Part 1

BRIEF DIVERSIONS

_Short, but there’s salt in’t...._

THE DOUBLE-DEALER

BRIEF DIVERSIONS

_being Tales Travesties and Epigrams by_

J. B. PRIESTLEY

_Cambridge Bowes & Bowes_

1922

PUBLISHERS.

CAMBRIDGE.

London: Macmillan & Co. Ltd. Glasgow: MacLehose, Jackson & Co. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

COPYRIGHT

NOTE

Nearly _all these pieces have appeared in the_ CAMBRIDGE REVIEW, _and I thank the Editor for his courtesy in allowing me to reprint them. A few travesties and epigrams have been added, and others have been revised. Most of the tales were written during the War, many of them while I was in Flanders, and at that time, being away from books, I imagined I was doing something new, being either ignorant or forgetful of the work of better men, such as Lord Dunsany and Mr T. W. H. Crosland, in a very similar form. To such gentlemen, I can only offer an apology if I seem to enter their little pleasaunces and tread clumsily where they who went before me stepped so lightly and delicately._

J. B. P.

CONTENTS

TALES

_The Impossibility of knowing Everyone_ page 3

_A Moving Story of Real Life_ 4

_The True Account of a Quarrel between a Man we all know and a very old Family_ 5

_At the ‘Red Lion,’ Rample Street_ 7

_The Danger of Accepting Gifts while holding Municipal Office_ 8

_The Humiliating Experience of a Forgotten God_ 10

_How the Rational Amusements of the Great are Limited_ 11

_The Imprudence of a Politician in Travelling Further than the Newspapers_ 12

_The Wrong World_ 14

_The Value of a New Point of View_ 15

_The Uninvited Guest_ 16

_How I met with a Famous Character in a Café_ 18

_The Mutiny_ 19

_Death and the Fiddler_ 20

_The College of Immortal Fame_ 21

_The Lonely Soul_ 23

_The Lost Path_ 24

_The last Glimpse of a well-known Figure in Society_ 25

_Advanced Thought and the Foolish Idler_ 26

_The Wonderful View_ 27

_The Room of Lost Souls_ 28

_The Cynicism of Absolute Monarchies_ 29

_The Importance of Good Government_ 31

_The Moral_ 33

TRAVESTIES

_The Shropshire Lad_ 37

_Mr Walter De La Mare_ 38

_Æ_ 39

_Sir Wm Watson_ 40

_Professor G. B. Saintsbury_ 41

_Mr James Stephens_ 43

_Professor Sir A. T. Quiller-Couch_ 44

_Mr Lascelles Abercrombie_ 46

_Mr W. B. Yeats_ 48

_Mr Alfred Noyes_ 49

_Mr John Drinkwater_ 50

_Trivia_ 52

EPIGRAMS 53

TALES

THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF KNOWING EVERYONE

A profiteer, a Priest of Nebt-het, from Heliopolis, and a Fool were walking together one day, when they met the grim figure of War belching flame and fury.

‘Who is that?’ asked the fool and the priest of each other, quickening their pace. But the profiteer raised his hat, bowed humbly, and stayed to chat for a few moments with the terrible figure, before rejoining his companions.

Presently, they came upon Death, mumbling to himself by the roadside. The fool and the profiteer raised their eyebrows, and passed on, but the priest of Nebt-het touched his forehead and made certain strange signs with his hands, to which Death replied in like manner.

Then the three spied a beautiful woman who sat among the wildflowers. It was Love, combing her hair and singing all the love-songs of the world. ‘That is a fine woman,’ said the profiteer, staring hard.

‘I do not know her,’ said the priest, somewhat sadly. But the fool ran forward and caught her hands in his, and they laughed together. So the priest and the profiteer walked on, but when they had gone a little way, they turned round, and there was the fool sitting at her feet and looking into her eyes as she sang and combed her hair.

‘The fool has all the luck,’ they grumbled.

A MOVING STORY OF REAL LIFE

There was at one time upon the earth a Mr S. L. Binkle, who always spoke of himself as a Business Expert. He would, from time to time, scatter broadcast little sheets of paper, on which was printed: ‘Efficiency! What does it mean to you?’ and many other dark sayings.

This Binkle was a middle-aged man who lived strangely: he never laughed or sang or ate heartily, though some have said that he had a weakness for tapioca pudding.

It chanced that one afternoon when he was sitting in his office, there was some noisy music in the street near by, so Binkle put small pieces of cotton-wool in his ears. Far away, the gods laughed.

A few minutes later, the office door was flung open, and a red-faced man rushed in, crying: ‘You Mister Binkle?... come down to Balham ... next Tuesday evening ... talk on Business Efficiency ... no time to stop ... train ... ask for Mechanics Institute ... five guineas.’ After which, the stranger departed noisily.

These loose fragments of speech were quite intelligible and, indeed, welcome to Binkle, who made a note in a little book and smiled with satisfaction.

But alas--who can foresee what the gods have decreed? For, with the cotton-wool in his ears, Binkle had not heard the stranger rightly; and on the Tuesday following, instead of going to Balham, he went to Barham, which is full of poets and wild lovers, and there he perished miserably.

THE TRUE ACCOUNT OF A QUARREL BETWEEN A MAN WE ALL KNOW AND A VERY OLD FAMILY

The Man who thought about Proteids sat by the roadside, writing with an indelible pencil in a little notebook. And Spring, all in pink and white, came tripping by, and cried to him: ‘I will dance for you! Watch me dance!’ She danced very prettily, but the Man went on writing, and never looked at her once. So Spring, being young, burst into tears, and told her sister, Summer.

Summer said to herself: ‘Spring is very foolish to cry. Probably he does not like dancing. I will sing to him.’ She sang a beautiful sleepy song to him, but he never listened, being busy writing in his little note-book. Summer was indignant, and told her sister, Autumn.

Autumn said: ‘There are many good men who do not like dancing. I will give him some of my wine.’ So she went to the Man and offered him her purple wine, but he merely said, ‘I do not drink wine,’ and resumed his writing. Then Autumn was very angry indeed, and told her big brother, Winter, all that had passed.

Winter was an enormous fellow, with a dreadful roar and howl, and every time he moved, snowflakes came whirling from his flowing robes. ‘Show me the fellow,’ he bellowed, puffing out his cheeks. Then he saw the Man who thought about Proteids, still sitting by the roadside.

‘Do you know me?’ roared Winter, and the Man looked and his teeth chattered like dead men’s bones.

Then Winter seized him by the neck and whirled him round and round, and finally flung him over his left shoulder into space.

And the Man who thought about Proteids has not been seen since, but, the other day, a boy found the little note-book lying by the roadside.

AT THE ‘RED LION,’ RAMPLE STREET

Rather late one Saturday evening, Bacchus walked into the ‘Red Lion Inn,’ at the corner of Rample Street. He said nothing, but looked at the landlord, who, on his part, was trying to discover the ‘company’ (meaning rank or station) of the new customer; so that he should know whether to open the door of the Private Bar or Best Room, or wave his hand in the direction of the Taproom: this is the great problem and test for all inn-keepers in England.

The landlord was still puzzling his brains, when the god spoke in a rich, mellow voice: ‘Happy mortal, let us drink and sing together, and talk of the laughing glories of the world. See! I will garland thy brow with leaves of vine.’ And he stepped forward.

The landlord recoiled hastily. ‘No you don’t,’ he snarled, ‘you get nothing ’ere. Outside.’

The god did not move, so the landlord grew angry and cried: ‘Outside I say! ’Ere Bill! Jack! Throw ’im out!’

Bacchus, taken by surprise, was immediately flung through the swing doors, landing at the feet of a policeman outside.

On Monday, the god was fined many shillings for being drunk and disorderly, but fortunately no one in the police-court recognised him, for that morning he was dressed in an old suit and wore a cloth cap and red scarf, so that he looked like one of those men who shave only on Saturday afternoons.

THE DANGER OF ACCEPTING GIFTS WHILE HOLDING MUNICIPAL OFFICE

A poet, wishing to remove from Shotterden to Camden Town, found himself sadly encumbered with dreams and decided to give them away before he left.

He started with the little cripple girl next door, to whom he gave two splendid dreams of laughing gardens, and then went all round Shotterden (it is not a very large town) giving away his dreams.

When he returned to his lodging, he found he had one dream left, so he went to the policeman who always stood at the corner of the street, and said: ‘I cannot understand it. I have one dream left, yet I think I have given one to every person in the town, and to some I have given two.’

‘There is the Mayor--’ replied the policeman, doubtfully.

‘The very man! I had forgotten him!’ cried the Poet, and ran off to find the Mayor.

The Mayor accepted the gift very reluctantly, and tried to get rid of it, but it clung to him persistently, as dreams do. It was a good dream, a dream of the white neck of a queen who died four thousand years ago, but the Mayor did not want it.

As time went on, it weighed upon him more and more, and when he should have been attending to Municipal Affairs or Opening a Bazaar, he found his mind wandering, and he was for ever brooding on the dead queen.

Until one day, when the Council was discussing a new Byelaw to prevent Children from playing in the Public Parks, he was asked to speak, and, full of the dream, he burst into song, to the great astonishment of all present. He was then asked to resign, which he did.

And now, hardly anyone ever calls or even leaves a card.

THE HUMILIATING EXPERIENCE OF A FORGOTTEN GOD

The great Babylonian god, Marduk, revisiting the earth in the guise of a young man, fell in love with a girl in the silk Department of the Universal Stores. Her name was Lena.

‘O moon-faced one! O white flower of the world! I adore thee,’ Marduk whispered. ‘Thou hast the look of Sarpanitum, the leopard-eyed goddess, in days of old when the stars were young and kind!’

‘Well, well,’ cried Lena, ‘what will you do to please me?’

‘I will rebuild Babylon in an hour for thee,’ shouted the god, and away he sped to the great, silent plain, where he laboured mightily. In a short space of time he returned and wafted her away to the scene of his labouring.

‘Look, look,’ he cried, and waved his hand. And there was Babylon, the mighty city of splendour and dream, shimmering and glittering, the wonder of the world. There were the great gates, the towering palaces, the hanging gardens, as of old.

‘Well?’ and Marduk turned to her eagerly when she had gazed her fill, and wiped his forehead, for even he sweated from his vast labours.

Lena looked at him: ‘Yes, it’s very nice,’ she said.

HOW THE RATIONAL AMUSEMENTS OF THE GREAT ARE LIMITED

Before your time, two Mummers and a Unitarian were seated in a tavern playing cards, when a long, sallow-faced man, dressed in black, joined them and asked if he might have a game.

He was received cordially, and Whist was proposed, the civilisation of the world not having arrived at Bridge at that time.

The Unitarian dealt out the cards, and the Man in black sorted and scrutinized his hand in the manner of one who takes a keen interest in the game.

‘By the way, what are trumps?’ he asked.

‘Hearts,’ replied one of the Mummers.

‘Hearts! Hearts! Red Hearts!’ screamed the Man in black, springing to his feet and spilling his cards in anger. ‘How the myself can I play with hearts as trumps! Any other suit would have done splendidly!’ And, with a loud cry, he jumped through the floor, and as he went the others caught a glimpse, through the crack, of flames, curling and leaping.

It is not recorded whether the Unitarian was the more surprised or the two Mummers.

THE IMPRUDENCE OF A POLITICIAN IN TRAVELLING FURTHER THAN THE NEWSPAPERS

The Member of Parliament for West Churchling had walked far, and, losing his way in the darkness, came to the World’s End. There he spied the Hostel, where, round a bright fire, were seated the three Watchers, Arshel of the Twisted Nose, Zanoah of the Bright Hair, and the other whose name I can never remember.

They gave him greeting, and he sat down and warmed his hands by the fire.

Presently, Arshel turned to him and said, ‘Sing us a song.’

The Member of Parliament said with dignity, ‘I cannot sing.’

The three Watchers sighed and looked at him reproachfully.

‘Then dance for us,’ said Zanoah, picking up a little pipe.

‘I cannot dance,’ returned the Member of Parliament sadly. The three Watchers sighed more deeply.

‘Then tell us a tale,’ said the one whose name I can never remember. The Politician pondered for a moment, then began:

‘At the last General Election it was decided that our Party should appeal to the country to support those studied and careful reforms necessary from time to time in an enlightened community like ours. Questions of Tariff, Extension of the Franchise, Disestablishment of the Church, Free Commercial Education for the Masses, were to be the pillars by which our Party should stand or fall. I myself----’

‘It is too long,’ cried Arshel.

‘It is a poor tale,’ cried Zanoah.

‘It is the worst tale I have ever heard,’ cried the one whose name I can never remember, ‘and you are no company for us.’

So they thrust the Member of Parliament for West Churchling out into the cold night.

THE WRONG WORLD

One Saturday night, not many years ago, there was a great crowd at the end of Toston Street, Littlebury.

‘Nah then. Nah then. Wot’s all this abart?’ cried a policeman, shouldering his way through the curious throng.

In the centre of the crowd was a small cleared space, in which was seated, on the edge of the pavement, a strange being with dark blue hair and greenish-tinted skin.

‘Nah then,’ said the policeman, pulling out his note-book, ‘wot’s all this?’

The strange being, on whom the gift of tongues must have descended, looked up and said: ‘Where am I?’

‘Come on. Wot’s the game, eh? Who are yer, eh? Wotcher doing ’ere?’ roared the policeman, his surprise making him more truculent than usual.

The strange being made no reply, but stared at the policeman, and then looked gravely at the curious, jostling crowd.

‘I know! I know!’ he cried triumphantly, springing to his feet. ‘I’m on--just a minute, I’ll remember--somewhere in the Solar system--I’ve got it--the Earth! That’s it--the Earth! The fools ... giving me the wrong directions. I want Morchas, in the Lunar system--the other side of Pleiades. Fancy striking this place again! I’ve been on the Earth before. I was murdered here for speaking the truth, ten thousand years ago. Bah!’

With that he disappeared, to the great astonishment of all present.

THE VALUE OF A NEW POINT OF VIEW

Sailing westward from the Island of Fata Morgana, I came upon Pierrot in his little white boat. We were old acquaintances, and I asked him if the gods were still using him kindly, and how things were looking on the Moon, his home.

‘I have been away from home for some time,’ he replied, ‘but am just about to return. Will you come with me?’

So I clambered into his little boat, and told my own ship to return to the Island of Fata Morgana. We sailed on and on, Pierrot enlivening the dim hours with his strange Moon-songs, until at last he brought the boat to anchor in a little bay, and I landed, for the first time, at the pale country of the Moon.

‘You know,’ I said to Pierrot, as we wandered among the fantastic green shadows, ‘I have always longed to visit the Moon. The World is so dull, now, and the Moon always seemed to us such a mad and merry place.’

Pierrot stared--‘That is very strange! Up here we have always believed the reverse of that. And with good reason. Look for yourself!’ and he led me to the edge of the Moon; we peered over, and there, far below, was the great shining World, looking as big as ten Moons, and a hundred times madder and merrier.

‘Pierrot,’ I cried, ‘I have mis-judged the World! Good-bye, my friend!’ and I leaped into space.

* * * * *

I landed on the roof of the Headquarters of the Society for the Extension of Commercial Careers for Women.

THE UNINVITED GUEST

A certain rich man, having discovered a new method of adulterating milk for babies, determined to celebrate his increase of fortune by giving a wonderful Fancy-dress Ball and masked Carnival.

When the evening came, the scene was a very brilliant one, the masks and costumes being of a most varied and extravagant character. About midnight, a new figure was noticed moving slowly among the crowd, a tall figure dressed in a long black cloak with a cowl, which overshadowed a grinning ghastly Death’s Head. This extraordinary costume caused much comment; some of the more timid guests objected to it, but the majority found it entertaining and wondered who the wearer might be.

At one o’clock, prizes were to be given for the best costumes. Amid general applause, the Master of the Ceremonies handed the first prize to a lady dressed as Madame de Pompadour. He then cried loudly: ‘The second prize goes to the gentleman who has come in the character of Death.’

All eyes were turned upon the strange figure, which stepped forward and said in a loud voice: ‘I cannot accept the prize. I have won too many prizes.’

This occasioned some remark, but the prize was given elsewhere, and in a few minutes the distribution was at an end.

Then the Master gave the signal for all masks to be removed, and the guests regarded each other with flushed and happy faces. There was one exception however, and the master called loudly to Death’s Head, who stood somewhat apart from the rest: ‘Sir, remove your mask.’

The figure pulled back the cowl, exposing its horrible grinning head to the light, then turned slowly as if to survey every person in the room.

‘I wear no mask,’ it said, simply.

HOW I MET WITH A FAMOUS CHARACTER IN A CAFÉ

Sitting in a large café, one day, I saw the strangest sight. For an old man, a wretched, dusty, unkempt dotard, entered at the far end, and shuffled swiftly along the room. And as he passed the little tables, the crowds of women there smiled on him, threw him flowers, tried to seize his hand, and endeavoured in a hundred ways to attract his attention and win his regard.

‘Now, this is surely the strangest thing that ever happened,’ I said, as the old man approached; ‘is he a famous poet, then, or has he a cellar-full of diamonds, that the women should love him so!’

He must have heard me, or noted the surprise written on my face, for when he came closer, he stayed his feet for a moment, and muttered in my ear:--

‘I was ever a great lady-killer! My name is Time’; and he chuckled horribly.

THE MUTINY

There was once a Jew, who lived many years in England and in time became very rich. For this, he was made a lord, and was known henceforth as Lord Roasbif. So he bought a large estate in the country, and lived the life of a good old English country gentleman.

Nothing delighted my Lord Roasbif more than to speak to large concourses of simple people, so on an evil night in November he went to the Agricultural Hall in Bosmouth, a small town on the east coast, to speak at a political meeting.

A large crowd awaited him in the hall, and the organist played ‘Hearts of Oak’ four times.

No one heard, from afar, a murmuring sound that gradually grew louder and louder.

There was a great clapping of hands when Lord Roasbif stood up, so that his heart was warmed and he spoke well, touching on matters political and social.

A few people at the back of the hall heard a strange sound.

My Lord Roasbif was almost inspired, and spoke of the ‘Glorious Embire’ and ‘Our Island Raze’ with wonderful fervour. But now the noise outside had grown very much louder, and all the people looked at each other in wonder and fear. There seemed to be a prodigious high tide.

‘Chentlemen,’ cried Roasbif, ‘gome whad may, our Embire is sdill, and and always vill be as long as de Bridish raze remains--mistress of--’

‘The Sea!’ shrieked a hundred voices. But it was too late. The grey flood swept through the building with appalling fury and engulfed them all.

DEATH AND THE FIDDLER

There was once a Fiddler, who possessed a great and powerful secret. For he knew the tune, the only tune, to which Death would dance, and he could play it well. Now the Fiddler, though he had but poor health, had no great reason to fear Death, and he wedded with a girl from a neighbouring village.

On the night following the wedding, there was a merry company assembled at the house of the Fiddler, and everyone was talking, laughing or singing, when suddenly there was a tapping at the window. The Fiddler looked out and saw Death beckoning to him. So, not wishing to disturb his guests, he picked up his fiddle and went out of the house.

Remembering the tune, however, he did not wait for Death to speak, but straightway began to play, and Death, his bones rattling, started dancing in the moonlight.

The guests, missing their host and hearing the music, crowded to the window, but all they could see was the Fiddler jigging madly away. ‘He wants us to dance outside in the moonlight,’ cried one, and out they all went, and danced merrily with Death, who was becoming a little weary, in the middle.

‘I hate parties--except in time of plague or war’, panted Death to the Fiddler, and he danced away out of sight, and the Fiddler never saw him again for many, many years.

THE COLLEGE OF IMMORTAL FAME

Marus, a young poet of Levion, was walking in the by-ways of that city, one day, when he came to a great door which he had never seen before, and above the door was written in letters of gold:

‘THE COLLEGE OF IMMORTAL FAME’

So Marus knocked loudly at the door, and when it was opened, said to the Porter: ‘I desire to enter the College.’

‘Do you desire it more than anything else in the whole world?’ asked the Porter, in a solemn voice.

‘I do,’ said Marus, whose curiosity was awakened.