Chapter 3

What amazes us in Mr. JOHN MURRAY'S pessimistic forecast is his failure to recognise and advocate the only and obvious remedy. By the reduction of the Bread Subsidy fifty millions have been made available for the relief of national needs. We do not say that this would be enough, but if carefully laid out in grants to deserving novelists, so as to enable them to co-operate with publishers on lines that would allow a reasonable margin of profit, it might go some way towards averting the appalling calamity which Mr. JOHN MURRAY anticipates.

The Ministry of Information is closed, but should be at once reorganised as the Ministry of Fiction, with a staff of no fewer than five hundred clerks, and installed in suitable premises, the British Museum for choice, thus emancipating the younger generation from the dead hand of archæology. Similarly the utmost care should be taken to exclude from the direction of the Ministry any representatives of Victorianism, Hanoverism, or the fetish-worship of reticence or restraint. But no time should be lost. The duty of the State is clear. It only needs some public-spirited and respected Member of Parliament, such as Lieutenant-Commander KENWORTHY or Colonel JOSIAH WEDGWOOD, to promote the legislative measures necessary to secure a supply of really nutritious mental pabulum for the million.

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"CONSCIENCE MONEY.--The Chancellor of the Exchequer acknowledges the receipt of 10/- from Liverpool.

The charge for announcements in the Personal Column is 7/6 for two lines (minimum), and 3/6 for each additional line."--_Times._

Any large outbreak of conscientiousness on this scale will mean ruin for the country.

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"A band of armed ruffians disguised as soldiers held up a train near Parghelia, in Calabria, and carried off the contents of two vons, consisting chiefly of sausages."

_Scotch Paper._

This is an abbreviated way of speaking. By "the contents of two vons" the writer evidently means the contents of the baggage of two German noblemen.

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For Prospective Centenarians.

"Salary, £50 per annum, rising upon satisfactory service by annual increments of £5 to a maximum of £880."--_Welsh Paper._

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CONSPIRACY.

It all happened so naturally, so inevitably, yet so tragically--like a Greek play, as Willoughby said afterwards.

Willoughby is my younger brother, and in his lighter moments is a Don at Oxford or Cambridge; it will be safer not to specify which. In his younger and more serious days he used to play the banjo quite passably, and, when the Hicksons asked us to dine, they insisted that he should bring his instrument and help to make music to which the young people might dance, for it seems that this instrument is peculiarly suited to the kind of dancing now in vogue. Willoughby had not played upon the banjo for fifteen years, but he unearthed it from the attic, restrung it, and in the event did better than might have been expected.

Anyhow, he did not succeed in spoiling the evening, which I consider went well, despite the severe trial, to one of my proportions, of having to perform, soon after dinner, a number of scenes "to rhyme with _hat_." Indeed, when I was finally pushed alone on to the stage, any chagrin I might have felt at the ease with which the audience guessed at once that I represented "fat" was swallowed up in the relief at being allowed to rest awhile, for "fat" proved to be correct.

It is not of dumb-crambo, however, nor of hunt-the-slipper (a dreadful game), nor of "bump" (a worse game) that I wish to speak, but of that which befell after.

It was a very wet night, and when the hour for our departure arrived there arose some uncertainty as to whether we could find a taxi willing to take us home.

"I will interview the porter," said Willoughby (the Hicksons live in a flat), and he disappeared, to return in a few minutes with something of the air of a conspirator.

"Get your coat on," he said curtly.

"Have you a taxi?"

"No, I have a car. Get your coat on, and be quick about it."

"A car?" I said. "What car? Whose car?"

Willoughby turned upon me. "If you prefer to walk, you can," he said; "if not, get your coat on, as I say, and don't ask stupid questions."

I did not prefer to walk--would that I had!--but proceeded to bid my host and hostess Good-night. Even as I was doing so the porter came to the door.

"Hurry up, Sir," he called to Willoughby in a stage whisper. "He can't wait; he's late already."

As we followed him into the hall the porter went on whispering to Willoughby.

"Friend of mine. Always do me a turn. Going right to your square." He continued to nod his head confidentially.

Willoughby turned to me.

"Got half-a-crown?" he grunted.

I had. The porter's head-noddings redoubled.

Arrived at the door, we found a resplendent car, a chauffeur of the imperturbable order seated at the wheel.

"I'm very much obliged----," Willoughby began.

"That's all right, Sir," said the man. "I'm going that way."

We stepped in, drew the fur rug over our legs, and the car glided off.

"It's a nice car," said Willoughby.

"I understand that the chauffeur is a friend of the hall porter?" I commented.

"That is so."

"And the owner of the car is----?"

"Some person unknown."

"Where ignorance is bliss----"

"I am a little doubtful if the chauffeur will mention our ride to his master, if that is what you mean," said Willoughby.

"Have you considered the bearing of the law concerning Conspiracy on this case?" I asked.

"I have not, nor do I intend to," said Willoughby airily. "The law concerning Bribery and Corruption has a much more direct bearing. Got two more half-crowns?"

I was searching for them as we turned into the square in which we live and the car slowed down.

"Tell him it's at the far corner," I said.

And then suddenly a rasping voice sounded on the night air:--

"Here, Rodgers! Where are you off to? You're very late, you know--very late."

The car had stopped with a jerk before a house which was certainly not our house. A stream of light from the open door flooded the pavement. On the steps stood Percival, the man I had that row with about the Square garden. On the pavement, his hand outstretched to open the car door, was he of the rasping voice.

"This is the owner," said Willoughby, and he laughed quietly to himself. He always giggles in a crisis. I could have kicked him. But at the moment I was hurriedly debating whether I could possibly escape by the door on the far side without being seen. "A small thin man might have done it," I thought. But, alas! I am neither small nor thin.

Then the door of the car opened and Willoughby stepped forth into the limelight, as it were. During the evening the dumb-crambo and such had rather dishevelled his hair, and a wisp of it now appeared from beneath the brim of an elderly Homburg hat pushed on to the back of his head. Under his arm was the banjo. On his face was that maddeningly good-natured smile of his.

"What are you doing in my car?" demanded the rasping voice.

Willoughby did not answer for a moment, but simply stood there smiling.

Then he said, "Entirely my fault. Your chauffeur is in no way to blame. The fact is we couldn't get a taxi, and my brother being rather delicate----"

"What, another?" barked the rasper.

There was nothing for it. Acutely conscious as I was how emphatically my countenance, flushed by the exertions of the evening, belied Willoughby's description of "delicate," it was impossible for me to remain in the car, and I stepped heavily out.

"It rhymes with _hat_," said Willoughby softly.

* * * * *

As we slunk off down the Square, after as painful a five minutes as I care to remember, Willoughby kept repeating, "Very unlucky--_very_ unlucky," till we arrived at our own door. Then he began to laugh.

"And what is the joke?" I asked.

"There is no joke," he said--"no joke at all."

"Indeed there is not," I said bitterly. "You must remember that, unlike yourself, I live here permanently."

"I realise it," said Willoughby. "But do you not think, on consideration, that that really gives you the advantage? I mean, you have thus the opportunity of living down the unfortunate accusation of inebriety that has been brought against us, which I shall not be in a position to do."

I hate living things down.

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COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.

From a restaurant bill-of-fare:--

"Develled Leg of Foul and Curly Bacon, 2/6."

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"WORMWOOD SCRUBS'S ILL-HEALTH.

RELEASED TO PRIVATE HOSPITAL.

Mr. Kelly, the Lord Mayor of Dublin, has released Wormwood Scrubs owing to his health."--_Australian Paper._

Some trouble in the cellular system, we gather.

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Mr. JAMES SEXTON, M.P., who was howled down at a meeting at St. Helens recently, said he refused to bow the knee to a lot of body-snatchers who wanted him to sacrifice his manhood and conscience to satisfy their inclinations. A self-respecting sexton could do no less.

ROYAL ACADEMY--FIRST DEPRESSIONS.

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THE PALACE AND THE COTTAGE.

(_After ANN and JANE TAYLOR._)

High on a mountain's haughty steep Lord Hubert's palace stood; Before it rolled a river deep, Behind it waved a wood.

Low in an unfrequented vale A peasant had his cell; Sweet flowers perfumed the cooling gale And graced his garden well.

But proud Lord Hubert's house and lands, Of which he'd fain be rid, Long linger on the agents' hands-- He cannot get a bid.

On sauces rich and viands fine Lord Hubert's father fed; Lord Hubert, when he wants to dine, Eats margarine and bread.

How diff'rent honest William's lot! He's cheerful and content; He always lets his humble cot At thrice its yearly rent.

His dapple-cow and garden-grounds Produce him ample spoil; His lodgers pay him pounds and pounds, He has no need to toil.

Lord Hubert sits in thrall and gloom And super-taxes grim Pursue him to his marble tomb, And no one grieves for him.

But, when within his narrow bed Old William comes to lie, They'll find (I mean when William's dead) A tidy bit put by.

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* * * * *

ANOTHER HONOUR LIST.

(_From an Oxford Correspondent._)

The list of the recipients of honorary degrees to be conferred by the University of Cambridge has already been announced. We are glad to be able to supplement it by information, derived from a trustworthy source, of the corresponding intentions of the University of Oxford.

The Oxford list is not yet complete, but the following names and the reasons for which the distinction is to be conferred may be regarded as certain and authentic:--

The Right Hon. WINSTON CHURCHILL, M.P., for his strenuous efforts to brighten Sunday journalism.

Mr. AUGUSTUS JOHN, for unvarnished portraiture and the stoical fortitude exhibited by him in face of the persecution of the Royal Academy.

Mr. LOVAT FRASER, for his divine discontent with everything and everybody and his masterly use of italic type.

Lady COOPER, the wife of the LORD MAYOR, for conspicuous gallantry in advocating the taxing of cosmetics.

Sir PHILIP GIBBS, for his generous recognition of the services of British generals during the War, and for promoting cordial relations between all ranks in the Army.

Mr. WICKHAM STEED, for his invaluable and untiring exertions in familiarising the public with Jugo-Slav geography.

All the above will receive the D.C.L. It is also proposed to confer the degree of Honorary Master of Arts on the entire body of Oxford road-sweepers, for their disinterested patriotism in accepting a wage on a par with that received by many tutors and demonstrators of the University.

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ANNA PAVLOVA.

Since I first saw her this year she has been a Sleeping Beauty (very wide awake) and a Chrysanthemum and many other lovely things. In _Autumn Leaves_, where her bloom is blown away by the fierce ardour of the Wind, and she is left to die forsaken, she recalled a little the moving sadness of her Dying Swan. It was a "choreographic poem" of her own making--to music of CHOPIN--and I think I have never seen anything more fascinating than the colour and movement of the _Autumn Leaves_ and the "splendour and speed" of the _Autumn Wind_. This was danced by Mr. STOWITTS, and it couldn't have been in better hands or feet. M. VOLININE is largely content to be a source of support and uplift to his partner, but in _The Walpurgis Night_ he gave us an astounding exhibition of poise and resilience. In _The Magic Flute_ (not MOZART'S but DRIGO'S), Mlle. BUTSOVA had a great triumph. She has all the arts and graces of her craft that can be taught, and to these she adds one of the few gifts that no training can confer--the natural joy of life that comes of just being young.

O.S.

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"Food prices were coming down. Soap had already been reduced 1d. a lb."--_Daily Paper._

We tried it in 1917, but found it deficient in protein.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Probably one of your first, and abiding, impressions of _The Third Window_ (SECKER) will be that of almost extreme modernity. Certainly ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK (Mrs. BASIL DE SELINCOURT) has produced a story that, both in its protagonists--a young war-widow and a maimed ex-officer--and in its theme--spirit-communication and survival of personality--is very much of the moment. It is a short book, not two hundred pages all told, and with only three characters. You observe that I have given you no particulars as to the third, though (or because) she is of the first importance to the development. To say more of this would be to ruin all, since suspense is essential to its proper savouring; though I may indicate that it turns upon the question whether the dead husband is still so far present as to forbid the union of his widow and his friend. The thing is exceedingly well done, despite a suggestion now and again that the situation is becoming something too fine-drawn; I found myself also in violent disagreement with the ending, though for what reasons I must deny myself the pleasure of explaining. Perhaps the cleverest feature of an unusual tale is the idea of Wyndwards, the modern "artistic" house that is its setting--a house rather over deliberate and self-conscious in its simplicity and beauty, lacking soul, but swept and garnished for the reception of the seven devils of bogiedom. The atmosphere of this is both new and conveyed with a very subtle skill.

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It must be admitted that Mrs. BELLOC LOWNDES'S young ladies enjoy singularly poor luck, as is shown notably by their habit when in foreign parts of picking up the worst people and generally surrounding themselves with a society that it would be flattery to call dubious. The latest victim to this tendency is _Lily_, heroine of _The Lonely House_ (HUTCHINSON). It was situate, as you might not expect from its name, at Monte Carlo, and _Lily_ had come there as the paying guest of a courtesy uncle and aunt of foreign extraction, about whom she really knew far too little. They had tried to postpone her visit at least for a couple of days, the awkward fact being that the evening of her arrival was already earmarked for an engagement that Auntie euphemistically called "seeing a friend off on a long journey." If you know Mrs. BELLOC LOWNDES at her creepiest, you can imagine the spinal chill produced by this discovery. Gradually it transpires (though how I shall not say) that whenever the _Count_ and _Countess Polda_ were in want of a little ready cash they were in the habit of "seeing off" some unaccompanied tourist known to have well-filled pockets. So you can suppose the rest. If I have a criticism for Mrs. LOWNDES' otherwise admirable handling of the affair it is that she depends too much on the involuntary eavesdropper; before long, indeed, I was forced to conclude either that _Lily_ possessed a miraculous sense of overhearing, or that the acoustic properties of the lonely house rendered it conspicuously unsuited for the maturing of felonious little plans. But this is a trifle compared with the delights of such a feast of first quality thrills.

* * * * *

The extraordinary cleverness of _A Woman's Man_ (HEINEMANN) is the thing which most impresses me about this life story of a French man of letters, at the height of his fame somewhere in the eighteen-nineties. He is made to tell his own story, and pitfalls for the author must have abounded in such a scheme, but Miss MARJORIE PATTERSON seems to have fallen into very few of them. _Armand de Vaucourt_ is a self-deceiving sensualist who justifies his amours as necessary to literary inspiration and neglects his wife only to find, too late, that she has been his guardian angel, her love the source of all that was worth while in his life and work. There have been such characters as _Armand_ in fiction who yet made some appeal to the reader's affection; it is the book's worst defect that _Armand_ makes none. His recurring despairs and passions grow tedious; his final but rather incomplete change of heart left me sceptical as to how long it would have lasted had the book carried his history any further. _Armand_ as a study of a certain type of egoist is supreme; my difficulty was that I had no desire to study him. Even _Maria-Thérèse Colbert_, the decadent wife of his publisher, a very monster among women, is more interesting. Miss PATTERSON is on the side of the angels, but she makes her way to them through some nasty mire, calling spades spades with a vigour which seems to have prevented her from paying much attention to some beautiful and hopeful things which also have everyday names.

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_Germany's High Sea Fleet in the World War_ (CASSELL), which is Admiral SCHEER'S addition to the entertaining series, "How we really won after all," by German Military and Naval commanders, gives you, on the whole, the impression of an honest sailor-man telling the truth as he sees it and only occasionally remembering that he must work in one of the set pieces of official propaganda. To a mere layman this record is of immense and continual interest; to the professional, keen to know what his opposite number was doing at a given time, it must be positively enthralling, especially the chapter on the U-boats, with its discreet excerpts from selected logs. Incidentally one can't withhold tribute of reluctant admiration for the technical achievements of the submarines and the courage, skill and tenacity of their commanders and crews. Most readers will find themselves turning first to the account of the Jutland battle. The tale is told not too boastfully, though the Admiral claims too much. Perhaps that may be forgiven him, as he certainly took his long odds gamely and fought his fleet with conspicuous dexterity. Also the German naval architects and ordnance folk proved to have a good thing or two up their sleeves, and the gunnery, for a time at any rate, was unexpectedly excellent. Naturally perhaps Admiral SCHEER may be claimed as supporting the Beattyites rather than the Jellicoists. But he is biassed and goes further than the most extreme of the former school. For his real grievance against the British Navy, constantly finding vent, is that it did not ride bravely in, with bands playing, to the perfectly good battleground prepared with good old German thoroughness under the guns of Heligoland.

* * * * *

No pioneer work was ever more persistently attacked by the weapons of ridicule and contempt than that of the Salvation Army, and I suggest that all who sat in the hostile camp should read _William Booth, Founder of the Salvation Army_ (MACMILLAN), and see for themselves what ideas and ideals they were opposing. Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE has done his work well, and the only fault to be found with him is that his ardour has sometimes beguiled him into recording trivialities; and this error strikes one the more as BOOTH, both in his strength and in his weakness, was not trivial. When this, however, is said, nothing but praise remains for a careful study both of the man and of his methods. The instrument upon which BOOTH played was human nature, and he played upon it with a sure hand because he understood how difficult it is to touch the spirit when the body is suffering from physical degradation. To this must be added a genuine spiritual exaltation and love of his fellow-man and also an indomitable courage. Few men could have emerged with hope and enthusiasm unquenched from such a childhood as BOOTH'S; but we know how he lived to conquer all opposition and to promote and organise what is perhaps the greatest movement of modern times. In paying our tribute to him for his successful crusade against misery and evil we are not to forget his wife, whose unfailing love and devotion were his constant support.

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