Chapter 3

Mr. BONAR LAW'S determination to leave the Cippenham question to the free judgment of the House led (as possibly he anticipated) to its expressing no judgment at all. Sir DONALD MACLEAN and others served up a rather insipid _réchauffé_ of Lord DESBOROUGH'S indictment, and Mr. CHURCHILL repeated Lord INVERFORTH'S defence, but put a little more ginger into it. Incidentally he mentioned that a prolonged search for the nonagenarian pensioner had produced nobody more venerable than a comparative youngster of sixty-five. Deprived of this prop the Opposition felt unequal to walking through the Lobbies.

* * * * *

THE FAIRIES' FLITTING.

There's a family of fairies lives inside our pigeon-cot, Down the garden, near the great big sumach-tree, Where the grass has grown across the path and dead leaves lie and rot And no one hardly ever goes but me; Yes, it's just the place for fairies, and they told the pigeons so; They begged to be allowed to move in soon; It's a most tremendous honour, as of course the pigeons know; It was all arranged this very afternoon.

There's a family of fairies lives inside our pigeon-cot-- Oh, the bustle and the sweeping there has been! For the pigeons didn't scrub their house (I think they all forgot), And the fairies like their home so _scrup_'lous clean; There are fairy dusters hanging from the sumach as you pass; Tiny drops are dripping still from overhead; Broken fairy-brooms are lying near the fir-tree on the grass, Though the fairies went an hour ago to bed.

There's a family of fairies lives inside our pigeon-cot, And there's cooings round about our chimney-stack, For the pigeons are all sitting there and talking such a lot And there's nothing Gard'ner does will drive them back; "Why, they'll choke up those roof-gutters if they start this nesting fuss; They've _got_ a house," he says, "so I don't see--" No, _he_ doesn't know the secret, and there's no one does but--_us_, All the pigeons, and the fairy-folk and ME!

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* * * * *

WHAT EVERY MINISTER SHOULD KNOW.

_The Times_ is much concerned with the chaotic condition of the Air Ministry and the strange designs with which the political heads of the Department are credited. "These suspicions we believe to be without any real foundation, but they are active, though Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL and General SEELY may be wholly unconscious of them. We believe they are, and if they are the sooner they are told what is said about their intentions the better."

So _The Times_ proceeds to describe these nefarious if nebulous designs and appeals to Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL in particular, "if he has no such intentions, to disclaim them publicly and in a way which will leave no breeding-ground for future rumours."

_The Times_ has done a great service by its splendid candour, but it has only gone about one-fortieth part of the way. There are still, we believe, some eighty Ministers, and _all_ without exception ought to know what is being said about them, to enable them to confirm or disavow these disquieting speculations. The papers simply teem with secret histories of the week, diaries of omniscient pundits and so forth, in which these rumours multiply to an extent that staggers the plain person.

Take the PREMIER to begin with. Is it really true that he has decided, as the brain of the Empire can only be located in Printing House Square, to resign office and become home editor of _The Times_, leaving foreign policy to be controlled by Mr. WICKHAM STEED? Is it true that he meditates appointing Mr. AUGUSTUS JOHN Minister of Fine Arts? Is it true that he flies every day from Paris to Mentone, to receive instructions from a Mysterious Nobleman who is shortly to be raised to ducal honours? Is it true that until quite recently he had never heard of JOAN OF ARC and thought that VICTOR HUGO was a Roman emperor?

Then there is Mr. BONAR LAW. He surely ought to know that it is said by _The Job_ and _The Morning Ghost_ that he informed Mr. SMILLIE, during one of their recent conversations, that he hoped, in the event of a general strike, to be allowed to get away to the small island in the South Pacific which he has purchased as a refuge in case of such a contingency. Probably such an idea never entered his head. But this is what he is supposed to be planning. Let him therefore disclaim the intention promptly and publicly.

Grievous mischief again is being done by the persistent rumours current about the intention of the LORD CHANCELLOR to take Orders with the view of becoming Archbishop of Canterbury at the earliest possible opportunity. There may be absolutely nothing in it. Mr. HAROLD SMITH scouts the notion as absurd. But very great men do not always confide in brothers. NAPOLEON, as we know, thought poorly of his.

Lastly, is it true that, although Mr. AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN is still _nominally_ Chancellor of the Exchequer, he is really a prisoner in the Tower, conveyed under guard to and from the House, and that the reprieve of the sentence of capital punishment passed on him by _The Daily Mail_ may expire--and he with it--at any moment?

These are only a few of the things which are said about them that Ministers ought to know--if they don't know them already. And if they do, and basely pretend not to, we feel that we have done a truly patriotic service in rendering it impossible for them to avoid enlightening the public. It is always well to know the worst, even about politicians.

* * * * *

WANTED, A HEBE.

"Tablemaid (thoroughly experienced) required middle of March; god wages."--_Scots Paper_.

* * * * *

"'Eh, what?' queried Lawrence in astonishment. 'What are you doing here, my dear? Are you French?'

"'Je suis Belgique, M'sieu,' replied the girl, whose knowledge of English seemed limited."--_Weekly Paper_.

But not so limited as her knowledge of French, we hope.

* * * * *

"St. Ives, Cornwall.--Artists visiting this town will find their requirements in Artists' Materials well catered for. All manufacturers' colours stocked. Canvases sketched at shortest possible notice. ----, Artists' Colourman."--_The Studio_.

Surely there are no "ghosts" in "the Cornish School!"

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* * * * *

AT THE OPERA.

In these dull days of reaction, when, in the intervals of jazzing, we have nothing to satisfy the spiritual void left by the War except the possibility of an industrial cataclysm at home and the triumph of Bolshevism abroad, we owe a large debt of gratitude to Sir THOMAS BEECHAM for his efforts to revive the Town. And the Town is at last appreciating at their full worth his services both to the cause of popular education in music and to the encouragement of native talent.

It was perhaps a little unfortunate that _Aïda_ should have been given on the night of the Guards' march through London, for the parade of the Pharaoh's scratch soldiery suffered badly by comparison. The priesthood of Isis, too, furnished more humour than could, I think, have been designed, and I doubt if even Mr. WEEDON GROSSMITH could have given us anything funnier than the spectacle presented by the Egyptian monarch when making his announcement of an Ethiopian raid. Nor shall I easily forget the figure of the King of Ethiopia, with a head of hair like a Zulu's, and swathed in a tiger-skin. I should myself have chosen the hide of a leopard, for the leopard cannot change his spots nor the Ethiopian his skin, and when you get the two together you have an extraordinarily durable combination.

It would be false flattery to say that Miss ROSINA BUCKMAN quite looked the part of _Aïda_, or Miss EDNA THORNTON that of _Amneris_, but they both sang finely, and the orchestra did great work under Mr. EUGENE GOOSSENS, Sen.

In _Louise_, again, it was the orchestra, cleverly steered by Sir THOMAS BEECHAM through the difficult score for the choruses, that sustained us through the banalities of an opera which has only one dramatic moment--when her father hastens the eviction of _Louise_ by throwing a chair at her, very well aimed by Mr. ROBERT RADFORD, who only just missed his mark. I suppose it is hopeless to expect that the makers of "Grand" Opera (whose sense of humour is seldom their strong point) will consent to allow the trivialities of ordinary speech in everyday life ("How do you do?" "Thank you, I am not feeling my best," and so on) to be said--if they _must_ find expression of some sort--and not sung.

By way of contrast to the modern realism which makes so unlikely a material for serious opera, the fantastic irresponsibility of _The Magic Flute_ came as a great relief. Its simpler music, serenely sampling the whole gamut of emotions, grave to gay, offered equal chances (all taken) to the pure love-singing of Miss AGNES NICHOLLS as _Pamina_, and Mr. MAURICE D'OISLY as _Tamino_, the light-hearted frivolity of _Papageno_ (Mr. RANALOW), and the solemn pontifics (_de profundissimis_) of Mr. FOSTER RICHARDSON'S _Sarastro_. A most delightful and refreshing performance.

O.S.

* * * * *

JAZZ--TWO VIEWS.

Terpsichore, tired of the "trot," And letting the waltz go to pot, In the glorious Jazz Most undoubtedly has Discovered the pick of the lot.

There was an exuberant "coon" Who invented a horrible tune For a horrible dance Which suggested the prance Of a half-epileptic baboon.

* * * * *

"The Prime Minister threw aside precedent to such an extent that he got out of his depth and went on his knees when we were on the rocks."--_Letter in "The Globe_."

When we get out of our depth we never think of kneeling on the bottom.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"VICTORY."

MR. MACDONALD HASTINGS has invented, and committed, yet another new sin--that of attempting to do a CONRAD novel into a three-act play. Fifteen, possibly; but three? We hardly think. What every Conradist knows is that you can't compress that master of subtlety without losing the master's dominant quality--atmosphere; that it's not so much the things he says but the queer way and the odd order in which he says them that matter. He is not precisely a filmable person.

And yet, all things considered, the potter has produced a tolerable pot, and we may write down his fault of extreme foolhardiness as venial. What, however, Mr. CONRAD himself thought of the rehearsals, if he attended them--but perhaps we need not go into that.

It is easy to see the attraction, for the players, of the series of star parts provided by the exciting story. You have first the eccentric, misjudged Swede, _Heyst_ (the adapter makes him an Englishman, perhaps wisely, as our stage takes no account of Swedes), come from self-banishment on a far Pacific island--a complex Conradian personality. Then his arch-enemy, _Schomberg_, lieutenant of reserve, shady hotel-keeper, sensualist and craven, with his insane malice. To these enter as pretty a company of miscreants as ever sailed the Southern seas: the sinister _Jones_, misogynist to the point of fine frenzy, nonconformist in the matter of card-playing, and thereafter frank bandit with a high ethic as to the superiority of plain robbery under arms over mere vulgar swindling--a gentleman with a code, in fact; his strictly incomparable "secretary," _Ricardo_ of the rolling eyes and gait and deathly treacherous knife, philogynist _sans phrase_; and _Pedro_, their groom, a reincarnated _Caliban_. It may also be noted that _Heyst_ has a freak servant, the disappearing _Wang_, whom the adapter uses, I suppose legitimately, as a kind of clown. And then, finally, there is a charming and unusual heroine, _Lena_, still in her teens, but of real flesh and blood, innocent and persecuted, daughter of a drunken fiddler (deceased), herself fiddling in a tenth-rate orchestra at _Schomberg's_ hotel, wherein it is not intended that the music shall be the chief attraction to the guests.

_Heyst_ is Perseus to _Lena's_ Andromeda, carrying her off to his island out of lust's way. But dragon _Schomberg_ has a sting left in his malicious tale, told to the unlikely trio of scoundrels, to the effect that _Heyst_ has ill-gotten treasure hoarded on his island. Dragon _Ricardo_ persuades his chief to the adventure of attaching it. A fine brew of passion and action forsooth: _Lena_ passionately adoring; the aloof _Heyst_ passing suddenly from indifference to ardour; the bestial _Ricardo_ in pursuit of his startled quarry; and gentleman _Jones_ intent on non-existent booty and rapt out of him self by cynical fury at the discovery of an unsuspected woman in the case. And while Mr. CONRAD in his novel drives all these to a relentless doom Mr. HASTINGS contrives a happy ending, which goes perilously near an anticlimax, with the hero on his knees and the heroine pointing up to heaven and claiming a "victory" quite other than their creator intended. But then he knew perfectly well that nobody wants to come to see Miss MARIE LÖHR killed.

On the whole I can't think the cast was up to its extremely difficult task, if you estimate that task, as it seems to me you must, to be the reproducing of the original _Victory_ characters. Perhaps Mr. SAM LIVESEY'S _Ricardo_ was the nearest, though the primitive savagery of his wooing had to be toned down in the interests of propriety. Mr. GAYER MACKAY made his _Jones_ interesting and plausible in the quieter opening movements. In the intended tragic spasms one felt that he became rather comic than sinister. Not his fault, I think. He had no room or time to work up his part. That should also apply to Mr. GARRY'S _Schomberg_, though he doesn't seem to have tried to fit himself into the skin of that entertaining villain. Mr. MURRAY CARRINGTON had an exceedingly tough task with his _Heyst_. But was he even as detached and eccentric as the average modern don? Certainly he was not the man of mystery of the original pattern, but rather the amiable comely film-hero.

Miss LÖHR had her interesting moments, the best of them, perhaps, in the First Act. In her big scene, where the knife is to be won from _Ricardo_, she was no doubt hampered by the tradition that it is necessary to play down to the carefully cultivated imbecility of the audience in order that they should not misunderstand the most obvious points. It's not flattering to us, but it can't be helped. Probably we deserve it. But need she have been quite so refined? Only very occasionally does she remember that _Lena_ is fine matter in a "common" mould, which is surely of the essence of the situation. I do seriously recommend a re-reading of what should be a character full of blood, which is ever so much more amusing than sawdust, however charmingly encased. I feel sure she could shock and at the same time please the groundlings if she let herself go.

And where, by the way, did she get that charmingly-cut skirt in the Second Act? She certainly hadn't it in her bundle when she left the hotel. And yet the stage-manager will go to the trouble, for the sake of a quite misguided realism, of making the hotel orchestra play against the dialogue as if the persistent coughing of the audience were not sufficient handicap to his team.

Miss BALVAIRD-HEWETT gave a clever rendering of the hotel-keeper's sombre _Frau_; and Mr. GEORGE ELTON contributed an excellent Chinese servant.

But you can't, you really can't, get a gallon into a pint pot, however strenuous the potter.

T.

* * * * *

HYGIENIC STRATEGY.

"What has to be done is to draw a sanitary cordon to bar the road to Bolshevism."--_M. PICHON in the French Chamber_.

The need of this policy is strengthened by the simultaneous announcement that the Bolsheviks have crossed the Bug on a wide front.

* * * * *

"Mr. ---- has for twenty-one years been illustrating 'A Saunter Through Kent.'"--_Sunday Pictorial_.

The artist seems to have caught the spirit of his subject.

* * * * *

"This was seconded by Mr. Mackinder, who said the barque of British trade had to steer a perilous course between the scylla of the front Opposition bench and the charybodies as represented by the Government."--_Western Daily Press_.

This is the first intimation we have yet received of any noticeable tendency to penurious economy on the part of the Government.

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* * * * *

THE COUNTER-REVOLUTIONARY COLLAR.

Mr. Bingley-Spyker pleaded surprise. He pointed out that he had been in bed for a fortnight, "laid aside," as he said, "through the prevailing epidemic." In the meantime the revolution had taken place, and he had heard nothing about it.

"Well," said the President gruffly, "we carn't 'elp that, can we, comrades? While this 'ere citizen 'as been restin' in the lap o' luxury, so to speak, we workers 'ave been revolutin'. An' that's all there is to it."

"But fair play," persisted Mr. Bingley-Spyker gently, "is a jewel. At least so I have always understood."

"Not so much of it, me lad," interrupted the President sharply. "Now then, comrade, wot's the charge?"

An unkempt person stepped up to the front and, clearing his throat with some emphasis, began:--

"About ten-thirty this morning I see this gentleman--"

"_What? _" The interruption came simultaneously from several members of the tribunal.

"--this party walkin' down Whitehall casual-like, as if the place belonged to 'im instead of to us. 'What ho!' I says to myself, 'this 'ere chap looks like a counter-revolution'ry;' and with that I comes closer to 'im. Sure enough he was wearin' a 'igh collar, about three inches 'igh, I should say, all white an' shiny, straight from the lorndry. I could 'ardly believe my eyes."

"Never mind your eyes, comrade," the President said; "tell us what you did."

"I accosted 'im and said, 'Ere, citizen, wot do you mean by wearin' a collar like that?'"

"An' what was the reply?"

"He looked at me 'aughty-like, an' says, 'Get away, my man, or I shall call the police.' An' thereupon I said, 'P'r'aps you don't know it, citizen, but I _am_ the p'lice, an', wot's more, I arrest you for wearin' a white collar, contrairy to the regulations in that case made an' perwided.'"

"Very good, comrade," murmured the President, "very good indeed. Did he seem surprised?"

"Knocked all of a 'eap. So I took him into custody and brought him along."

"You did well, comrade. The Tribunal thanks you. Step down now, me lad, and don't make too much noise. Now then, prisoner, you've 'eard the charge; what have you got to say about it?"

"Only this," said Mr. Bingley-Spyker firmly, "that I am not guilty."

"Not guilty?" shouted the President. "Why, you've got the blooming thing on now!"

"Yes," said the prisoner mildly. "But observe."

Somewhat diffidently he removed his collar and held it up to view. "You call this a clean, white, shiny collar? Well, it's not. Fawn-colour, if you like; speckled--yes; but white--clean? No! Believe me," continued Mr. Bingley-Spyker, warming to his subject, "it's years since I've had a genuinely clean collar from my laundry. Mostly they are speckled. And the specks are usually in a conspicuous position; one on each wing is a favourite combination. I grant you these can be removed by a penknife, but imperfectly and with damage to the fabric. When what I may call the main portion of the collar is affected, the speckled area may occasionally be concealed by a careful disposition of one's tie. But not often. The laundress, with diabolical cunning, takes care to place her trade-mark as near the top rim as possible. I have not by any means exhausted the subject," he concluded, "but I think I have said enough to clear myself of this particular charge."

It seemed then to Mr. Bingley-Spyker that all the members of the Tribunal were shouting together. On the whole he gathered that he had not improved his position. He had been "attacking the proletariat."

"'Ard-working gyurls," panted a woman-member excitedly, "toilin' and moilin' at wash-tubs and mangles for the likes of 'im! It's a rope collar he wants, Mr. President. Make it a 'anging matter, I should."

"Silence, comrades!" commanded the President. "Let me deal with 'im. Prisoner, the Tribunal finds you guilty of wearing a collar, contrary to the regulations. Collars are the 'all-marks of a slave civilization; they 'ave no place in a free state. The sentence of the Court is that you be committed to a State laundry for ten years, with 'ard labour, principally at mangles. Remove the prisoner."

So they removed Mr. Bingley-Spyker....

He was glad when he woke up to find himself in his own room in his own Government office at Whitehall, with the afternoon sun streaming deliciously through the windows. Involuntarily he felt for his collar.

* * * * *

THE HANWELLIAD.

When I come into my kingdom, which will happen very soon, I shall ride a milk-white palfrey from the Mountains of the Moon; He's caparisoned and costly, but he did his bit of work In a bridle set with brilliants, which he used to beat the Turk.

Then they called their Uncle Edward and they blew without a check, Keeping time with much precision, down the back of Uncle's neck, Till he fled to get an iceberg, which he providently found Half on land and half in water, so he couldn't well be drowned.

Oh, his gait was very silent, very sinuous and slow-- He had learnt it from a waiter whom he met about Soho; He was much the best tactician of the migratory band And he earned a decent living as a parcel packed by hand.

"Sergeant James," we said, "how goes it?" but the Sergeant looked askance; Not for him the mazy phalanx or the military dance; He could only sit and suffer, with a most portentous frown, While a crowd of little gipsies turned the whole thing upside down.

Aunt Maria next surprised us: for her massive back was grooved, And her adenoids gave trouble, so we had them all removed; If we hadn't done it neatly she'd have gone and joined the dead, As it is she hops politely while she walks upon her head.

So we'll all fill up a cheque-form on some celebrated Banks-- It's a pity that a cheque-form should be made so much of blanks-- And we'll give the Bank of England all the credit that is due To her hoards of gold and silver; and I wish they weren't so few.

* * * * *

"Mr. ---- has been actively connected with the last two Victory Loan drives, in the last one raising $15,282,000. As an appreciation of his work the salesmen presented him with a (fifteen million dollar) diamond ring."--_Canadian Paper_.

We are glad that something was left for the Loan.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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