Chapter 3

Next, as a guide to the paper's enterprise we are admitted to a meeting of the Cabinet, and are assisted, at last to unravel the mystery as to which Minister it is who gives away the secrets of that assembly, for we watch him in his various disguises on his way to the dark cellar where he meets the political representative of the paper, makes his report and receives the promise of his future reward. It is, we feel confident, this particular section of the film which will secure for it an amazing popularity, though all reference in the Press to Cabinet proceedings has now been made illegal for the duration of the War.

"The Birth of a Fluence," it will be seen, does not confine its energies to the office of the paper. So thorough is the scheme that various pictures have been taken--always, of course, at the usual enormous expense--at even distant places, where its activities, or the result of them, can be studied. For example, we are shown a section of the Front and the delight of the English soldier as he unfolds the paper and discovers that his country is still being goaded towards that healthy disintegration which must necessarily accelerate our victory. And we are even shown one of the paper's defeated candidates seeking the railway-station after the election; for it is notorious that, vast as are the paper's other influences, it is often unable to persuade an electorate to follow it.

The last picture, which also should be of particular interest to the public as proving how sacred the Fourth Estate holds the duty of providing it with accurate reports, shows the whole of the building draped with the habiliments of woe and the staff in deep mourning on learning that the secrecy of the secret session is to be callously and rigorously enforced by the Government. And in this state of prostration the _personnel_ is left. So ends one of the most enthralling films that this country has yet invented.

"The Birth of a Fluence" would, of course, be more instructive still were there any paper that at all corresponded to the fantastic and incredible organ here illustrated. But of course a sheet that during the progress of an anxious war so consistently belittled its country and aspersed its rulers would be impossible. Still, enough verisimilitude remains to make an amusing half-hour.

* * * * *

* * * * *

NURSERY RHYMES OF LONDON TOWN.

IX.--The Poultry and the Borough.

The Fox ran to London Starving for his dinner; There he met the Weasel Looking even thinner.

The Weasel said to Reynard, "What shall be our pickin's?" Said Reynard to the Weasel, "Rabbits and Spring Chickens."

Then they went a-hunting, And they did it very thorough, The Fox in the Poultry And the Weasel in the Borough.

X.--Wormwood Scrubbs.

Wormwood scrubs, Wormwood scrubs Windows, walls, and floors, Pots and pans and pickle-tubs, Tables, chairs and doors; Wormwood scrubs the public seats And the City Halls; Wormwood scrubs the London streets, Wormwood scrubs Saint Paul's; Wormwood scrubs on her hands and knees, But oh, it's plainly seen, Though she use a ton of elbow-grease She'll _never_ get it clean!

* * * * *

A TRUE PESSIMIST.

* * * * *

THE LOAN.

It was past ten o'clock and the maid was, or should have been, asleep, so when there came a knock at the front-door Bertha got up to answer it herself.

"Whoever can it be at this time of night?" I said.

"It's Evelyn come to borrow again," said Bertha. "I know her knock."

"Don't always look on the dark side of things," I counselled; "be an optimist like me. Now I have a feeling that she has come to pay back what they borrowed last week."

A minute later Bertha returned. "I knew it," she said; "it is as I feared. Jack has sent her over to borrow three more."

"Three more!" I gasped; "but it's preposterous. They borrowed five only last Monday and they'll never pay them back, of course. What did you say to her?"

"I said I couldn't manage it myself, but I would ask you."

"I suppose we shall have to do it," I said, crossing over to the bureau and unlocking it.

"Haven't you got any on you?" asked Bertha.

"Only one; I never carry more than that in case I might get my pockets picked. It's a bit thick," I continued, "we economise and deny ourselves in all kinds of ways and then that spend-thrift comes--or, rather, sends his wife--and borrows all our hard-earned savings."

From a secret drawer in the bureau I drew forth a small box that I opened with fingers that trembled like _Gaspard's_.

Bertha joined me and, side by side, we stood gazing at the contents in a hush that was akin to worship.

"Well," said I, at last breaking the silence, "here you are, and for goodness' sake tell her not to waste them!" and into my wife's outstretched hand I carefully counted out--three matches.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"The Mayor of Troy."

The admirable "Q" has shot his arrow into the gold so often and carried off so mountainous a load of trophies that he can see with equanimity his last shot signalled an outer--even a miss. The signaller must needs be more dismayed than he. "Q" is also too honest and perceptive a critic not to see the weak points of _The Mayor of Troy_ as a stage play, though he may fairly plume himself on the pleasant (and unpleasant) folk of his creation who partly came to life on the opening night at the Haymarket. He will have found out and noted for an appendix to those lively and instructive discourses of his _On the Art of Writing_ that it is a jolly difficult thing to write a play; that an act is not a chapter of a novel, still less a _compôte_ of bits of many chapters; that, while to be charmingly discursive is a paramount quality of the higher type of novelist, the same attribute in a play, whose very breath of life is essential brevity, makes it appear to go on crutches, like his own discomfited hero. It bemuses an audience and gravels the players--as the queer uncertainty of touch of so skilful, so conscientious an actor as Mr. AINLEY sufficiently betrayed. But to the story.

Portly and pompous _Major Solomon Hymen Toogood_ (Mr. AINLEY), wealthy citizen of Troy Town, and, in the perilous year of grace 1804, for the seventh time its Mayor; Justice of the Peace, in command of the battery of _Diehards_ which himself had raised, spoilt by the worship of the women and the tractability (with reservations) of the men, has reason to be mightily pleased with himself; and very distinctly is. On this pleasant day on which the play opens he has written a proposal of marriage to a lady whose heart, unhappily, is already given to his Deputy in civic office and Second in Command of the battery, Dr. _Dillworthy_ (Mr. LEON QUARTERMAINE). Meanwhile a little smuggling expedition, which he had planned under cover of his military authority (Sir ARTHUR does not quite put it like that), turns into a genuine fight, and our Mayor is carried off prisoner to France.

At the peace of 1814 he returns thin and lame to find that the lady of his choice has long married the man of hers (and why not?), and that the two, with their children, are installed in his house; _Dillworthy_ no longer Deputy but reigning Mayor. Nobody recognises the famous _Toogood_, which is entirely "Q's" fault, not theirs; and nobody, except a pretty maid who is to marry his nephew (his own money has made the match possible), seems to worry overmuch (_absit omen_!) about returned prisoners of war. He reveals himself to nobody but his villain brother _William_ (Mr. AYRTON). That fatuous revenue officer, _Lomax_ (Mr. MALLESON), has written a fulsomely flattering life of him at which his gorge rises. Everybody, apart from opening a hospital in his memory (in a bed of which he eventually finds himself), seems to be going about his or her business much as usual (yet what else could they do?). He extracts a character of himself from his faithful old servant and finds it not so flattering as he would have liked. Seems, in fact, determined to have his grievance. Well, then, he will buy a dog. And he will take the road with his pal the comic sailor and shake the dust of fickle Troy from off his feet.

But I protest that this is all very unfair to the Trojans. As soon as he gave them their chance they took it decently enough, so much so that all ended happily in what must have been a most uncomfortable dance on the sharp fragments of the _Toogood_ bust which the disgruntled original had smashed with his crutch.

Of course poor _William_ very naturally resented this extraordinarily inconsiderate return from the dead of a long and well-lost brother, several thousand of whose pounds he had misappropriated. As for _Lomax_, could he by any stretch of the imagination within the frame of this picture have tried to bribe the Mayor to go away just to save his infernal biography from being wasted? You simply can't have a convincing colloquy on these lines between the tragic figure of the disillusioned and embittered hero and this farcical jackanapes.

And I think it was just this sort of lack of conviction that flattened the actors. Mr. HENRY AINLEY had his moments, but he's not a man of moments. He's about our best _whole-hogger_. Mr. LEON QUARTERMAINE'S easy skill was, as it always is, a very pleasant thing to watch. Mr. DE LANGE gave an animated little sketch of a droll French spy. Mr. MILES MALLESON shouldn't let his sense of character and his undoubted talent for business lead him into that capital sin of taking more than his share of the stage. Mr. HENDRIE as the sailor, _Ben Chope_, gave us another of those amusing grotesques of his; and Miss CLAIRE GREET put in a clever paragraph as _Mrs. Chope_. Mr. FREDERICK GROVES was an excellent gruff servant; Miss PEGGY RUSH a pretty bride; Mr. GERALD MCCARTHY a plausible lover; Miss BRUCE-POTTER a becomingly subdued and adoring Georgian doctor's wife. Mr. LYALL SWETE played competently a poisonous ass of a vicar, and was responsible for the production, which was admirable.

T.

* * * * *

A Ranker.

Extract from Battalion Orders:--

"The horse and cab of the Headquarters attached to the ---- Regt., A. Coy., for forage and accommodation."

* * * * *

"In the Ascot Double Handicap Hurdle Race, after an objection to Early Berry for jumping, the race was awarded to Marita."

_Sporting Paper._

Marita, presumably, crawled under the hurdles like a little lady.

* * * * *

"In spite of all traditions about the British love of a tub, we rarely are acquainted with the proper use of soap and water.... And thus we lay ourselves under Browning's reproach of 'You very imperfect ablutionist!'"

_British Weekly._

Browning may have written this; but we prefer GILBERT'S version:--

"You very imperfect ablutioner."

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

I would heartily commend to all good English women and men _The Book of Italy_ (UNWIN), first because it will help the families of those Italians who have left England to join their ships and regiments and will make possible the works of mercy of the Italian Red Cross, and secondly because it is in itself an admirable book--the most distinguished, I think, of any of its kind published here during the War. It tells us something of the great Italian creators and liberators, DANTE, LEONARDO, MICHELANGELO, MAZZINI, GARIBALDI, CAVOUR--too little perhaps of MAZZINI, than whom no movement for liberty ever had a nobler or a saner prophet. Of the good things, besides the contributions of distinguished Italians (a particularly interesting note on the Italian Red Cross by Signor GALANTE claims a Neapolitan, FERDINANDO PALASCIANO, as the pioneer, in 1848, of the Red Cross idea), let me specially commend the spirited introduction of Lord BRYCE, the eloquent letter of SABATIER, the memories of FREDERIC HARRISON, the quiet wisdom of CLUTTON-BROCK, the learning (decently veiled for normal eyes) of FRAZER, of _The Golden Bough_; the inspired prejudices, fringed with epigram, of G. K. C. A mere catalogue of a few of the well-known writers represented, of SYMONS, GALSWORTHY, GILBERT MURRAY, BAGOT, HICHIENS, BARRY BAIN, PHILLPOTTS; and of artists such as BRANGWYN, SARGENT, SHANNON, JOHN, LAVERY, RICHMOND, POYNTER, FRAMPTON, RICKETTS, ANNING BELL, CAYLEY ROBINSON, makes its best testimonial. England has never been other than the friend of modern Italy, for the Triple Alliance was merely a freak of desperate diplomacy and was broken by the popular will when Germany (be it remembered) was giving fair promise of ultimate victory. We don't need conversion to the cause of Italy, but everything that helps to foster and develop the comradeship of the now _Risorgimento_ of the Allied Nations is welcome. And _The Book of Italy_ will serve this purpose excellently well.

* * * * *

More than once before now I have commented upon that almost unique gift that Mr. JACK LONDON has of transferring physical energy to fiction. His characters must always be about some sinew-straining business that makes the reader ache in sympathy. However in _The Little Lady of the Big House_ (MILLS AND BOON) the author seems to have allowed himself and his creations an unwonted holiday. Here is no fierce struggle for existence, but the fruits of it upon a millionaire ranche in California. _Dick Forrest_ was the millionaire, by heritage and his own success; a great farmer and a breeder of shires. He had a wife, the _Little Lady_ of the title, and a Big House that was one of the most eligible dwellings in fiction. A plain recital of the arrangements ("tweaks" we should have called them at school) in _Dick's_ open-air bedroom makes the ordinary home look like ten cents. Mr. LONDON certainly knows how to luxuriate when he gives his mind to it. Moreover there was a wonderful swimming-bath, with a concealed submarine chamber in which the _Little Lady_ used to hide for the terror of uninstructed guests (she was rather that kind of person), and a great music-room for her to play RACHMANINOFF in and flirt with the Other Man. This is all the tale. Eventually the flirtation becomes serious and the _Little Lady_ is driven to suicide, with a death scene of rather unconvincing sentiment. The fact is, I am afraid, that Capuan ease does not altogether suit the super-strenuous beings whom Mr. JACK LONDON designs. They are too energetic for it, and, lacking an outlet, tend to become melodramatic. I hope that next time he will take us back to the muscle-grinding.

* * * * *

When the War broke out Mr. F. W. WILE, an American gentleman, was living in Berlin as the correspondent of _The Daily Mail_. Having read his book, _The Assault_ (HEINEMANN), I may say that I judge him to be singularly alert and wide-awake and admirably fitted for the position he occupied. He has no scintilla of hatred or animosity for the German people as individuals, but he wishes to see Germany beaten. "I wish her beaten," he says, "for the Allies' sake and for my own country's sake. A victorious Germany would be a menace to international liberty and become automatically a threat to the happiness and freedom of the United States." He saw the furious transports of patriotism and hatred to which the Berlin mob gave way; he witnessed the brutal attack on the British Embassy, and he was himself denounced as an English spy, was arrested and was lodged in jail, whence he was rescued only by the direct interposition of the American Ambassador. All these incidents he relates in a very vivid way and with a certain dry humour that adds to the effect. His description of the manner in which, on his way to prison in a taxi with two German policemen, he managed to destroy a telegraph code which was in his breast pocket, is positively thrilling. Had it been discovered on him, nothing, he thinks, would have availed to save him, so delirious were his captors with rage and suspicion. Certainly a delightful people. Finally he was allowed to leave Berlin and travel to England as a member of Sir EDWARD GOSCHEN'S party. In the later portion of this book Mr. WILE castigates us, not too unkindly, but, perhaps, a little too insistently, for not being ready, for not realising what war means and for being self-complacent. Since his criticisms are based on affection for us we can make an effort to kiss the rod, especially as he discerns signs of improvement in us. Incidentally I may add that he is, perhaps, not altogether fair to Lord HALDANE, but, _per contra_, he gives Lord NORTHCLIFFE a high testimonial to character and behaviour.

* * * * *

_Cordelia_ (MELROSE) is a story as agreeable as its name, or as the pretty, if rather chocolate-box-school, picture on its wrapper. One small defect I find in the dissipation of its interest. Beginning with one hero, it goes on with another; and the result is some confusion for the reader who has backed the wrong horse. But Mr. E. M. SMITH-DAMPIER might very justly retort that this is but fidelity to life. When in the early chapters we see the first hero turned from home by an unsympathetic parent, and faring forth to seek romance in a new world, it was surely reasonable to suppose that he would eventually be rewarded by the pretty lady of the wrapper, especially as _Savile Brand_ (though his name inevitably suggests tobacco) is a character drawn with understanding and skill. But Mr. SMITH-DAMPIER is good at lovers. He has another, even better, up his sleeve. This is _Peter_, the forty-year-old American cousin, who cherishes a tender regard for _Mistress Cordelia_. I should explain that all this happened in the time of powder, lace coats, and witches. This last is important. Those were the days when _Cherchez la sorcière_ was the unfailing remedy in New England for every ill, material or emotional. It is from this, coupled with the mistaken jealousy of her sister, that _Cordelia's_ troubles come, and so nearly turn her story to tragedy. The main motive may remind you a little of that grim play of witchcraft that we saw at the St. James's Theatre some years ago. But fortunately the end is more comfortable. _Cordelia_, in short, is a nicely-flavoured romance of old America, with at least three unusually well-drawn characters to give it substance. I have no doubt at all of its success.

* * * * *

OUR ECONOMISTS.

* * * * *

LADY POORE'S _Recollections of an Admiral's Wife_ (SMITH, ELDER) is as excellent a book of its kind as readers of _Punch_ are likely to find reviewed in a month of Wednesdays. Scrapbooks of reminiscences are so often dumped upon a surfeited world that it is at once a pleasure and a duty to draw attention to a volume of real worth and significance. Wherever LADY POORE was living--whether in Australia before the War or in Chatham after August, 1915--her main object was to arrive at a sympathetic understanding of the people with whom she had to deal, and, without a hint of patronage, to be of service to them. It is impossible to read of the work she did and helped to do during the last dozen years or so without recognising how possible it is to be official and still remain very human. In spite of little outbursts of opinion which refuse to be suppressed, Lady POORE is as discreet as the most censorious of censors could desire. One of her anecdotes--for the most part well told and fresh--is as funny a tale as I have I ever encountered; but I will leave you to find it for yourself. Altogether a book to thank the gods for.

* * * * *

"On the way to Berea, Mr. Lloyd George met the Rector of the parish, and both cordially shook hands."--_Scotsman._

Are we to infer that as a rule, when these two gentlemen meet, only one of them shakes hands?