Chapter 3

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HIGH-BROWS, LTD.

Whenever we spend a week in London we never seem to find time for the things we really want to do. After dinner, on our last night at home, I say to Angela, "Let's see--have we any engagements this trip?"

And Angela answers, "Don't you remember? We're dining with the Hewetsons on Thursday, and on Saturday the Etheridges are taking us to a symphony concert. Then there's your sister."

"Oh, ring her up, and suggest we come to dinner on Sunday. We don't want to waste a proper night on Nellie."

"All right. That leaves us four evenings for ourselves. I suppose you want to see the Quartermasters' Exhibition at Olympia?"

"What's that?"

"I can't think which part of the newspapers you read. Why, they've had columns and columns about it."

"Ah, that's how I missed it. I only look at the 'late news.' It seems a waste of time to read the rest."

"Well, it's an exhibition showing the wonderful work done by Quartermasters in the War. There are Quartermasters checking stores----"

"Are they shown wondering where they ought to stand on a battalion parade?"

"I don't know about that; but we see them indenting for coal----"

"And regretting their inability to issue same?"

"Very likely. Anyhow, everything is arranged practically under the actual conditions. The exhibition started in an Army hut in St. James's Park, but proved such a success it had to be moved to Olympia. Why, Mr. CHURCHILL was there one day this week."

"Did he make a speech?"

"He either made a speech or left by a side-door. I can't remember now, but I know he was there."

"Why can't we go in the afternoon?"

"They say it's better at night, because the whole place is lit up by hurricane lanterns and looks like fairyland."

"Oh, very well. That leaves us three evenings. We----"

"There's this French season at the Central. The papers say that no one who appreciates good acting can afford to miss that. It's packed, I believe.... Besides, one finds one's French comes back very easily. By the end of the evening I can generally follow most of what they say."

"H'm. We shan't be able to see ROBEY and BERRY and GRAVES and LESLIE HENSON and DELYSIA in two nights."

"No-o.... Besides, everybody says one ought to see this Japanese man in _Romeo and Juliet_. I hear the way he swarms up the creeper in the balcony scene is quite too wonderful. They made him do it four times the first night."

Thus we are left with six evenings of duty and one of enjoyment, unless Angela happens to hear that there is a 'cellist from Spitzbergen or a Bolshevik soprano whom it is social death not to be able to discuss. In that case we get no fun at all.

The Hewetsons, who live in London and can enjoy all these opportunities for improvement and still have time for Mr. ROBEY and the rest, think me a terrible Philistine. But, as I pointed out to Hewetson, he suffers just as acutely when he has a holiday and goes to Paris. Hewetson holds that there is only one theatre in Paris, the Variétés. But by the time he has accompanied Mrs. H. to the Français, the Opéra, the Opéra Comique and the Odéon, to say nothing of the Théâtre des Arts, he is due back at the office. When I explained this to him, his whole attitude changed at once, and he implored me to accept his subscription for shares in my company. But his heart-rending account of his last visit to Paris, before the War, when he and Mrs. H. spent two days hunting round the Louvre (Musée) under the impression that the RODINS were kept there, suggested a wider scope for my schemes, and it seemed to me that the only fair way of acknowledging this was to make Hewetson a director.

And now I must tell you about my company, for, although we are in danger of becoming over-capitalised, there are still one or two shares we are willing to sacrifice, practically at par. The company is known as High-brows, Ltd., and is "designed to meet the requirements" of the countless thousands who detect a familiar note in the conversation with Angela just recorded. The idea is simple and, like all simple ideas, great. We buy a house in each of the chief capitals of the civilised world, and to this house the visitor hurries as soon as he has left his luggage at the hotel. Each house will be arranged in the same manner, so that no knowledge of the language of the country is required to enable the stranger to find his way about.

The ground floor will consist of one large hall or room, combining the functions of waiting-room and Fine Art Gallery. Reproductions of the principal pictures and statues of the national museums will occupy two walls and the centre carpet, the remaining walls being hung with the more astonishing examples of contemporary painters. (We are not anticipating any inquiries for contemporary sculpture). A minimum of ten minutes is allowed for this room. When your turn arrives you mount to the first floor, which you find divided into two parts. In each of these a cinematograph is installed, one "featuring" prominent artists in the standard dramas of the particular country--works like _Le Cid_, _Macbeth_, _Faust_, or _Peer Gynt_; while the other runs through the more discussed scenes of any current entertainment which conceivably one "ought to see."

The first of these programmes is designed primarily for foreigners, and is meant to save them the fatigue of a visit to national or subsidised theatres, where these exist. The second is intended to meet the requirements of natives. Each bill will last an hour, and, though clients are entitled to see both performances, full-time attendance at either carries with it the right to proceed to the next floor. Here again are two more rooms. In the first of these a gramophone renders in turn the leading vocalists and instrumentalists (serious) of the country. (Say half-an-hour.) So far you will have been put to a minimum expenditure of one hour and forty minutes, and, as only five minutes is allowed for the last room, the time total cannot be considered excessive.

In this last room is nothing but a row of desks. You wait your turn before one of these; then you hand in your name and receive a pass. On this is printed a certificate that you, the above-mentioned, are acquainted with the masterpieces tabulated overleaf. Thus in less than two hours (inclusive of possible delay in the waiting-room) you are free to spend your holiday exactly as you choose. It is hoped that in time these certificates may come to be accepted as carrying complete immunity, for at least a month, from every form of intellectual treat.

Hewetson wanted the certificates to be issued in the waiting-room. He said it would save time. But I decided that, if the prestige of the institutions and their certificates is to be kept up, unscrupulous people must have no chance of obtaining a pass and slipping away without going up-stairs. Indeed, I am adding an elaborate system of checks, by which it will become impossible to reach the Discharge Bureau without spending the requisite time in each room. The first room is the danger. In the crush people might escape to the cinemas before their ten minutes is up. My idea is to hand to each entrant a lump of High-brow stickjaw, guaranteed not to dissolve in less than the stipulated period, and to station a lynx-eyed dentist at the foot of the stairs....

Hewetson in his simple-minded way also wanted the company to be called the Holiday-makers' Enjoyment League, or the Society of Art-Dodgers, or some such name. He even thought the houses should be painted in bright attractive colours. I pointed out to him that they should be uninviting and dull in appearance, and that a uniform sobriety, a suggestion of yearning and uplift, in every feature of the company's appeal would not only allow thousands of hypocrites, like Angela, to seek relief at our doors, but would actually confer on people like Hewetson and me a stamp of that same intellectual passion from whose manifestations we are engaged in escaping.

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"SWANSEA AND DISTRICT RUGBY LEAGUE.

CUP FINALS.

Admission: 1s.; Grand Stand, 1s. extra.

(Including Tax).

All Seats Free. No Collection.

Please bring your Bible for reference."

_Welsh Paper._

The Welsh may not, like the English, take their pleasures sadly, but are evidently expected to take them seriously.

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"PARTNERSHIP.--Ex-Regular officer, owing hotel at fashionable spa, desires to meet lady or gentleman, with capital."--_Daily Paper._

Before replying we should like to know the amount of the bill he owes.

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From a short story:--

"Unconscious of the waiter at her elbow with pad and pencil poised for her order, unconscious also of her husband, now her happy tête-à-tête, she spoke aloud: 'One never knows!'"--_Monthly Magazine._

How they must have enjoyed their cosy _vis-à-vis_.

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BIRD CALLS.

II.

I would not be the tomtit's mate, For, even if I were not late, It seems as though he'd gird at me, Saying, "Quick, quick," eternally.

The chaffinch you would never think Was much addicted to strong drink, Yet all the Spring you'll hear him say, "Oh, There's cheaper beer in County Mayo."

The jay, whatever he is after, Makes the woods ring with ribald laughter; "Hee, hee, ha, ha," he says, and then "Ha, ha, hee, hee, ha, ha," again.

The plover over fields brown red Weeps for her children who are dead; Still day and night she cries to you, "_Mes pauvres petits! La grande charrue!_"

So silently the screech-owl flies You sometimes scarce believe your eyes, Until you start to hear him shout To timid mice, "Come _out_! Come _out_!"

Are baby martins in the nest With extra-loving parents blest? That they should murmur sleepily, "Oh cuddle me, oh cuddle me."

When first the chiff-chaff comes your way You're glad, it means Spring's come to stay; But soon you wish he'd change his song With his "Chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff" all day long.

Those white-throats in the raspberry canes! They never take the slightest pains To hide from you how much they steal, But say, "Thief, thief," throughout their meal.

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Commercial Candour.

"Your £20 at ----'s buys £25 worth elsewhere."--_Advt. in Provincial Paper._

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A Humane Edict.

"Notice is hereby given that the washing of motor cars and vehicles, and the washing of widows, etc., by hose has been prohibited."

_Tasmanian Paper._

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"Accountant wanted for Motor Companies in West End; must have experience in Bookkeeping."--_Weekly Paper._

Not perhaps an unreasonable stipulation in the circumstances.

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From "Books Wanted":--

"Orlando Furioso, 4 vols. 1773. Fine building."--_Publisher's Circular._

We dare say it is. But what we are looking out for in this connection is ADDISON'S works.

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ROMA REDIVIVA.

(_A Classical Revel, after the Press accounts of last week's Italian ball_).

Ancient history became luminous at Covent Garden last week, when the great ghosts of the past, from ROMULUS to NERO and from EGERIA to AGRIPPINA, were seen one-stepping gaily in _toga_ and _stola_ at the great Roman ball. It was the night, not of the Futurists, but the Præteritists, and right royally did they avail themselves of their chance.

Perhaps the most arresting of all the costumes were those worn by Lord CURZON as TARQUINIUS SUPERBUS and Mr. LANSBURY as SPARTACUS. The former was garbed in a magnificent _toga purpurea_, elaborately adjusted so as to show the laticlave on his _tunica_. Over this was a sumptuous _lacerna_ of silver tissue fastened over the right shoulder with a diamond _fibula_. On his head he wore a _petasus_ of hyacinthine hue, out of which sprang three peacock's feathers. He was shod with curule shoes, or _mullei_, fastened with four crimson thongs. Mr. LANSBURY'S costume was simpler but not less striking, consisting of scarlet _braccæ_ or barbarian pantaloons, a jade-green _synthesis_, buckskin _soleæ_ and an accordion-pleated _pileus_. Lord HOWARD DE WALDEN as MÆCENAS attracted general attention by the lustre of his amethystine _tunica_ and the crimson heels of his _crepidæ_, which may not have been archæologically correct, but were certainly a happy thought. Mr. BERNARD SHAW, who personated CATO of Utica, wore hygienic sandals, a white _toga_ and a brown felt Jaeger _pileus_. Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE as MARCELLUS, the best boy of ancient Rome, formed an agreeable contrast to the numerous Messalinas, Poppæas and Cleopatras who lent a regrettably Pagan element to the assembly. But Lady ASTOR as CORNELIA, mother of the GRACCHI, was an austere and dignified figure in her panniered Botticelli _stola_, with pearl-embroidered red wings, and a _flabellum_ (or fan) of albatross feathers with gold bells attached. The grandeur that was Rome, again, was revived in Mr. JOHN, who assumed the _rôle_ of his namesake, AUGUSTUS, and in Mr. BOTTOMLEY, who as HORATIUS FLACCUS imparted a Sabine simplicity to the scene.

It is a pity that a good many of the guests had indolently taken advantage of the fact that ancient Roman dress was not obligatory, and yet it must be admitted that some of them looked the Roman part to perfection. The unadorned rigours of evening dress only threw into greater relief the truly Cæsarian lineaments of Lord RIDDELL, the stoical independence of Mr. CHARLES TREVELYAN and the aquiline dignity of Mr. TICH (Parvus).

It may be added that the use of Latin was not compulsory, but that one of the guests, who appeared as Phuphluns, the Etrurian Bacchus, and partook freely of the excellent neo-Falernian supplied by the firm of LEONES, expressed the pious hope that he would not suffer too much from _calida æra_ on the morrow.

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"Mr. Pim Passes By."

Our Mr. A. A. M.'s play is now comfortably settled in its new home (No. 3) at The Playhouse. A correspondent informs Mr. Punch that since the opening night Mr. DION BOUCICAULT'S popular part has been developed to the slight disturbance of the balance of things; not so much by new dialogue as by deliberate iteration and portentous pauses. That on his first entrance he now studies a photograph with his nose close up to the glass, forgetting that, if he is as short-sighted as all that, the protracted gaze which he had previously directed upon the ceiling must have been fruitless. That Miss IRENE VANBRUGH has dispensed with whatever serious element there was in her part and relies for her brilliant effects almost completely on its irresponsible frivolity. That Mr. BEN WEBSTER has come on remarkably; and that the part of the flapper is now played according to nature by the right person.

Mr. Punch's advice to any who have hitherto passed by is to go in and see _Mr. Pim_ doing it.

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"Now one just hates to drag in personal experiences, because it looks as if one were trying to pose as a nero, which thing I hate."

_Illustrated Paper._

We heartily share the writer's dislike of the character.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Few will deny that, in writing _The Life of Lord Kitchener_ (MACMILLAN) so soon after the death of the great Field-Marshal, Sir GEORGE ARTHUR has at least displayed the courage of his affection, since to publish such a work in a time of controversy like the present is inevitably to trail a coat of many colours, each a challenge to some particular prejudice. If, however, one can avoid any such attitude of _parti pris_ and regard these three dignified volumes simply as the record of a great man by one who best knew and admired him, they will naturally be found of compelling interest. The three main chapters, so to say, of the story, Africa, India and Whitehall, will each call up vivid associations for the reader; each has been told carefully, with just sufficient detail. Perhaps circumstances made it unavoidable that Sir GEORGE ARTHUR should, if anything, rather overdo the discretion that is the better part of biography; certainly in the result one gets what might be called a close rather than an intimate study of a figure that in life was already almost legendary. If any man of our time was fittingly named great this was he--alike in his single-minded patriotism, his success and that touch of austerity which no anecdotes of exceptions can wholly disprove. In surveying his career of merited triumphs one remarks how often it was given to him--as at Omdurman and Pretoria--to redeem early disaster, and one feels again the pity of it that he might not live to see his noblest task accomplished at Versailles. No doubt the last word upon KITCHENER OF KHARTUM cannot be written yet awhile; in the meantime here is a book that will have its value as history hereafter, and is to-day a grateful tribute to one who nobly deserved gratitude.

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Personally speaking, I could find it in me to wish that Mr. MAURICE HEWLETT would consult a good man about the Saga habit, which appears to be growing upon him, to the loss (or so I think) of all those who were lovers of his more human and companionable fiction. But I repeat that this is no more than individual prejudice, based on the fact that these Norse chronicles (of unpronounceable people in prehistoric times) leave me singularly cold. This apart, however, _The Light Heart_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL) may be admitted an excellent sample of its kind. It is all about the friendship of _Thorgar_ and _Thormod_, with the former's untimely death, and the punctilious attempts of the latter to fulfil his social obligation in the matter of exterminating the slayers of his friend; also, as second theme, the love of _Thormod_ for _King Olaf_, and the ending of both of them--and of the tale also--in the heroic battle of Sticklestead. One way and another, indeed, you seldom saw a short book that contained more bloodshed, or in which love-making (oh, Mr. HEWLETT!) played a smaller part. There was a "slip of a girl" in the early chapter of whom I had hopes, but sterner business caused her to be too soon eliminated. Skill and learning _The Light Heart_ has in plenty, and an engaging suggestion of the early artistic temperament in the character of _Thormod_, fighter and song-maker. But I fall back on my old complaint of being left cold; and that I should suffer that way from the work of Mr. HEWLETT gives you the measure of our loss.

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In his last grim and terrible work, _Realities of War_ (HEINEMANN), Sir PHILIP GIBBS has fairly flung aside the restraint, enforced or self-imposed, that marked his despatches from the fighting fronts, to present war, the horrible, senseless nightmare, as it really appeared to him. His work as a correspondent emphasised for him the accumulated miseries of thousands rather than any individual's share, and his point of view is as remorselessly gloomy as can be imagined. He is detailed in disgust; he is passionate in pessimism. He presents not only the soldier's distaste for trenches and machine guns, and his desire for the things of familiar life, but also, with surprising vehemence, his hatred of generals who give blundering orders from comfortable billets in the rear, or of munitioners in England who keep optimistic in spite of bad news from the Front. He does not pretend to be quite fair in his criticisms, for obviously the higher command had to keep out of the firing-line and somebody had to work--and hard too--to supply the torrent of munitions demanded. Sir PHILIP admits all that, but in a kind of agony calls on God and man to realise the meaningless horror of it all and forbid, at any price, the possibility of its recurrence. If sometimes unjust and nearly always tragical, the book none the less is free from anything like hysteria.

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Mr. WARD MUIR writes with one eye on the evening papers, and the very title (not to mention the wrapper) of _Adventures in Marriage_ (SIMPKIN) lures us without any sense of difficult transition from the news of the day to the realms of romance. Fifteen stories are contained in this book, of rather unequal length and merit, nearly all of them dealing with a tense situation between husband and wife, several of them calculated to lift the hair, and one or two sufficiently ingenious in mechanism, I should think, to raise a curtain. The adventures are not all unhappy, and the author would seem on the whole to balance the scales fairly evenly between those who desire to reform the Divorce Law and those who would rather reform the world. With the exception of the first the tales are all effectively told and, if the machinery is fairly obvious, it does not click too much. The last on the list is much lengthier than all the others, belonging to the classic magazine school, which ransacks the bowels of the earth for a new and terrible setting. Here the heroine, a beautiful Chinese girl, is discovered by the hero, a missionary, in the cinnabar caverns of Hang Yiu, where the workers have never seen the light of day, are mostly blind and spend the intervals of labour in opium sleep. I like this yarn and recommend it to the attention of anybody who feels that marital squabbles are beginning to pall.

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An excellent purpose will have been served by _German Spies at Bay_ (HUTCHINSON) if it is carefully digested by those scaremongers who during the War insisted that spies were as plentiful as sparrows in Great Britain. Mr. FELSTEAD tells us the truth, and, though it may offer too little of sensationalism for some tastes, it is very comforting to read. The fact is that the spies of the enemy were pounced upon so promptly and had such a harrowing time that both their quantity and quality gradually sank to something very like zero. It is no exaggeration to say that most of the miserable creatures who came spying to this country never had a dog's chance from the word "Go." One cannot waste one's sympathy upon those who for mercenary motives consented to be spies, but I am glad that Mr. FELSTEAD pleads on behalf of such men as CARL LODY. "Some day," he writes, "when the nations of the world grow more sensible, there will be two methods of treating spies. Those who can prove patriotism as the inspiring motive will be dealt with as prisoners of war; the hirelings will be condemned to the death they richly deserve." The rules, as they stand, decreed that LODY had to be shot, but, if he could have received the treatment which brave men have a right to demand all the world over, I do not believe that even the most rabid Germanophobe would in his heart have been sorry.

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