Chapter 3

Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL said that none of the speakers had mentioned the most essential desideratum of a hat, and that was that it should be too small. Whether it began by being too small, or became in time too small, depended upon the wearer; but there was something smug and cowardly about a hat that fitted. It suggested failure.

Mr. H.B. IRVING said that he was an impenitent advocate of the soft or Southern hat. It was the duty of a hat to afford not only covering for the head but shelter for the eyes, and no topper did this. A hat should have a flexible brim, which neither topper nor bowler possessed. It was absurd to wear a hat which could not sustain damage without showing it. Let there be a revival in the silk-hat industry by all means, but there must be no imposition of any one kind of hat on the public. The individual must be allowed perfect freedom to wear what he liked. (Hear, hear!) He personally hoped never to be seen either in a pith helmet or a Tam-o'-shanter, but if the whim took him to wear either--or indeed both--he claimed the right to do so. (Loud cheers.) Meanwhile he should adhere to his soft hat.

Mr. MASKELYNE, who followed, urged upon the company the desirability of the silk-hat mode. If tall hats, he said, went out of fashion, what would become of conjurers? Rabbits could be satisfactorily extracted only from tall hats. (Prolonged cheering.) An omelette made in a sombrero was unthinkable. (Renewed cheering.)

Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT said that all this talk about toppers was pernicious nonsense. The topper had become obsolete and should not be disinterred. The only honest form of hat for an honest straightforward man was a white bowler. A white bowler and a blue serge suit made as stylish and effective a garb as anyone needed. Soft hats no doubt were comfortable, but they were also slovenly. Moreover they were not practical. At a horse sale, for example, you could not rattle them. As for the plea that tall hats were of value to conjurers, he had no use for such arguments. Conjurers dealt in illusion and all illusion was retrograde. (Oh! Oh!).

The Bishop of LINCOLN said that he felt bound to dissociate himself from his, partner's remarks. He himself looked upon a silk hat as an essential. (A voice, "With rigging?") Yes, Sir, with rigging. But that was not why he advocated it. He advocated it because it was the proper coping-stone of a gentleman.

The SPEAKER, after eulogising the white tall hat, added that although he was glad that they had Sir SQUIRE BANCROFT with them (Hear, hear) he was bound to remark that not infrequently of late he had seen that illustrious histrion wearing in the streets of London a cloth cap more suitable to the golf-links or the Highlands. For the devotee of the white hat of a blameless life thus to descend gave him pain. So distinguished an edifice as Sir SQUIRE, he contended, should not trifle with its top-storey. (Cheers.)

Sir SQUIRE BANCROFT, rising again, expressed regret that his cloth cap should have caused any distress, He wore it, he was bound to admit, for convenience (Oh!) and comfort (Sensation). But he would not offend again. (Loud cheers.)

At this point the meeting adjourned, but doubtless, taking a hint from the Coal inquiry, it will often be resumed during the coming year.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"I Zingari will play a Household Cavalry team at Windsor on Saturday, June 21st. This was in years gone by an annual fixture, finishing up Ascot week. King Edward VI., when Prince of Wales, used to attend the match and go on to Virginia Water afterwards."--_Local Paper._

Apart from the interest this paragraph will excite in the historians of the Army, the Turf, and the Cricket-field, it shows that HENRY VIII. must have been a more indulgent father than is generally suspected.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"L'AIGLON."

In a note given away with the programme Mr. LOUIS N. PARKER, describes _L'Aiglon_ as "the Hamlet of the nineteenth century." Certainly they had in common the habits of introspection, and indecision; but the egoism of _Hamlet_ was at least tempered by a knowledge of the world; he was a student; he had travelled and seen men and things outside the bounds of Elsinore; and he was capable of throwing off some quotable generalities out of his stock of philosophy. On the other hand the _Eaglet_, mewed in his Austrian cage, knew nothing of life at large, and had small chance of learning anything beyond the bowdlerised history which his tutors and warders thought good to have him stuffed with.

Somehow he had contrived surreptitiously to pick up the dates and leading facts of his father's campaigns (making a speciality of the Battle of Wagram), but the vague ambitions which they inspired only helped his little mind to prey upon itself. It was not "the times" (as with _Hamlet_) but his own nose that he found to be "out of joint."

The appeal of _Hamlet_ is to the intelligence; that of _L'Aiglon_, so obviously pathetic in his own eyes, is rather to the heart. Indeed the intelligence of the audience is here often in trouble; for a certain acquaintance with history is required and both actors and stage-management offer little aid to the average ignorance. While the more obvious and melodramatic situations--such as the death of _L'Aiglon_ or the business of the sentry--are treated at great leisure, it is assumed that all historical allusions, however necessary to an understanding of the situation, will be as tedious to the audience as to the players, and they are rushed through--as in the mirror scene---at a pace that baffles our halting pursuit.

If any male character lends itself to interpretation by a woman, it is such a character as _L'Aiglon_, who, for all his spasms of martial ardour, was half feminine. And to this side of him, and not this side alone, Miss MARIE LÖHR did justice in a performance of which her high spirit had not underrated the difficulties. But it is a long and exigent part, and there were times in the play when her physical strength was overtaxed. It would have taken the voice of a strongish _basso_ to drown the roar of a whole battlefield of ghostly warriors, with a military band thrown in.

I am not sure that Miss LÖHR quite realised for us the _Duke of Reichstadt's_ personality. I should not care to have the task myself, for a good many complicated elements were mixed in his nature. As Mr. Louis PARKER reminds you, a French father supplied him with ambition and love of action, an Austrian grandfather with hesitancy, and Spanish ancestors with fatalism, a very trying combination for even the original _Eaglet_ to handle--a mere boy who had never so much as heard of President WILSON'S League of Nation's. So it was excusable if Miss LÖHR failed to make us completely realise a personality which was almost certainly too much for the comprehension of its actual owner.

But she was always ah intriguing figure. Perhaps, indeed--for the apparel does not always proclaim the man, and the _Eaglet_ was no _Hamlet_ in the matter of his clothes--her rather striking costumes were a source of too much distraction.

In a very large cast, whose identities were here and there a little shadowy, the interest was so distributed that nobody except Miss LÖHR had very much chance. But Mr. FISHER WHITE made a touching picture of the weak old Austrian Emperor, torn between love of his grandchild and fear of _Metternich_. _Metternich_ himself, in the person of Mr. HENRY VIBART, seemed hardly sinister, enough for the part he had to play in keeping the _Eaglet_ under the talons of the "two-headed fowl." But it is perhaps difficult to look really sinister in the full official uniform of a Chancellor.

Mr. LYN HARDING, as _Flambeau_, veteran of NAPOLEON'S Army, introduced a faint suggestion of badly-needed humour, and relieved the general atmosphere of Court artificiality by a touch of nature which almost reconciled us to the improbable burst of eloquence that ROSTAND, with his reckless prodigality, assigned to this rough soldier.

Miss LETTICE FAIRFAX gave a pleasant air of irresponsibility to the shallow _Maria Louisa_, and made her bear very lightly her cross of widowhood (with bar). The briefest possible vision of Miss BETTY FAIRE as _Fanny Elssler_ made me want to see much more of her; but Mr. Louis PARKER had been Napoleonically ruthless with the text. His translation sounded well, though the delivery of it sometimes left me doubtful as to what was prose and what was verse. As for his production of the play, it showed the old skill of a Past-Master of Pageantry.

Altogether Miss MARIE LÖHR has been justified of her courage. In a happy little speech from which we learnt that every one of the voices (off) in the Wagram scene was a demobilised voice from the fighting fronts, she told us that her revival of _L'Aiglon_ was intended as a tribute to Art after all these years of War. We were not, I think, meant to take this as a reflection upon the part played by the British Theatre in sustaining the nation's soul during the War. Anyhow, I for one shall read into her words just a brave promise--not, I hope, too sanguine--of what we may expect from the new birth of the Arts of Peace.

O.S.

* * * * *

ANOTHER PENDING INDEMNITY.

It has been said that the man who for his daily shave resorts habitually to a barber has already become a subject for a drastic moral operation. That may or may not be so, but having chambers in Ryder Street and Alphonse residing within the precincts of St. James's, I would rather have been carved morally into mincemeat than have robbed such an artist of his self-expression.

That is how I felt about it in 1914 and in many preceding years, during which, under the magic spell of Alphonse, the razor fell upon my cheek like thistledown. Even to be lathered by him was an alluring form of hypnosis. Alphonse was a Hokusai of barbers, but he was also a true son of France; and there were Alsace and Lorraine and the arrogance of 1870 still to be accounted for. So Alphonse went, and in his place reigned Ferdinand.

Ferdinand, what there was of him, was a good fellow. He was an old fire-eater. He had lost a leg in Algeria and an eye somewhere else, and he could not comprehend why such trivial matters should disqualify a man for killing pigs. He was, as I have said, a good fellow, but his methods of using a razor were mediaeval. However we were not long for one another, and, as the R.N.V.R. tolerate such things, I grew a beard, an equable, regulation torpedo beard.

Omitting several super-emotional lifetimes, let us speak of a certain day not very remote when I stood, bereft of all sea power, at the top of St. James's Street, considering what was the very best worst thing to do to a body which was bored with the reaction that follows four years' strife upon the narrow seas. I fingered my beard meditatively. Yes, after all there was Alphonse. I had almost forgotten him. I turned my steps towards his exclusive retreat. I entered in, and behold! there as of yore, clothed in his samite raiment, stood the incomparable Alphonse. He had returned. Yet in appearance he was not quite the Alphonse of old. There was something less resilient about him, something more enduring had crept into his personality; his elasticity had somehow turned to bronze. He was slightly grey. Nevertheless he greeted me with a Gallic warmth that gave refreshment to my jaded spirit.

"But M'sieu would be shaved.... Yes, a beard was permissible in time of War, but in Peace--pouf! it was barbaric."

I allowed myself to be robed and tucked comfortably into the chair. Alphonse busied himself with the instruments of his profession.

"Five years ago it was another world, M'sieu," he said, churning a wooden bowl to mountains of lather. "It is never again the same. The Marne ... Verdun ... Soissons. If M'sieu permits I would like to tell him of those years."

I nodded and he advanced upon me with the brush. He spoke of the retreat to Paris and the strategy of JOFFRE which so nearly overthrew three Prussian armies. He brandished his razor and swept the Boches back over the Marne, he swept them through Senlis, he swept them across the Aisne. His intensity was inspiring. The smouldering fires of bygone battles leapt into his eyes. But it was not the mesmeric shave of 1914. He apologised humbly and applied small pieces of plaster.

The next morning we fought a swaying battle in front of Rheims, and for some few following mornings we skirmished about painlessly in the same vicinity. Then came a sanguinary excursion to Flanders which nearly put me into blue overalls.

A few weeks of trench warfare gave me some respite and allowed my worst wounds to heal.

Then came the epic of Verdun. At least it was to have come, but at the last moment I lost my nerve.

To hear the story of that heroic defence from the lips of one who was concerned so intimately with it is one of my greatest desires. But I am a coward. I cannot face the extravaganza that Alphonse would improvise, neither dare I approach him for a mere haircut and so confess to having deserted his other form of artistry.

Yesterday I purchased a safety-razor and a packet of new blades.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A LITTLE SUPPER WITH THE BORGIAS.

"FRUIT SALAD.

"Make some syrup by boiling three-quarters of a pint of water, 1/2 lb. of castor sugar, and the juice from a tinned pineapple. Lay the pineapple in a glass bowl cut in small slices."--_Weekly Paper_.

* * * * *

ART IN THE ARCTIC.

To know that you can't draw and to be told so by your friends are two very different things. Honnell can't draw, but hates his inseparable Swan to tell him so. Honnell's sketches have hitherto been criticised only by people who also wanted their drawing flattered. Swan learned bluntness on the Yukon. So they are an odd pair to be chumming now in the Arctic circle. They are so friendly that they will tramp together for half a day and exchange scarcely so much as a grunt of conversation.

Swan, of course, feels quite at home in North Russia and smiles at the people who call it cold and its distances big. Honnell has lived in Edinburgh, so doesn't notice the temperature, though he misses the tramway system. Both can say about six words--the same--in Russian, and both have bought a pair of moccasins--Swan because he likes them, and Honnell because he would like to.

Recently they set off together from Kola on the Murman Coast to try to find a village from which jolly little Laplanders and Laplanderesses come sliding and skidding to market behind their stout-hearted reindeer. They left all their picturesque Arctic gear behind them except their moccasins, Swan being one of those trying people who don't care how they look, if only they "mush" along fast enough. Their provisions consisted of a tin of bully and four edible tiles or army biscuits, with some margarine in a Y.M.C.A. envelope.

The story they told on their return--for they did return and in good time for dinner--was mostly Honnell's, but I must admit that Swan could not be got to refute it. As they approached the village--some huts on a white hillside above a frozen lake--a representative of the dog-colony came to meet them, waving his tail with an anti-clockwise circular motion impossible to the dog of temperate zones. Having inspected them he escorted them on their way in a perfectly civilised and even courteous manner.

So far from being resisted, their entry was ignored save by the little fur-capped boys, who collected at their heels as if they had formed the vanguard of a circus, and the little brightly-kerchiefed girls, who bolted for cover. All the adult male inhabitants, fiercely-bearded little men like trolls done up in reindeer-skin from top to toe, appeared to be engrossed in the manufacture of sleighs, although the village was already littered and cluttered up with them; and all the ladies were indoors sewing reindeer-skin into trousers or making tea.

Having exchanged a noise like "_Sdrastetye_" (which in these parts seems to mean "_Bon jour_") with everybody they saw, our two friends sat on a log, and rested, while Honnell set about sketching, as he calls it, the primitive wooden church. The little boys, of course, formed a sort of pyramid on his shoulders to watch. Whether because his fingers were cold and so not completely under his control, or because the vibrations of the human pyramid communicated to his pencil some lucky jerks, the marks Honnell committed to (or on) his note-book were such as supplied the simple children of the snow with a clue as to his intentions, and he was intensely gratified to hear one say to another, "_Tzerhof_!"--knowing that noise to signify "church" in the local tongue.

Swan, perceiving the moral damage likely to be done to his friend by this flattering incident, sought to puncture Honnell's unhealthy pride by saying, "_Plaho?_" (or "bad") as a suggestion to the critics; but this only caused them to say repeatedly and with emphasis, "_Dobra_!"--which was one of Honnell's six words and means "good."

Thus the mischief was done. Honnell returned to his billet a man changed and as it were possessed. To hear him talk now one would suppose culture had fled from the Temperate to the Arctic zone. Of the Lapps' habits and their houses he knows nothing, cares nothing; all his enthusiasm is reserved for the honesty and the innate artistic perception of their children. So seriously has he been affected by this unaided and impartial recognition of the subject of his drawing that some of us wonder if he will not settle down amongst those who alone understand and appreciate him. Returning home what can he hope to be? At best a hero of the Relief Force. But in his Lapp village he could imagine himself an Artist.

* * * * *

"Canon Cooper O'Filley, known as the 'Walking Parson,' has decided to celebrate his seventieth birthday by walking from Yorkshire to Madrid."--_Sunday Paper_.

An even better-known "Walking Parson," Mr. COOPER, of Filey, will have to look to his laurels now that this Irish pedestrian has entered the lists.

* * * * *

"Mr. J.B. Fagan has decided to revive 'Twelfth Night' with the original cast at the Court Theatre."--_Daily Graphic_.

We trust that when Mr. FAGAN revives the "original cast" he will not omit to provide also against the inevitable call of "Author!" and settle the BACON-SHAKSPEARE controversy once for all.

* * * * *

THE VEGES ON STRIKE.

(_A Dream._)

A noise arose of earnest men Refusing imitation duck; It was a dreadful moment when The Beetroot-eaters struck, And all around untasted stood Rations of Mr. Kilo's favourite food.

For some forsook the sacred rules And pulled, despite their master's word, Ham sandwiches from reticules; On every side one heard The sharp staccato lettuce-crunch Merged in the howls of carnivores at lunch.

And one conspirator leaped up Amid the clash of tinkling spoons And poured into a protose cup His helping of stewed prunes; And, blood-red presager of doom, Half a tomato hissed across the room.

And angry "Pshaws" and long "Tut-tuts" Proceeded from that concourse dense, And "Nuts," they wailed, "we want more nuts-- More nuts at less expense!" Till Mr. Ambrose Kilo came And hushed the berserk banqueters to shame.

"Heroes," he cried, with lifted hand, "And comrades of the meatless life, Shall the great cause for which we stand" (Here someone dropped a knife) "Fall into disrepute?" (Loud roars Of "No, not it," from contrite nucivores).

"Bearing aloft a stainless shield That none may smirch without remorse, This management declines to yield To crude displays of force; Yet, since it seems the general wish, Mock-cutlets will be five-pence less per dish."

He ceased, and trembling fingers cleared All vestiges of meat away; The smiling handmaids reappeared With mounds of buttered hay; Silence replaced the storm-tossed scenes; There was no sound save masticated beans.

EVOE.

* * * * *

From "Answers to Correspondents":

"A bellion, according to the French and American method of numeration, is a thousand millions, or 1,000,000,000. According to the English method, it is a million millions, or 1,000,000,000."--_Irish Paper_.

We should have liked to know the estimated value of a re-bellion, according to the Irish method, but we understand that there is no accounting for that.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)

A book of little novels, or long-shorts, from the pen of Mr. ROBERT HICHENS, will be welcomed with pleasure by a very large public. _Snake-Bite_ (CASSELL) contains a half-dozen various tales, all but one of which are eminently characteristic of their author. It sounds unkind to add that this one is for artistry the best of the bunch; but I mean no more than that Mr. HICHENS has here done very well a slight and delicate sketch of a style not generally associated with his work. In the name-piece his admirers will find themselves on more familiar ground--none other indeed than that well-known desert in which they have enjoyed such delicious thrills in the same company already. When Mr. HICHENS' characters get the sand in their eyes almost anything may be expected of them. Here he has given us a new version of the ancient scheme of two men and a woman, complicated in this instance by a cobra; the problem being, whether a doctor should cure his wife's lover of a snake-bite. More original is the longest story in the collection, one called "The Lost Faith," an affair of mental healing and love and crime too complex for compression. It is admirably told. It leads up to a situation as novel as it is dramatic--the confession of a young fanatic, who believes in a lady-healer so implicitly that he puts typhoid germs into the drink of a celebrated general in order to provide her with an impressive subject. As a sensation this wants some beating; though it failed to shake my own preference for the other story, which you will observe I have purposely left unnamed. You will, I hope, enjoy finding it for yourself.

* * * * *