Part 1
Little Rays of Moonshine
_BOOKS BY A. P. HERBERT_
THE BOMBER GIPSY THE SECRET BATTLE THE HOUSE-BY-THE-RIVER LITTLE RAYS OF MOONSHINE
_New York: Alfred A. Knopf_
Little Rays of Moonshine
By
A. P. Herbert
New York Alfred · A. · Knopf 1921
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
DEDICATED WITH RESPECT TO LESLIE SCOTT, K.C., M.P.
Most of these pieces have appeared in the pages of _Punch_, and I have to thank the Proprietors of that paper for their courtesy in permitting me to republish. “The Book of Jonah” appeared in _The London Mercury_, “The Supreme Court” in _The Outlook_, “The Art of Drawing” and “Reading Without Tears” in _Land and Water_, which perished a few weeks later. I thank them all.
A.P.H.
Contents
Wrong Numbers 9
The Genius of Mr. Bradshaw 17
Five Inches 23
Reading Without Tears 28
On With the Dance 35
The Autobiography 42
The White Spat 47
The Art of Drawing 55
About Bathrooms 61
A Criminal Type 67
The Art of Poetry 73
The Book of Jonah 94
The Mystery of the Apple-pie Beds 105
The Grasshopper 112
Little Bits of London 118
I The Supreme Court 118
II “The Bear Garden” 126
III Billingsgate 133
IV The Bloater Show 140
V Bond Street 145
The Little Guiggols 151
Wrong Numbers
I have invented a new telephone game. It is a thoroughly discreditable, anti-social game, and I am not proud of it, but it has been forced upon me by circumstances. It is now clear that my telephone number is the only one the operators know, and my game follows the lines of all the best modern movements, the principle of which is that, if you cannot hit the man you are annoyed with, you hit somebody else instead. Nowadays, when some perfect stranger is introduced to me in error on the telephone, I no longer murmur, “Wrong number, I’m afraid,” in my usual accents of sweet sympathy, cool resignation, irritation, hatred or black despair; I pretend that it is the _right_ number. I lead my fellow-victim on into a morass of mystification; I worm out his precious secrets; I waste his precious time. If you can square your conscience you will find it is a glorious game, though I ought to add that considerable skill is required. It is best, perhaps, to make a general rule of answering the call in the first instance in a high feminine voice, as much like a housemaid, or a charwoman, or a Government typist as possible; then you are prepared for any development.
The following are some of the best matches I have played:----
I
_Me._ Hullo!
_A Voice._ Is that the Midland Railway?
_Me._ Yes, Madam. Which department do you require?
_A V._ It’s about some eggs. An egg-box was despatched from Hitchin----
_Me_ (_obsequious_). I will put you through to the Goods and Transit Department, Madam.
_A V._ (_fervent_). Oh, _thank_ you!
_Me_ (_after a short stroll round the garden--in a gruff railway-voice_). Hullo! Motor-vans and Haulage Department----
_A V._ Oh, it’s about some _eggs_. An egg-box----
_Me_ (_more in sorrow than in anger_). You require the Goods and Transit Department. I will put you through.
_A V._ Oh, _thank_ you!
_Me_ (_after planting a few more of those confounded cuttings--very suddenly_). The 4.45 to Bunby Major is suspended, Sir.
_A V._ (_apologetic_). I want to speak about some eggs----
_Me_ (_horrified_). Some _legs_!
_A V._ (_patient_). No, some _eggs_:--E--double G--S, eggs. An egg-box was despatched from Hitchin by a friend of mine on the 21st----
_Me_ (_sharply_). What name, Madam?
_A V._ Major Bludyer. It was despatched on----
_Me._ Is he one of the Buckinghamshire Bludyers?
_A V._ What? Hullo!... Hullo! It was despatched on----
_Me._ I mean, is he _the_ Major Bludyer--that well-grown old boy? From what I know of his eggs----
_A V._ (_growing fainter_). I can’t hear you very well. It’s about some eggs----
_Me._ Well, I’m very glad to have had this little talk. Remember me to old Bludyer. Good-bye.
II
_Me_ (_squeaky_). Hullo!
_A Voice_ (_business-like, in a great hurry_). Hullo! Is that you, Mortimer?
_Me_ (_very deliberate_). Mr. Mortimer is in the next room. If you will hold the line I will fetch him. Who is it speaking, please?
_A V._ Oh, never mind that.
_Me_ (_firm_). Who is it speaking, please?
_A V. Oh_, da----! Say it’s George. And be quick, please.
_Me_ (_after a good deal of unavoidable delay_). Hullo, George!
_A V._ Hullo, Mortimer! You _have_ been a time! Look here--about this meeting: have you got your minutes ready yet?
_Me._ Not quite. Practically. I was just doing them----
_A V._ Oh! Well, it’s like this: I’ve had a talk with Sir Donald and he thinks you’d better leave out that scene about Atkins and the Debentures. He thinks we might have trouble with the Manchester lot if you read that out, but if you don’t say anything about it they’ll never know----
_Me._ You dirty dog!
_A V._ What’s that?
_Me_ (_innocent_). I didn’t say anything. I think there’s someone on the line--(_in a brand-new voice_) Cuckoo!
_A V._ (_indignant_). I say, Sir, do you mind getting off the line? Hullo! Hullo!... He’s gone now. Well, don’t forget that. So long, old man. Sorry you couldn’t come round the other night; I wanted you to meet my _fiancée_--you haven’t, have you?
_Me._ Which one.
_A V._ (_skittishly_). You old ass--Miss Tickle, of course.
_Me.._ Oh, I know _her_. As a matter of fact I was engaged to her myself once--but that’s many years ago.
_A V._ What’s that? You sound as if you’d got a cold.
_Me._ I rather think I have. You always make such a draught down the telephone. Good-bye, old man.
III
_A Voice._ Is that the Box-Office?
_Me._ Which Box-Office?
_A V._ Is that the Paragon Theatre?
_Me_. Yes, Madam.
_A V._ Oh, have you two seats for next Thursday?
_Me._ Yes, Madam. There is a stall in row D, and I have one seat left in the back row in the dress-circle--a _very_ good view of the stage, Madam.
_A V._ Oh, but I want them _together_.
_Me._ I’m afraid we never sell seats _together_, Madam. The Lord Chamberlain----
_A V._ Oh, but----
_Me._ May I ask why you want to see this play, Madam?
_A V._ I can’t hear you.... Hullo!
_Me._ I mean, between ourselves, it’s a thoroughly bad adaptation of a thoroughly bad foreign play thoroughly badly acted by a rotten lot of actors. _Letty Loo_ is perfectly awful, and there’s no room for your legs, unless you would care for a box, and there isn’t one if you would; so if I were you I should stay quietly at home with Henry. _Au revoir!_
IV
_A Voice_ (_most important_). Hullo! Is that the Treasury?
_Me_ (_sweetly feminine_). Treasury speaking.
_A V._ (_as if the end of the world was in sight_). I want to speak to the Prime Minister’s Private Secretary.
_Me._ The Prime Minister’s Private Secretary is engaged. I can put you through to the Whips’ Office.
_A V._ (_angrily_). I don’t _want_ the Whips’ Office. I want----
_Me._ One moment, please.
[_A good many moments pass._]
_A V._ (_menacing_). Hullo! Hullo! _Hullo!_
_Me_ (_sweetly, as if conferring some priceless boon_). Put _three_ pennies in the slot and _turn_ the handle, please.
_A V._ (_spluttering_). Look here, put me through to the supervisor at _once_.
_Me_ (_very far off_). Supervisor speaking.
_A V._ (_with suppressed passion, yet pompous withal_). Look here--I’m a Member of Parliament. I’ve been----
_Me_ (_gently_). Do not shout into the receiver, please.
_A V._ Hullo! I’m a----
_Me._ Do not say “Hullo!”
_A V._ (_maddened_). What’s that? Hullo! Look here--I’m a Member of Parliament, and I’ve been trying for _half an hour_ to get through to the Prime Minister’s----
_Me._ I am sorry you have been trrrr-roubled. You are _thrrrrough_ now.
_A V._ Hullo! Is that the Prime Minister’s Private Secretary?
_Me_ (_quiet, weary and competent_). Which one do you want?
_A V._ Hullo! Sir Thingummy Jig speaking. I want to speak to the Prime Minister’s----
_Me._ Yes, I heard that. But do you want the Principal Private Secretary, or the Assistant Principal Private Secretary, or one of the Personal Private Secretaries? I mean there are forty-seven of us altogether and it makes a lot of difference----
_A V._ (_weakening_). I can’t quite hear. Perhaps you can help me. It’s about----
_Me._ One moment, please. Here is the Prime Minister himself. Would you mind speaking to _him_? I’m rather busy.
_A V._ (_awestruck_). Of course.... Hullo!
_Me._ Hullo!... The Prime Minister speaking.... Look here, Jig, I want to have a word with you. Would you mind holding the line a moment while I speak to my secretary?
_A V._ (_fawning_). By all means.... There’s no hurry--no hurry at all.
* * * * *
As far as I know the poor fellow is holding still.
The Genius of Mr. Bradshaw
No one will be surprised to hear that the Christian name of Mr. Bradshaw was George. Indeed, it is difficult to think what other name a man of his calibre could have had. But many people will be surprised to hear that Mr. Bradshaw is no longer alive. Whatever one thinks of his work one is inclined to think of him as a living personality, working laboriously at some terminus--probably at the Charing Cross Hotel. But it is not so. He died, in fact, in 1853. His first book--or rather the first edition of his book[1]--was published in 1839; yet, unlike the author, it still lives. He is, in fact, the supreme example of the posthumous serial writer. I have no information about Mr. Debrett and Mr. Burke, but the style and substance of their work are relatively so flimsy that one is justified, I think, in neglecting them. In any case their public is a limited one. So, of course, is Mr. Bradshaw’s; but it is better than theirs. Mr. Debrett’s book we read idly in an idle hour; when we read Mr. Bradshaw’s it is because we feel that we simply must; and that perhaps is the surest test of genius.
[1] “Bradshaw’s General Railway and Steam Navigation Guide for Great Britain and Ireland.”
It is no wonder that in some circles Mr. Bradshaw holds a position comparable only to the position of Homer. I once knew an elderly clergyman who knew the whole of Mr. Bradshaw’s book by heart. He could tell you without hesitation the time of any train from anywhere to anywhere else. He looked forward each month to the new number as other people look forward to the new numbers of magazines. When it came he skimmed eagerly through its pages and noted with a fierce excitement that they had taken off the 5.30 from Larne Harbour, or that the 7.30 from Galashiels was stopping that month at Shankend. He knew all the connections; he knew all the restaurant trains; and, if you mentioned the 6.15 to Little Buxton, he could tell you offhand whether it was a Saturdays Only or a Saturdays Excepted.
This is the exact truth, and I gathered that he was not unique. It seems that there is a Bradshaw cult; there may even be a Bradshaw club, where they meet at intervals for Bradshaw dinners, after which a paper is read on “Changes I have made, with some Observations on Salisbury.” I suppose some of them have first editions, and talk about them very proudly; and they have hot academic discussions on the best way to get from Barnham Junction to Cardiff without going through Bristol. Then they drink the toast of “The Master” and go home in omnibuses. My friend was a schoolmaster and took a small class of boys in Bradshaw; he said they knew as much about it as he did. I call that corrupting the young.
But apart from this little band of admirers I am afraid that the book does suffer from neglect. Who is there, for example, who has read the “Directions” on page 1, where we are actually shown the method of reading tentatively suggested by the author himself? The odinary reader, coming across a certain kind of thin line, lightly dismisses it as a misprint or a restaurant car on Fridays. If he had read the Preface he would know that it meant a SHUNT. He would know that a SHUNT means that passengers are enabled to continue their journey by changing into the next train. Whether he would know what that means I do not know. The best authorities suppose it to be a poetical way of saying that you have to change--what is called an euphemism.
No, you must not neglect the Preface; and you must not neglect the Appendix on Hotels. As sometimes happens in works of a philanthropic character, Mr. Bradshaw’s Appendix has a human charm that is lacking in his treatment of his principal theme, the arrival and departure of trains. To the careful student it reveals also a high degree of organization among his collaborators, the hotel-managers. It is obvious, for example, that at Bournemouth there must be at least one hotel which has the finest situation on the south coast. Indeed one would expect to find that there was more than one. But no; Bournemouth, exceptionally fortunate in having at once the most select hotel on the south coast, the largest and best-appointed hotel on the south coast and the largest and most up-to-date hotel on the south coast, has positively only one which has the finest position on the south coast. Indeed, there is only one of these in the whole of England, though there are two which have the finest position on the east coast.
How is it, we wonder, that with so much variation on a single theme such artistic restraint is achieved? It is clear, I think, that before they send in their manuscripts the hotel-managers must meet somewhere and agree together the exact terms of their contributions to the book. “The George” agrees that for the coming year “The Crown” shall have the “finest cuisine in England,” provided “The George” may have “the most charming situation imaginable,” and so on. I should like to be at one of those meetings.
This is the only theory which accounts for the curious phrases we find so frequently in the text: “_Acknowledged_ to be the finest”; “_Admittedly_ in the best position.” Who is it that acknowledges or admits these things? It must be the other managers at these annual meetings. Yes, the restraint of the collaborators is wonderful, and in one point only has it broken down. There are no fewer than seventeen hotels with an Unrivalled Situation, and two of these are at Harrogate. For a small place like the British Isles it seems to me that this is too many.
For the rest, what imagery, what exaltation we find in this Appendix! Dazed with imagined beauty we pass from one splendid haunt to another. One of them has _three_ golf-courses of its own; several are _replete_ with every comfort (and is not “replete” the perfect epithet?). Here is a seductive one “on the sea-edge,” and another whose principal glory is its sanitary certificate. Another stands on the spot where Tennyson received his inspiration for the _Idylls of the King_, and leaves it at that. In such a spot even “cuisine” is negligible.
On the whole, from a literary point of view, the hydros come out better than the mere hotels. But of course they have unequalled advantages. With such material as Dowsing Radiant Heat, D’Arsonval High Frequency and Fango Mud Treatment almost any writer could be sensational. What is High Frequency, I wonder? It is clear, at any rate, that it would be madness to have a hydro without it.
Well, I have selected my hotel--on purely literary grounds. Or rather I have selected two. One is the place where they have the Famous Whirlpool Baths. I shall go there at once.
The manager of the other is a great artist; alone among the collaborators he understands simplicity. His contribution occupies a whole page; but there is practically nothing in it; nothing about cuisine or sanitation, or elegance, or comfort. Only, in the middle, he writes, quite simply:
THE MOST PERFECT HOTEL IN THE WORLD.
Five Inches
THE GREAT JOKE
They came and split a turkey with us on Boxing Day, ten old soldiers, all out of a job, and only ten legs between them. At least there were only ten real legs; two of them had admirable imitation ones, and there were sixteen excellent crutches. One of them was a miner--_was_, of course; just now he is not mining much; perhaps that is why he seemed such a decent fellow, not at all violent or unpleasant, as one knows those practising miners are. In fact he reminded one of the miners one used to have in one’s platoon. Personally I had the honour to have a whole platoon of them. Odd, isn’t it, what capital fellows they were then, and how sadly they deteriorate when they get back to the mines? And it was odd, too, to hear this fellow say that he wished he could be back in the pits; I thought it was such a hateful and dangerous occupation.
Yes, he was a nice miner, and so were the rest of them, very cheerful and respectful. But they didn’t talk much--at first. It was strangely difficult to find a safe subject. A few years ago there would have been no difficulty; one would have talked war-shop. “Were you ever at Ypres?” “I was on Gallipoli.” “Did you know Captain ----?” and so on. We did a little of this, but it didn’t go very well.
In the dining-room I keep a large coloured photograph of the top of the Vimy Ridge on the day of a battle--you know the sort of thing, a hideous expanse of broken brown earth, that dreadful endless brown, with walls of smoke all round the horizon, shells bursting in the middle distance, a battered trench in the foreground, with a few scattered men climbing out of it, gazing at the camera with expressionless faces, stretcher-bearers stooping on the parapet with their stretchers on their shoulders, odd men straying everywhere like lost sheep across the chocolate wilderness, looking aimless, looking small.
Our guests were interested in that picture; it was wonderfully _like_, they said; but I felt that my usual remark about it was hardly suitable. Usually I tell my guests, and it is true, that I keep the picture as a kind of chastener, so that, when I am moved to complain at the troubles of this world, I can look at the picture and think, “At any rate life is better than it was then----.” It was on the tip of my tongue to say so to the one-legged men when it came to me that for them, perhaps, at the moment, it wasn’t true.
After the turkey and the pudding and the crackers, and of course the beer, there was a slight thaw, but it was still very difficult. We tried to get them to sing. Only a few years ago how easy it was. There was “Tipperary” and many another rousing chorus. One was familiar in those times with the popular songs of the day. Unfortunately these were the only songs we could produce now. And they didn’t suit. “Keep the Home-fires Burning,” for instance--one didn’t like to suggest that. The chief minstrel of the one-legged men, who was also the chief comedian, disinterred from a heap of old music, “Your King and Country Need You.” “How would that go, Bert?” he said. He said it without bitterness, I don’t know why, and Bert’s answer was a silent grin, and one felt that Bert was right. “Pack up your Troubles in your old Kit-bag,” “Till the Boys Come Home”--all the old titles had a certain ironic underlining in that company.
So we abandoned singing and we sat rather silent. There was some desultory conversation about the various “trades” to which a grateful State had trained them, and left it at that; there was some mild chaff of Bill, who had been too old (at thirty-five) to be trained at all, though not too old to learn musketry and lose a leg; but socially one felt the “party” was drifting to disaster.
It was saved, like many parties, by “shop,” and not war-shop, at least not exactly. What sort of shop will amuse ten one-legged men? Why, one-legged shop, of course. Somebody said, “Is your leg comfortable?” and that set the ball rolling. All the tongues wagged gleefully at once; all the technical details of one-leggedness, all the points of the various kinds of “legs,” were brought out and tossed about and hotly contested as if we had been a number of golfers arguing the merits of different makes of putters. Some of us wear “stump-socks”; some of us can’t stand the things. Some of us have “buckets” (graphically described) which we can comfortably pad, and some of us have something else not nearly so good. Some of us are excited about the new “aluminium” legs, four pounds lighter, which are soon to be available, though we think it a terrible waste of money now that we have most of us got wooden ones. Here is a chance for the “economising” campaigners! Now then, Lord Rothermere, “No Aluminium Legs!” What a war-cry! Altogether it is an enthralling topic; there is no more awkwardness....
And it is so amusing. Gad, how we laughed! There was the story of the man on the Underground, a friend of ours. Someone trod on his false foot in the crowded train and, scrambling out in a hurry at a station, he found himself footless on the platform, while the train slid away with the other fellow still standing on his foot. Ha, ha! how we laughed.
But most of us are “above the knee,” and that provides the best joke of all. You see it all depends on the length of your stump (or “stoomp”). If you have five inches left you get an eighty per cent pension; if you have more you get less--even if it is only five and a quarter. That quarter of an inch makes all the difference, financially, though practically it isn’t a great deal of use. How much have _you_ got? Ah, you’re unlucky. I’m four and three-quarters--a near thing, eh? Peals of laughter. “You go back and have another inch off. Ho, ho, ho!” We roll about in our chairs.
Well, well, it’s a queer world; but the party was a great success after all.
Reading Without Tears
I am teaching my daughter to read. It is very difficult. I cannot imagine how I learned to read myself. And when I look at the classic called _Reading Without Tears_, which was, I understand, the foundation of my learning, I am yet more puzzled. The author of the book seems to believe strongly in original sin. In the Preface I read: “Tears must be shed by sinful little creatures subject to waywardness and deserving so many reproofs and corrections”; but reading need not be such an occasion; and again, “Observe their minutest actions; shut not your eyes to their sinful nature; nor believe them _incapable_ of injustice or unkindness, of deceit of covetousness.” Perhaps this attitude explains the book.
The author’s great idea is _pictures_. A is like a hut with a window upstairs. B, on the other hand, is like a house with two windows; and little b is like a child with a wide frock coming to you. When I look at the pictures opposite I see what the author means, but when I look at A and B and little b dispassionately by themselves they suggest nothing at all to me. I simply cannot imagine the hut or the house or the child with the wide frock.
But let us look at some more. D is like an old man leaning on a stick; E is like a carriage with a little seat for the driver; G is like a monkey eating a cake. These are no better. Try as I may, I cannot see the little seat for the driver; or if I do, I see it just as vividly in F. But F is like a tree with a seat for a child. So I know that I am wrong.