled
The most unhappy head in all the world.

R. H.

LXXVIII

VINCENT FRANK TO JOSEY RABY

DARLING JOSEY,—I hated having to telegraph, but there was nothing else to do.

You know, my sweet, that part of a man’s job is to look after his woman, and I can’t feel that we should be playing the game to go off like this. The more I think about it the more convinced I am that your father knows what he is saying and that we ought to wait. After all, impossible though they are, fathers have got some kind of right to put their damned old trotters down now and then, and especially when one is still eating from their hands. Besides, I don’t know from day to day what I am going to do—the whole force is in such a muddle with Winston tinkering at it—and it wouldn’t be playing the game to marry now. Three years isn’t such a terrible long time and I may be an Air-Marshal by then, who knows? After all, we must live, and I haven’t got a bean beyond my rotten pay, and if your father turns us down, where are we? Echo answers where. Especially as my people have always set their hearts on my marrying that red-headed horror I showed you in the distance at the Russian Ballet.

No, my angel darling sphinx, the sweetest thing ever made or dreamt of, let us be sensible, much as it goes against the grain, and wait. I’ve got my eye on an absolutely topping engagement ring in Regent Street, which shall be yours in a fortnight from to-day and we’ll have the most gorgeous fun.—Your grovelling lover,

VIN.

LXXIX

CLEMENCY POWER TO THE HON. MRS. POWER

DEAR MOTHER,—Things go along very comfortably here, so comfortably that I have a guilty feeling that I am not earning my salary at all, but spending a happy visit. I now have a weekly journey to Hereford to do any extra shopping that may be needed. I go in a car in state in the morning and have lunch at the Green Dragon while the things are being packed up.

We are now reading nothing but the _Times_ and Thackeray. Having just finished _Esmond_ we are beginning _The Virginians_. Miss Raby’s father used to read it to them all and she says it brings old times back: but I should prefer a change now and then. I find that I can manage reading aloud now with much less fatigue. Don’t you think girls at school ought to be trained in it?

Did I tell you that my employer, Mr. Haven, had a wonderful Solitaire board made on which Miss Raby can play while lying at full length on her back? The cards have holes in them at the top, and are hung on instead of being laid down, as on a table. She is able to sit up better now and can use a table, but she keeps this for times when she is tired. Don’t you think it is the very thing for Grannie? I think I shall get one made and send it to her.

I have even taken on a class in the school—teaching what is called daily sense. It is the idea of my employer, Mr. Haven, and consists of showing the little beggars how wrong it is, for instance, to stand on the middle of the cane seat of a chair, instead of on the wooden edges, and things like that. The schoolmaster was very ratty about it at first, but I did some of my blarneying and now he’s a lamb.

It’s wonderful what an effect a little brogue has on these Sassenachs. I noticed it among the soldiers in France, officers and men, and it’s the same here; and I swear I never really try. But doesn’t it look as if all that poor old Ireland needed to get her way was to send out an army of Norahs and Bridgets just to talk and so convince?

Mr. Haven was here the other day. He is very nice—tall, with very soft quite white hair, prematurely white. He did Miss Raby a world of good—Your dutiful truant,

CLEMENTIA

LXXX

VERENA RABY TO NICHOLAS DEVOSE

DEAR,—Your letter was indeed a voice from the past—almost from the grave. It was kind of you—it was like you—to write, but I almost wish you had not. I have a long memory. Come back if you will, but do not come here without letting me first know that you are in England. But for your own sake I think you ought to return now and then and challenge criticism. It is not fair, either to yourself or to others, to bury all those beautiful pictures—for I am sure they are beautiful. You could not do anything that was not beautiful or distinguished. I am growing stronger every day and the doctors are hopeful about my being able to be active again, almost if not quite as before. Nicholas, believe this, I have no quarrel with fate, my life has been happier far than not.

SERENA

LXXXI

JOSEY RABY TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR AUNT V.,—This is just to tell you that it is all over. Vincent, when the time came, had no courage, so we have parted. I am now unable to eat, and expect and hope shortly to go into a decline and die. This is a world of the poorest spirit and I have no wish to continue in it. Think of me always as your loving

J.

LXXXII

RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY

Well, the Great Day has nearly passed, and Peace having now been formally celebrated we must look out for squalls. I saw the procession from a window, the owner of which—my old friend Mrs. Kershaw—is paying her rent out of the money she made by letting the rest of the rooms. The caprice which decided that the route should embrace her house she looks upon as a direct answer to prayer.

This reminds me of a true story, told me by Mrs. Northgate-Grove, of their page-boy, who has been very carefully brought up. At the local Peace sports he was entered for the 100-yard race, which, he said, would be an absolutely sure thing for him, provided the telegraph boy didn’t run. On the night before Peace Day, one of the family passing his bedroom door heard him on his knees imploring Divine interference. “O God, I pray Thee that some important message may prevent the telegraph boy from being able to compete.” And here’s another nice prayer story. A small girl was overheard by her mother asking God to “Graciously make Rome the capital of Turkey.” “But why do you pray for that, darling?” “Because that’s how I put it in the examination paper to-day.”

My head aches from this overture to the millennium and I wish we were a year on. We are settling down so perilously slowly. In fact, here in London you would think it a perpetual Bank Holiday, whereas never in our history ought we to have been working harder than since the Armistice. But who is to tell the people how serious it all is? The statesmen’s “grave warnings” and the newspapers’ constant chidings equally are usually cancelled by parallel pages of incitements to frivolity and expense. England, for the greatest nation in the world, can be singularly free from _esprit de corps_.

But these are gloomy Peace-Day reflections—possibly due to the fact that it has begun to rain and the fireworks will be spoiled. I am to see them from a roof in Park Lane. I would much rather spend the evening in the bosom of some nice family and watch a baby being bathed and put to bed. That is the prettiest sight in the world; but I don’t know any babies any more. Where are they all? Every one—particularly as he gets older and more disposed to saturninity—should know a baby and now and then see it being put to bed.

Well, here goes for the fireworks.—Yours,

R. H.

_P.S._—Here is the poem—foreshadowing joys beyond all the dreams of Oliver Lodge:—

Within the streams, Pausanias saith,
That down Cocytus’ valley flow,
Girdling the grey domain of Death,
The spectral fishes come and go;
The ghosts of trout flit to and fro.
Persephone, fulfil my wish,
And grant that in the shades below
My ghost may land the ghosts of fish!

LXXXIII

VERENA RABY TO RICHARD HAVEN

DEAR RICHARD,—The Peace Celebrations here, they tell me, were very quiet. I am glad that they are over at last and we can now all begin....

Your long letter about the benefactions has given me plenty to think about for some days. I had not thought of the distribution of money as being so full of amusing possibilities: almost too full. I should like to do something of the kind, but to confine it to my own neighbourhood. But then one’s name would be certain to leak out, and it is so dreadful to be thanked.

Meanwhile, I wonder what you will think of this idea. You remember Blanche Povey who used to live at Pangbourne? She married a doctor, a very nice man, Dr. Else, and they live at Malvern. Malvern is of course a happy hunting ground for medical men, because invalids go there, mostly rich ones, and Dr. Else would be doing very well, only for an infirmity. The usual one—he drinks. Blanche tells me that he is getting worse, and she sees nothing but disaster, and every time he goes to a patient she fears he may have over-stepped the mark and be found out. It seems to me that if a man in his position, a really nice man, could be promised anonymously a good sum of money on the condition that he did not touch alcohol for a year, much good might be done. How does it strike you? Or am I becoming that hateful thing, a busy-body? With the best intentions, no doubt, but a busy-body none the less.—Yours,

V.

LXXXIV

ROY BARRANCE TO VERENA RABY

DEAR AUNT VERENA,—You must not think I’m just a mere rotter when I tell you that Stella and I have parted. I know it looks silly to be in love with different girls so often, but then how is one to discover which is the real one unless one tries? Besides, at the time each is the only one. I liked Stella in many ways and I like her still, but I can see that we are not perfectly suited. Her nature makes her pick up new friends, chiefly men, too easily. My nature is not like that—I want one and one only. Although of course all this is Greek to you, perhaps you can sympathize.

Margot is much more like me and she shares my keenness for the country. Stella hated being away from London or excitement, while Margot loves walking among the heather and all that sort of thing. She knows a fearful lot about natural history too, and only yesterday, when we were on Box Hill, she corrected me when I said “There goes a wood-pigeon” because it was really a ring-dove. Pretty good, that, for a girl!

Don’t think I am flirting with her, because it would be no use as she doesn’t intend ever to marry, but I find her an A.1. pal and she is teaching me lots of things and making me much more observant. You would like her, I’m sure. Her father is a retired brewer with oceans of Bradburies, who wants her to marry a cousin.—Your affectionate nephew,

ROY

_P.S._—By the way, I saw Josey the other night at the Ritz, with a very gay party. She is the prettiest little thing.

LXXXV

RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR, your question about the tippling medico is not an easy one to answer. How could he take money if he is a man with any pride? The thing becomes a bribe, and bribes are rather offensive. It is also on the cards that what he needs to pull him together is not your money, but just the jolt which expulsion from Malvern would give him. He might then make an effort and start afresh among patients who are really ill and in need of a doctor—panel work, for example. Somehow, I don’t like interference in this kind of case. There is always the chance, too, that teetotalism might make him self-righteous and injure his character in other ways, perhaps more undesirably than alcohol. That’s how I feel.

On the other hand, expulsion from Malvern might be the means of sending him wholly to the devil. His self-respect would be lost and he would sink lower and lower. In this case the burden would fall chiefly on his wife, for with the complete loss of self-respect there can come to the loser a certain peace of mind; the struggle is over; whereas she would suffer in two ways—through grief and through poverty. There’s no fairness in the world. The Gods may, as Edgar says, be just in making of our pleasant vices whips to scourge us, but there is no justice in including the innocent in this castigation—as always happens.

Your best way is to be ready to do what you can for the wife.

The League of Nations continues to engage attention; but if I were building a house I should build it underground. War can never be eliminated, and it is certain in the future to be waged chiefly in the air and without warning. It is probably high time to turn our scaffold poles into spades.

I send you to-day two short poems from the East. Although written hundreds and hundreds of years ago by Chinese poets, they touch the spot to-day:—

Sir, from my dear old home you come,
And all its glories you can name;
Oh, tell me,—has the winter-plum
Yet blossomed o’er the window frame?

And this:—

You ask when I’m coming: alas! not just yet ...
How the rain filled the pools on that night when we met!
Oh, when shall we ever snuff candles again,
And recall the glad hours of that evening of rain?

—What is the special charm of those? But they haunt me.—Good night,

R. H.

LXXXVI

VERENA RABY TO RICHARD HAVEN

DEAR RICHARD,—You were very good to reply so quickly about poor Blanche’s husband. I wish other people were as prompt and true to their word. Dr. Else must now, I suppose, gang the gait that the stars have prescribed for him; but of course one has to remember that my interference might be also in the stellar programme.

What I think I most want is advice as to the disposition of money after I am dead. I suppose I ought to be giving it to my own needy relations while I am alive. There is poor Letitia, for one. That husband of hers does nothing to add to his pension, and I know she is in need of all kinds of things. Roy is on my mind too. Not that his father is not well off, but fathers and sons so often fail to understand each other, and I feel sure that the boy, if helped a little, might become serious and develop into a self-supporting man. At present he seems to do nothing but fall in and out of love. I do not intend to blame him for that, but I should like to see more stability. He sends me the fullest account of his young ladies, each of whom is perfect in turn. How lovely to be young and absurd and not ashamed of inconstancy! As we grow older we acquire such stupid cautions.

V.

LXXXVII

RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY

Look here, Verena, I wish you wouldn’t say fulsome things about my promptness and so forth. My promptness is sheer self-indulgence, to prevent the bore of accumulated correspondence. As for my sagacity, don’t be so sure about it. You may be taken in by my brevity and the confidence of it all; and I may be utterly wrong about everything. Why not?

Meanwhile, I have to remark that either everything is in the stellar programme (as you so happily call Fate) or nothing is. If your suggested interference with the bibulous proclivities of Dr. Else is written there, so is my dissuasion of you.

If you are bent upon some form of corruption—bribing people into Virtue—why not try it with the young? There’s Roy, as you say, all ready to be an ass. Might not he allow his life to be regulated by the promise of “A Gift for a Good Boy”? Not long ago some rich man left his son a fortune on condition that he never approached within a certain fixed distance—several miles—of Piccadilly Circus. It got into the papers, I remember. How it can be known whether or not these conditions are observed I have no notion. I trust it does not mean ceaseless tracking by private detectives. But there is always a certain fascination about them and I wonder that dramatists have not done more with the idea. Personally I think I hate such tampering with destiny, fortunate or ill, but you must do as you wish with your own. Besides, as I said before, it is probably as much your fate to set up obstacles to Roy’s folly as it is his to be foolish. We only play at free will.

What is at the moment interesting me more than such metaphysics is the problem: Where are the scallops? Once upon a time there used to be Coquilles St. Jacques twice a week, but my faithful landlady can’t get scallops anywhere in these days. Why do things suddenly disappear like this? Is it because the scallop is a cheap luxury, and the fishmonger wants to deal only in the expensive articles? Whitechapel (that very sensible country) is probably full of scallops.

Here’s another Chinese poem which gives me great joy:—

Confusion overwhelming me, as in a drunken dream,
I note that Spring has fled and wander off to hill and stream;
With a friendly Buddhist priest I seek a respite from the strife
And manifold anomalies which go to make up life.

Good night, my dear,

R. H.

LXXXVIII

ROY BARRANCE TO VERENA RABY

DEAR AUNT VERENA,—Thank you for your very kind letter, but really I don’t think I am in any such danger as you seem to fear (and it’s frightfully decent of you to take so much interest in me and my affairs) because I always feel that I am a kind of darling of the gods. This must sound horribly conceited, but it isn’t as bad as that really. It’s a kind of faith in a higher protection, and there’s no harm in having that, is there? Anyhow, it keeps me from getting into anything like very serious trouble. I’ve just had another example of this watchfulness, and it’s so wonderful that I must tell you about it.

You remember about Stella and how glad we were that it was all over with her? We shouldn’t have suited each other a bit, and as a matter of fact I think she would have dragged me down. Well, after not seeing her for weeks, I ran into her in Bond Street on Monday, and before I knew where I was I’d asked her to dine at the Elysian the next day. That was yesterday. It was foolish, I know, but she was so nice and friendly in spite of it all, and looked rather pathetic, and I always think one should be as kind as possible—in fact I learnt it from you.

Anyway, I did it, and then went off and began to regret it at once. I saw what an ass I had been to re-open friendship with her. No one should ever re-open with old flames, particularly when they haven’t played the game. And a meal is particularly unwise, because there may be an extra glass of wine and then where are you? You get soft and melting and forget what you ought to remember, and all the fat is in the fire once more, and before you know where you are you are very likely engaged again. So I went about kicking myself for being so gentle and impulsive, and had a rotten night. The next day I couldn’t telephone or wire to call it off, because I hadn’t her address, and the wretched dinner hung over me like the sword of what’s-his-name all day. Some men of course wouldn’t have gone at all, but I hate breaking engagements.