Chapter 3

For instance, she made no comment on the fact that he had hardly touched his bacon; she merely removed his plate and gave him marmalade and toast as if he had left no bacon at all. She didn't even notice the lines of suffering on his face, the dark circles under his eyes. He cast a glance in the mirror when her back was turned to see if they were obvious. They were. Why wasn't Mary catching his hump? She always did.

When finally he left the house, a little bent, with no spring in his step, Mary didn't accompany him to the door. She didn't exchange with him one of those rapid looks of complete understanding that he had grown so accustomed to and found so sustaining and helpful. She kissed him firmly and coolly, almost casually. Just so she might kiss an aunt.

The train journey was cold and lonely. Nobody he knew was travelling up to town. He bought a daily paper, but the headlines put him off. They were nearly all about divorce cases. There was one about a man who had lived for three years in the same house with his wife without speaking to her. Such things were possible! He gazed out of the window. The wonderful day had no charm for him. The feeling of autumn only further increased his sense of the loss of youth, of the decay of romance. He nursed and nourished his grievance. He desired that Mary should know what a wreck she had made of his day, possibly of his life.

He was in no mood for work. He went up to his studio in Fitzroy Square and muddled about with pens and ink. He had what he called a good tidy up, and firmly and consistently threw away every relic of sentiment he had foolishly preserved. At one o'clock, through habit and not because he was hungry, he went out and had a lonely lunch at a small restaurant, sitting at a marble-topped table which imparted to him something of its chill. After that he loafed about looking at things till dusk. Dusk was quite unbearable. He fled back to the studio, made up a stupendous fire, lit a pipe and mused.

He decided not to go home that night. He felt hurt and ill-used. He would stay in town and have a thoroughly good time. As the idea struck him he looked round the studio. The corners were dismal and shadowy. Everything not in the immediate circle of the fire looked grey and cheerless. His easel, with a bit of drapery thrown across it, was like a spectre with outstretched arms. It suggested despair. He could think of no one whom he wanted to see. There wasn't a soul he knew whom he would not in this crisis deliberately have avoided.

So he went to the Russian Ballet and was bored. He had been excited about _Cleopatra_ the first time he had seen it; he now decided that it was a great mistake to try to repeat emotional experiences.

He left hurriedly before the programme was half over. His feet took him mechanically to Waterloo Station. He looked up a train. The 9.30 was due out; he sprinted and caught it. The carriage he managed to get into was empty and warm. He slept; he slept all the way, and it did him good.

When he arrived at the other end the night was calm and the sky star-spangled. The walk out exhilarated him; his exasperation was over. He ran lightly down the leaf-strewn steps of the old garden and looked in at the window. Mary was seated at the fire. She looked pensive, pretty and a little sad. He whistled and she smiled up. "Hooray!" she said, "I'd nearly given you up." She slipped round and had the door open before he could get out his key and drew him in. She helped him off with his coat and scanned his face with even more than her usual intentness and interest. But she didn't ask him why he was late and he didn't tell her. He thought that could wait.

Their extemporised supper was a great success, and they sat before the wood fire far into the night.

"What was up this morning?" he finally asked. "You weren't quite yourself, were you?"

"This morning?" she questioned, puzzled. "Oh, I remember. I woke with a splitting headache. Did you notice it? You nice old thing!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"MR. PIM PASSES BY."

"The year's at the spring And day's at the morn... God's in His heaven-- All's right with the world!"

When _Pippa_ "passed," singing songs like that and preoccupied with the splendid fact of her one day's holiday, she unconsciously brought about a change for the better in the heart or conscience of all who overheard her. It was not so with the passing of _Mr. Pim_. Prior to his intrusion, there had been nothing to disturb the well-ordered existence of _Geo. Marden, Esq., J.P.,_ and his wife (late Mrs. Tellworthy), except that they did not see eye to eye on the small question of his niece's early engagement to a young artist and on the still smaller question of futuristic curtains. Then came _Mr. Garraway Pim_, a doddering old gentleman, with a thin falsetto voice and a loosish memory, but otherwise harmless. He arrives with an introduction from Australia and casually lets fall a tale of a fellow-passenger with the unusual name of Tellworthy, from which--and other incidental evidence--_Mrs. Marden_ gathers that her first husband (an ex-convict) is still alive. Having dropped this thunderbolt he drifts off, leaving tragedy in his wake. End of Act I.

_Marden_, highly conscientious, takes the orthodox view that his lawless marriage must be nullified. His wife, though horrified at the resurrection of her impossible first husband, permits herself to recognise the humorously ironic side of things. _Mr. Pim_, fortunately located in the immediate neighbourhood, is sent for that he may throw further light on the painful subject of Tellworthy's revival. He now reports--what he had vaguely imagined himself to have mentioned in the first instance--that Tellworthy had met his death at Marseilles through swallowing a herring-bone. The Second Act closes with a burst of jubilant hysterics on the part of _Mrs. Marden_.

But the situation is only partially relieved. True, the old husband is dead all right, but the _Mardens'_ marriage is still bigamous; they have been living all this time in what would be regarded in the eyes of Heaven (and, still worse, the county of Bucks) as sin. However, a trifling formality at a registry-office can rectify this and nobody need be any the wiser. This at least is _Marden's_ attitude, always free from any suspicion of complexity. But his wife (if that is the word for her), being of a more subtle nature, determines to make profit out of the situation. She points out to him that she is at present the widow Tellworthy and that she must be wooed all over again, and can only be won on her own terms. These include a recognition of the niece's engagement (has not the young artist an equal right with _Marden_ to a speedy marriage with the woman of his choice?) and a concession to her taste in futuristic curtains.

At this juncture _Mr. Pim_ drifts in again to correct an error of memory. The name of the gentleman who succumbed to the herring-bone was not Tellworthy (he must have got that name into his head through hearing it mentioned as that of _Mrs. Marden's_ first husband). It was really Polwhistle--either Henry or Ernest Polwhistle; he was not quite sure which. Everything is thus restored to the _status quo ante_, except that _Marden_, in a spasm of generous reaction, feels himself morally bound to abide by the new conditions that his wife had laid down.

_Mr. Pim_ only passes by once more to announce his settled conviction that _Polwhistle's_ Christian name was Ernest and not Henry.

It will be seen that the play is original in design; but it is also a true play of character revealed by circumstance. Further--and this is very rare--it owes nothing to the adventitious aid of the costumier. For the author's observation of the unities is extended to include the matter of dress; he allows his people one costume each and no more.

Miss IRENE VANBRUGH played as if every one of her words had been made expressly for her, as, no doubt, they were. I have never seen her so perfect in detail, in the poise of her head, in her least gesture and intonation, in her swift changes of mood; never so quietly mistress of the _finesse_ of her art.

As _Marden_, Mr. BEN WEBSTER was a little restless in a part for which he was not constitutionally suited, but played with the greatest courage and sincerity. Mr. DION BOUCICAULT'S study of _Mr. Pim_ was extraordinarily effective; and the way in which he made the attenuated pipings of this futile old gentleman carry like the notes of a bell was in itself a remarkable feat.

These three were given great chances, full of colour. But in the part of _Brian Strange_, the boy-lover, by its nature relatively colourless, Mr. LESLIE HOWARD was hardly less good. He never made anything like a mistake of manner. I wish I could say the same of his flapper. But Miss COHAN asserted her good spirits a little too boisterously for the picture.

I hope I shall not be suspected of partiality towards one of Mr. Punch's young men if I say that this is the best of the good things that Mr. MILNE has given us. As in his unacted play, _The Lucky One_, he gives evidence of a desire, not unfrequent in humourists, to be taken seriously. But he knows by now that brilliant dialogue is what is expected of him, and he thinks, too modestly, that he cannot afford to dispense with it for long at a time. The result is that, after stringing us up to face a tragic situation, he is tempted to let us down with light-hearted cynicisms. He would hate me to suggest that Mr. BERNARD SHAW has infected him, but perhaps he wouldn't mind my hinting at the influence of Sir JAMES BARRIE. Certainly his _Mardens_ remind me of the _Darlings_ in _Peter Pan_. Just as there we were invited alternately to weep for the bereaved mother's sorrow and roar over the bereaved father's buffooneries, so here, though not so disastrously, our hearts are torn between sympathy for the husband's real troubles and amusement at the wife's flippant attitude towards the common tragedy.

I will not deny the sneaking pleasure which this flippancy gave me at the time, but in the light of calmer reflection I feel that Mr. MILNE would really have pleased himself better if he could have found the courage to keep the play on a serious note all through the interval between _Mr. Pim's_ first and second revelations. Apart from the higher question of sincerity he would have gained something, in an artistic sense, by getting a stronger contrast out of the change of situation that followed the announcement of Tellworthy's demise.

In the First Act we seemed to have a little too much of the young couple, but this insistence was perhaps justified by the important part which their affairs subsequently played (along with the _leit-motif_ of the futuristic curtains) in the readjustment of the relations between husband and wife.

If I have any flaw to find in a really charming play, I think it was a mistake for _Mrs. Marden_ to let _Mr. Pim_ into the secret of her past. As with the sweet influences of _Pippa_, so with the devastating havoc wrought by the inexactitudes of _Mr. Pim_, I think he should have been left unconscious of the effect of his passing.

For the rest,

Mr. MILNE'S at his best-- All's right with the play!

O.S.

* * * * *

* * * * *

EUPHONIOUS ALIENS.

(_A successful chamber concert has been given by three players, styling themselves "The Modern Trio," and named as under._)

You may search through all Europe from Nenagh to Nish For such a delightfully-named coalish As that of MANNUCCI and MELZAK and KRISH.

In MELZAK we note the Slavonic ambish; MANNUCCI suggests an Italian dish, And there's an exotic allurement in KRISH.

Their combined _cantilena's_ as soothing as squish; 'Twould have banished the madness of SAUL, son of KISH, Had he listened to MELZAK, MANNUCCI and KRISH.

Their music, I gather, is wholly delish, But their names are the thing that I specially wish To applaud in MANNUCCI and MELZAK and KRISH.

* * * * *

THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

"FOR SALE.--Entire household, $200 cash."--_American Paper_.

* * * * *

ANOTHER CRISIS.

Whether it is due to war-weariness or not the fact remains that the British public view with apparent apathy the new crises which arise day by day to threaten their happiness and maybe to change the whole course of their life.

Only a few mornings ago we read in _The Daily Chronicle_ the following momentous statement made by that newspaper's golf correspondent: "I'm told that the thirty-one pennyweight ball is doomed." Doomed! Yet, so far as could be observed in the demeanour of the pleasure-seekers in the Strand on the afternoon of that same day, things might have been exactly as they were the day before.

We learn that the sub-committee investigating this matter of the thirty-one pennyweight ball have consulted both the manufacturers and the professionals. A ray of hope is given by the statement, made on good authority, that "the manufacturers have adopted a very reasonable attitude." The country should be grateful for this. But, on the other hand, "the professionals want full freedom in the selection of balls."

To foster a false optimism at this juncture would be criminal, and it may as well be admitted at once that negotiations are proceeding with difficulty. As we go to press we learn that a protracted meeting, lasting from 2 P.M. until after midnight, has been held. The leader of the manufacturers, on emerging from the conference hall, was seen to look pale and exhausted. Pushing his way through the pressmen and photographers he said, "Boys, for the moment we are bunkered; we must employ the niblick. No, that is all I can tell you;" and he walked quickly away with his hand to his brow and muttering words seldom heard off the course.

Equally grave, the organising secretary of the professionals was even less communicative, for he spoke in his native tongue, and the Scotsman among the reporters who undertook to translate his remarks was unfortunately unable to make himself understood.

The PRIME MINISTER'S Private Secretary has issued to the Press a statement that Mr. LLOYD GEORGE is keeping in close touch with Walton Heath and the progress of events, but that at present no useful purpose would be served by Government interference.

_The Daily Chronicle_ correspondent also announces that representatives of American golf are to visit St. Andrews in the Spring to discuss the question. We trust their visit may not be too late. If the problem is one that can be solved by dollars no doubt they will come well-equipped for enforcing American opinion on the British public. We can only hope that international relationships will not be strained by their deliberations; let there be a spirit of toleration and a recognition of the rights of small nations, and all may yet be well.

* * * * *

WHY THE SPARROW LIVES IN THE TOWN.

In noisy towns, where traffic roars and rushes And where the grimy streets are dark and narrow, You never see the robins and the thrushes, Nor hear their songs. Only the City sparrow Chirps bravely and as cheerily as they, Although his home is very far away.

He chirps of lanes, of far-off country places (This is the sparrows' story that I'm telling); Long, long ago they lived in sweet wide spaces; Their homes were in the hedges, gay, green-smelling; The people, though, came citywards to dwell; "Then we," the sparrows said, "must go as well.

"Yes, we're the birds to go, for all our brothers Would lose their songs in cities dark and crowdy; Their hearts would break; but we're not like the others, We cannot sing, our coats are drab and dowdy; But we can chirp and chirp and chirp again; The people shan't forget a country lane."

And so they came, and in all city-weathers They chirped a note of cheer to exiles weary; And _still_ the sparrows chirp, for their brown feathers Hide now, as then, brave kindly hearts and cheery, Of lanes they've never seen nor lived among, Of country lanes they sing, the same old song.

* * * * *

"SIR ALBERT'S ELEVATION.--'Up, Stanley, up!'--_Shakespeare_ (amended)." --_Sunday Pictorial._

Great SCOTT (WALTER)!

* * * * *

"Very attractive was the interior of the ---- Hall, when the Misses ---- entertained a large number of their friends at an enjoyable dance. Everything was 'conteur de pose.'"--_Australian Paper._

It is very clear they weren't jazzing.

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* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

_The Romance of Madame Tussaud's_ (ODHAMS) strikes one, in these days of universal reminiscence, almost as a _libre à faire_, certainly as a volume that finds its welcome waiting for it. I suppose there are few unhappy beings for whom the very name of that gifted lady does not revive something of the nursery magic that is never quite forgotten. All of which means that Mr. JOHN T. TUSSAUD, who has written, vivaciously and with obvious pleasure, this history of the famous show, is (I hope) assured beforehand of his sales. It is a fat record, taking the story from the earliest wax profiles made by Dr. CURTIUS for the Parisian aristocracy in the days before the Revolution; through the Terror, when his niece (afterwards Madame TUSSAUD) was employed to model notable heads from the basket of the guillotine, which was itself subsequently to figure amongst the attractions of her collection, and finally bringing the enterprising artist and her models to England and Baker Street, whence a comparatively recent move established them (the foundress in effigy only) in their present palace. I was especially interested to trace the evidence of close attention paid to the show by Mr. Punch, and in particular to learn that the title Chamber of Horrors was first invented by that observer; though the author falls into an obvious chronological inexactitude in ascribing to these pages a cartoon by CRUIKSHANK published "in November of Waterloo year." I have no space for the many queer stories, chiefly of encounters between the quick and the wax, with which the book abounds, nor for more than mention of its admirable photographs, of which I should have liked many more. Altogether it gives an unusual sidelight on the history of two Capitals; and incidentally, if the reading of it puts others in the same resolve as myself, an extra turn-stile will be needed in the Marylebone Road.

* * * * *

Mr. HARRY TIGHE is something of a problem to me. With the best will in the world to appreciate what looked like unusual promise I can only regard him at present as one who is neglecting the good gifts of heaven in the pursuit apparently of some Jack-o'-lanthorn idea of popularity. No doubt you recall his first novel, _The Sheep Path_, a sincere and well-observed study of feminine temperament. This was followed by one that (though it had its friends) marked, to my thinking, a lamentable fall from grace. He has now published a third, _Day Dawn_ (WESTALL). Here, though popularity of a kind may be its reward, the work is still woefully beneath what should be Mr. TIGHE'S level. Certainly not one of the demands of the circulating libraries is unfulfilled. We have a fair-haired heroine (victim to cocaine), a dark and villainous foreigner, a dashing hero, a middle-aged woman who adores him despite the presence of her husband, himself called throughout _Baron Brinthall_, a style surely more common in pantomimic circles than in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair; and the incidents embrace both murder and suicide. Moreover there is "plenty of conversation," and the intrigue moves sufficiently quickly (if jerkily) to keep one curious about the next page. But having very willingly admitted so much I return to my contention, that for Mr. TIGHE to neglect his sensitive and delicate art for the antics of these tawdry dolls is to betray both himself and the craft of which he may still become a distinguished exponent.

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From the official who is interested in officialdom to the Infantry officer who is interested in tactics, from the mechanical expert who can appreciate the technical details of diagrams to the child who revels in faultless photographs of hair-raising monsters ("I may read it, mother, mayn't I, when I've unstickied my fingers?" was the way I heard it put), everybody, I think, will find plenty to attract him in Sir ALBERT STERN'S finely illustrated _Tanks 1914-1918_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON). Tanks were born at Lincoln, and rightly so, for did not OLIVER CROMWELL'S Ironsides mostly come from this region?--and the main theme of this book is to show how much more formidable an obstacle they found in the files and registries of Whitehall than in the trenches and wire-entanglements of Flanders and France. Parents they had and sponsors innumerable. Practical soldiers and engineers were enthusiastic about them, and the Bosch quaked in his trenches or ran; but even so late as the autumn of 1917, after General FOCH (as he was then) had said, "You must make quantities and quantities; we must fight mechanically," one stout little company of obscurantists bravely defied the creed of Juggernaut until the irresistible logic of its successes in the field crushed them remorselessly under the "creeping grip." And that company, of course, according to Sir ALBERT STERN, was the British War Office.

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Let me commend to you _The Mask_ (METHUEN) as a craftsmanlike essay in imaginative realism; ruthlessly candid and self-revealing, but free from that tiresome obsession of the ultra-realists that everything that has ever happened is equally important in retrospect. The narrator, _Vanya Gombarov_, a Russian Jew, discourses reflectively and detachedly, as it were from behind a mask, to an English artist friend about his early childhood in his own land and the dismal adventures of the _Gombarov_ family in that underworld of exploited and miserable aliens which is one of the root social problems of America. Very poignantly Mr. JOHN COURNOS makes you understand the import of the phrase so constantly on the lips of such victims of their own credulous hopes of El Dorado--"Woe to COLUMBUS!" The portrait of _Vanya's_ stepfather, brilliant, magnanimous, pursued by an Æschylean malignity of destiny, fills much of the foreground and is a quite masterly piece of work. One cannot be wrong in assuming this to be essential autobiography; there is a passionate conviction as of things intimately seen and dreadfully suffered. Such material might well have tempted to a mere piling of squalor upon squalor. A fine discretion has given a noble dignity to a record through which shines the unquenchable human spirit. One passage, full of affectionate discernment about London, will cause a flicker of just pride in everyone who is authentic Cockney, whether by birth or adoption. A big book of its kind, I dare assert.

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