Chapter 3

At the three hundred and seventeenth sitting of the Musical Reconstruction Commission Mr. Justice Bland, the President, said he felt sure he would be voicing the feelings of all present in tendering his congratulations to Sir Leonardo Spaghetti Coyne on his elevation to the peerage as Viscount Vermicelli of Milan, and to Mr. Gladney Jebb on receiving the honour of K.P.O. (Knight of the Proletarian Order).

A memorandum on the economics of the Russian Ballet and the probable cost of its reorganisation on a Marxian basis was read by Mr. Ploffskin of the Garden City Gymnosophist Guild. By a scheme for a uniform salary for all dancers, compulsory vegetarian diet, and the exclusive use of the balalaika, Mr. Ploffskin was of opinion that a Bolshevist Ballet might be safely organised so as to satisfy the artistic aspirations of the proletariat and counteract the pernicious influences of the pseudo-Ethiopian style affected by the idle rich.

Examined by Sir Edwin Edgar, O.M., Mr. Ploffskin admitted that none of the famous Russian composers of recent years had associated themselves with the Revolutionary movement, and that the Russian Ballet had originally been an integral part of the Imperial Opera. But he had no doubt that on a proper proletarian basis it would function with a far more beneficent activity. He pointed out that there was a strong facial resemblance between TROTSKY and M. PADEREWSKI, and between LENIN and BEETHOVEN. In reply to a question from Mr. Moody MacTear, Mr. Ploffskin said that he had been down a coal-mine in Siberia.

Sir Mark Holloway, who next occupied the witness's chair, admitted, in reply to the questions of Sir Gladney Jebb, that, since his student days, he had seldom been engaged in manual labour on any instrument for more than two hours a day. It was not necessary for a conductor. But he knew of pianists who practised for six or even eight hours a day with impunity.

_Sir Gladney Jebb_. Do you not think that if all compositions were written in the key of C it would materially conduce to the greatest happiness of the greatest number?--The President has already deprecated the multiplication of hypothetical questions, which have reached a total of more than fifteen thousand.

_Viscount Vermicelli_. Do you think that the unrestrained performance of Jazz-music conduces to the moral betterment of the simian proletariat?--That seems to me to be a question which bears on the administration of the Unnecessary Noises Act.

Are you in favour of the establishment of a Ministry for the Control of Syncopation?--No; but I would cordially support a Bill for the Compulsory Segregation of Irresponsible Collectivists.

In reply to Mr. Moody MacTear, Sir Mark Holloway said that he had never been down a coal-mine, but that he had a few shares in a gold-mine, which had cost him five pounds a-piece, but had never borne any dividends and were now quoted at one-and-sixpence.

The next witness, Dame Frisca, the famous Californian singer, was subjected to a remarkably severe examination by Mr. Moody MacTear.

_Mr. Moody MacTear_. Do you consider that the assumption of the title _prima donna_ is compatible with democratic principles?--I never assumed it; it was bestowed on me by the free suffrages of the musical world.

_Mr. MacTear_. Then you admit that you possess it. Are you prepared to submit proof of your title to the Commission?--Certainly; but it would probably mean bringing forty van-loads of press-cuttings and cause considerable congestion of traffic.

_Mr. MacTear_. Is it not the case that the _prima donna_ has been condemned by the best musical critics as an obsolete anachronism, tending to perpetuate the abuses of the "star" system and to foster breaches of the Decalogue and to enhance the soloist at the expense of the chorus?--I believe that WAGNER held the view expressed in the opening part of your question, but he was unable to get on without her, wrote a famous address to the Star of Eve, and gave the chorus practically nothing to do in many of his operas.

_Mr. MacTear_. Is it not the case that the operatic tenor has been pronounced on good authority to be not a man but a disease?--The authority was a German conductor, who was presumably speaking of German tenors.

_Mr. MacTear_. Have you ever been down a coal-mine?--No; but I was presented with a diamond brooch by the diggers of Kimberley.

* * * * *

BAKERLOONACY.

This is a song of the Tube-- Let us begin it By cursing the furies who fight and who bite ev'ry night To get in it; The folk who see red and who tread on the dead And climb over the slain, And who step on your face in the race for a place In the train.

The pack! The wolves who attack, Attempting to kill you until you Fall flat on your back; The tigers who tear at your-hair and who swear As they tread on your neck, Leaving you battered, bespattered and shattered, An absolute wreck.

From these sharks, These mild-looking typists and clerks, May Heaven defend you. They'll rend you--up-end you (I carry the marks), This meek-looking, sleek-looking, weak-looking clique With the Bolshevist brains Inflamed at the thought that they ought to have caught Much earlier trains.

Mourn For the hat that is flat And the collar of which you were shorn. Shed a tear for the dear little ear that you had And the bags which to rags have been torn. Weep for the fellow who tried but who died at your side As the tide swept along. He was a victim. They tricked him and kicked him to death, Though he'd done them no wrong.

This is a Song of the Tube. A ballad of sorrow, A grey sort of lay of To-day and a greyer To-morrow; A dismal, abysmal, chaotic, neurotic Creation Of one who was done after running a mile To the station.

* * * * *

* * * * *

From a report of the Coal Commission:--

"The next witness was Lord Dynevor. He said he had 8,270 acres of coal land in Carmarthenshire. His interest in the estate came to the family through one of three collieresses."

Even Mr. SMILLIE would admit that that ought to constitute an absolute title.

* * * * *

MORE IMPENDING APOLOGIES.

From a bookseller's advertisement:

"NEW FICTION.

Reason and Belief--By Sir Oliver Lodge.

Man and the Universe--By Sir Oliver Lodge.

The Great Crusade--By Right Hon. D.

Lloyd George."--_Canadian Paper_.

* * * * *

"It was essential for Great Britain that France should emerge from this war strong and able to defend herself. The recognition of this fact explains the change of British policy at Pars during the Wonference of Peace."--_The Times_.

We like the new title for the victors' conclave, but do not care so much for the unusual spelling of the French capital, though it may have been adopted in deference to American prejudices.

* * * * *

"DIAMOND-CUT-DIAMOND."

This is to warn all honest men to beware of No. 007 Field Company, R.E., known to its victims as "Chaucer's Gang," the most conscienceless crew of body-snatchers and common thieves in all the B.E.F.

I am myself no fastidious precisian, being in a Labour Company, but there are limits--or should be. My own particular grouch against them started at Ripilly-sur-Somme. They, being skilled Royal Engineers, were clearing undergrowth and putting up huts in Ripilly woods for a division due to arrive, and my scorned rabble were unloading the huts in sections from barges at Ripilly canal wharf and loading them on to lorries for transport to the woods. Chaucer and his Royal Engineers were living on the spot--Ardennes waving o'er them her green leaves and so forth--and we were in rest billets (loud roars of raucous laughter) in Ripilly village, the least sanitary spot in the whole war zone.

Chaucer wouldn't let us stay with him in the huts--said the Chief Engineer was very keen on men living next their work. But between Ripilly and the canal wharf was an ideal spot. The chalk downs sloped steeply to the river, and halfway down was a bit of a level plateau just the size for a couple of huts. South aspect; good fishing and bathing; a home from home. The woods hid it from view above and the roadside poplars from below. It was a truly desirable building site.

We had a hurdle-maker in our company, so I gave him a brace of light-duty men as apprentices and they built a little hut of wattle and daub. It had a nice rural appearance and was warm, but it leaked in wet weather, and the more I thought of Chaucer lying dry under his felt roofs the worse I felt about it. So I had a chat with my sergeant at the wharf, and the long and short of it was that two walls and one roof got delivered by mistake at the desirable building-site.

We worked late that night, and next day had thirty men in residence, with one end of the long hut partitioned off for Simmonds, my subaltern, and myself.

So far so good. I began to think about making another mistake and getting a second hut, but that evening Chaucer came sliding down over the steep turf, visibly annoyed.

"Where did you get this hut?"

"Found it."

"On Ripilly wharf?"

"Certainly not. I found it down there by the road and had it brought up here for safety. If a lorry had run over it in the dark--"

"Ah, cut it out," he said. "The hut is mine. I found two odd sections in the last barge-load. Any poacher who knew his job would burn the feathers when he cooked the bird. You needn't start to explain about your fool N.C.O., who made a mistake. I keep that sort of N.C.O. myself. _If_ I get an official inquiry about this hut I shall send back official information."

"Right-o! Then come in and have a drink, and don't be official before you need."

That's where I was wrong. I tried to enlist the blighter's sympathy. Showed him round camp, the view, the bathing--everything. When Simmonds came up from the river with a string of roach Chaucer admitted it was a truly _bon_ billet.

Next day he called again with one of his subalterns, a creature called Gubson, who went down to the river to watch Simmonds fish. When he had gone Chaucer told me he had a spare hut.

"Not one of these divisional huts, but a thing we knocked up ourselves. We've nearly finished our job here, and if it's any use to you you can have it. But mind you, I know nothing about this other hut you've got here. If you're caught with that one your blood be on your own head."

"You're a Christian," I told him, and, Gubson and Simmonds returning, the conference had a drink and adjourned.

Next day I found quite a squad of light-duty men, and sent 'em to dismantle and bring down Chaucer's hut. I admit they rather exceeded instructions, for they brought a lot of things that Chaucer had omitted to mention. However, they said he was there when they took them, so I supposed it was all right. Besides the hut they had two bell-tents, a big tarpaulin, some corrugated iron and expanded metal, some home-made chairs and tables, a water-tank and a field kitchen, with its wheels broken off--a noble lot of loot it was. They worked like beavers bringing it down and getting it in place, and when Chaucer drifted down again at the end of the week all my men were housed there as snug as you please. Finally Gubson presented the camp with a punt he had salved in Sailly village--and there we were, all the pleasures of the Riviera and none of the disreputable company.

We were so pleased with all they had done for us that we suggested they should stay the night and celebrate the occasion. Chaucer said he would be delighted, if we would send to his batman and tell him to bring down his razor and toothbrush. At midnight, when the batman arrived, Chaucer said it was time for bed. And could we give his man a shake-down, please? It was pretty dark, he said, and the fool might lose his way home.

That should have warned me. Chaucer wasn't the man to keep a batman who was a fool.

It must have been about 3 A.M. when I was waked by my man helping Chaucer dress.

"What's the matter?"

"Your fellow says my man's ill."

"What is it?"

"I dunno, Sir," my man said. "'E 's groanin' an' rollin' about an' keepin' all us others awake."

When I got to the men's hut I found Chaucer kneeling beside the sick man, who was holding his head and groaning. All the other men were sitting up and looking on. After a minute or two Chaucer got up and beckoned me outside.

"Look here," he said, "I don't want to scare you, but suppose that chap's got anything infectious. Is there a doctor handy?

"Nowhere nearer than Sailly."

"Well, Gubson tells me they were expecting the M.O. at our camp today. He may have stayed the night. Can you send somebody up to see?"

I sent off an orderly at once, and in half-an-hour a young doctor arrived, and ordered all the other men out of the hut. Then he pulled a gaudy handkerchief out of his pocket, sprinkled it with some stuff out of a small phial, tied it over his mouth and only then began to fiddle about the sick man, feeling his pulse and sounding him.

Then he got up, readjusted his handkerchief-respirator and mumbled that it was cerebro-spinal-something. Spotted fever.

We all got out of that hut in double-quick time, believe me. The doctor was full of orders--half a hundred things to do at once. The man must be strictly isolated. All the contacts--every blessed man who had been in the hut with him--must be placed under supervision. The hut must be put out of bounds. And when he found half the men had gone under the tarpaulin shelter he put that out of bounds too.

We were a full hour trying to separate the contacts; but when the doctor found the cook getting breakfast ready and heard he had been in the sick man's hut he threw his hand in.

"I won't answer for a single one of you," he said; "the place is no better than a pest-house. Throw that breakfast away. It's sheer poison. Clear out, all of you."

It was Chaucer started the panic. I saw him sneaking away up the slope, so I thought it better to make a move too. I didn't ask the doctor where we were to go; he'd have had us all sleeping out on the open grass for a week if I had. So the whole lot of us, half asleep, trekked back to Ripilly village and turned into our old billets again.

* * * * *

It was my Sergeant-Major who told me next day that Chaucer and his gang had taken possession of the Riviera--my Riviera. I went there at once, to find out what it all meant, but they had a sentry at the foot of the slope, who said the camp was infected and no one was allowed there; so I climbed the slopes and looked down from above. Chaucer was smoking outside my pet hut talking to a couple of his subalterns, and a string of men was lined up beside the field kitchen for tea. Close by, the batman, recovered from his illness, was putting a fishing-rod together, and one of the subalterns blew his nose on a gaudy handkerchief which I recognised at once.

I went straight back and told the Town Major of Ripilly that one of the new divisional huts was being occupied by the Sappers. It wasn't cricket, but it was all I could do.

"That's all right," he said. "Chaucer's acting as divisional R.E. He's entitled to one hut. He told me he had been arranging for you to erect it for him."

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR PESSIMISTS.

"Applications are invited from properly qualified persons for the position of Medical Officer of Health....

The appointment will be from the 1st July, 1919, for the duration of the War."--_Advt. in Local Paper_.

* * * * *

"Chicks, day old; ready Saturday."--_Advt. in Local Paper_.

It looks like a case of counting before they are hatched.

* * * * *

THE KEY TO FAIRYLAND.

The trees have magic doorways Down into Fairy-land, Yet nobody, but only me, Has time to understand That if _we_ knew the magic, If _we_ could work it too, We could creep down to Fairy-town And do as fairies do.

The keys are four-leaved clovers; They're not so hard to get-- Just creep about and search them out, And don't mind getting wet; But oh! I wish the fairies Weren't _quite_ so secrety; I've tried and tried, but _still_ they hide The key-holes for each key.

* * * * *

FROM GRAVE TO GAY.

"The Burial Board resolved that tenders be obtained from the various bands in the district with a view to holding concerts in the Queen's Gardens during the summer months."

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"CYRANO" MOVES TO DRURY LANE.

SIR THOMAS BEECHAM, having been translated to another place, has made way for _Cyrano_ and his nose, which now finds more room to turn round in. I had not seen Mr. LORAINE on the more congested stage of the Garrick. Indeed the last time that I assisted at M. ROSTAND'S play was some twenty years ago in the South of France. It happened that there had recently been a vogue of Musketeer plays in England. Behind my seat was a British Baronet (a recent creation) for whom the French language had little or no meaning. The first and only sign of intelligence that he showed was well on in the performance, at the words, "_Qui est ce monsieur?" "C'est D'Artagnan." (D'Artagnan_ then disappears altogether).

"Another of these damned Musketeer plays," said the Bart.; "I'm off!" And he went.

I am not sure that, even in English, it would have been just the play for his taste; but that London has plenty of people who can appreciate it may be seen by the way in which Mr. LORAINE can hold the great auditorium under the spell of its romance. Without an effort he endears to us the defects of his hero's Quixotic qualities, and makes his very deformity contribute to the triumph of his heroic _panache_. Even such of the poet's prolixities as survive a very careful pruning of the text are made to seem essential to the self-expression of character.

Mr. LORAINE is happy in his book, for the clever rendering made by Miss GLADYS THOMAS and Miss MARY GUILLEMARD reproduces both the spirit and the letter of the poem. And from his cast he gets all the support that he needs. True, he needs very little. He fills the stage, and the other characters--notably the colourless _Christian de Neuvillette_--are little more than his foils. Miss STELLA CAMPBELL, as _Roxane_, failed, at times, to convey a sense of overwhelming passion either for the body of _Christian_ or the soul which she imagined it to contain; but she was always a gracious figure and her voice was gentle. Perhaps Mr. LORAINE owed most to his scenic artists, Messrs. DULAC and JOHN BULL, who gave of their best. There was attraction too in the very names of Arras and Bapaume, as well as in the thought of the part that our _Cyrano_ of to-day has played against a ruder foe than the Spaniard. And was I wrong in tracing a hint of other experiences gained at the front, when Mr. LORAINE nearly turned up his false nose at the mention of "military wit."

The part offers little scope for humour. _Cyrano_, with all his generous impulses, is too self-conscious for that. But in each of his moods and phases--bravado, sacrifice, acceptance of the inexorable pathos of things--Mr. LORAINE had got at the heart of the man. A very brave and inspiring performance.

O.S.

* * * * *

* * * * *

HOW HISTORY IS WRITTEN.

From reports of Mr. ASQUITH'S speech at Newcastle:--

"He [Lord French] has taken an unusual, and I think an unfortunate, course (cheers), giving to the world at this stage what must be an _ex parte_ narrative of what happened under his command."--_Times_.

"He has taken an unusual, and as I take it, an unfortunate course in giving to the world what must of necessity be an expert narrative of what happened under his command."--_Daily Herald_.

* * * * *

"BEAUTY IN HOUSE BUILDING.

LET US LOOK AS THOUGH WE HAD WON THE WAR."--_Daily Mirror_.

Who said we hadn't?

* * * * *

THE DAY.

At last the great day has arrived; in less than half an hour I shall be at the church. Heavens! what excitement. And yet I suppose most girls have had to undergo the ordeal, if one may so describe it, at some period of their life.

The magic church is not far distant and from my room I can hear the merry pealing of the bells. In the garden the birds are singing as they have never sung before. Truly life is a beautiful poem on such a day as this.

But I have really little time to dwell on these things, for am I not the centre of creation itself, the hub around which the whole household revolves in one wild bewildering whirl of ecstasy? How can one think when one is surrounded by a triumphant mother, a couple of adoring and not envious sisters, a critical brother and a doting father?

But then why should I think? Why use my brain at all when all the thinking that needs to be thought is being thought for me? Goodness, how my poor head reels. If only I could sleep. Ah, yes, that is what I could almost wish for at this moment--sweet, soothing, refreshing sleep.

But it is not to be; the house is just a great tearing pandemonium of joy. Hark! What's that? A motor horn? Yes, yes, a taxi is at the gate. Now another has glided forward and waits expectantly for the central figure--myself.

"Well, darling," murmurs my father, "it's high time we were off. Wouldn't do to be late today, you know." And he laughs proudly.

Can I describe the journey to the church? I can, but I will spare you. Enough to say that I carry myself with dignity. Whether I do so in the vast solemn atmosphere of the church I am unable to say, though I will confess to a feeling almost of awe.

In deep silence we move down the aisle. The service begins. Can I repeat it? I fear not. But one passage there is which stands out prominently from the rest. It is in the form of a demand made by the clergyman. Looking steadily at my father, he exclaims:--

"_Name this child_."

I am roused to a fresh interest, and with fast-beating heart I await my father's answer. It comes as a bombshell to my sensitive ears:--

"_Armisticia Beatty Zeebrugge!_"

And I believed that only Germans could wage war on helpless babes.

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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