Chapter 3

"DEAR SIR,--I have consulted an authority on this bird and find that its bad character has brought about its practical extinction in this country save in the mountain fastnesses of Wales and the craggy moors of Yorkshire. I also learn that its extended wings measure thirty-six inches on an average. I must decline to provide an asylum for such an extensive mass of depravity."

I confess I was discouraged and also somewhat shocked. I felt Filmer should have enlightened me more on the characteristics of his _protégé_. The episode taught me to avoid preamble in my next quest for a domicile. Also I thought it only right to express myself with absolute frankness. The address of a lady with a reputation for a love of animals was given to me, and I hastened to call upon her. She answered the door herself.

"Madam," I said, "may I ask you of your kind heart to give a home to an almost extinct bird of evil character about a yard across?"

She looked startled for a moment and then quietly closed the door.

I was still further discouraged. I felt bound in honour to comply, if possible, with Filmer's comparatively simple request. By chance I ran across Timberley, a man brimful of resource and suggestion. "You want a brewery," he said; "that's the _milieu_ for a raven. To my mind no brewery is artistically complete without one. A raven hopping about the casks gives a _je ne sais quoi_, a _cachet_, to the premises. You should get an introduction to a manager."

With some difficulty I did, and I waited upon him in his private office. He seemed immersed in business and asked me to be seated in such a brusque manner that I had no alternative but to remain standing.

"I must apologise for trespassing upon your valuable time, but it has been suggested to me that no brewery is complete without a raven--" I began, stammering slightly from nervousness.

"Well, we've got one. What about it?" he said.

In face of this unlooked-for development I could do nothing but bow and retire.

After this third failure to house the bird I threw convention to the winds and took to accosting utter strangers in the street with, "Will you have a raven?" I went rides in trams and tubes and canvassed the passengers. "Not to-day, thank you," was the response, save in a few instances. One man invited me to ask him again and he would do me in. A lady to whom I propounded the query as we were descending the moving staircase side by side precipitated herself forward with such haste that but for the intervening travellers she must have fallen headlong to the bottom. The mother of a family to whom I appealed shook her head politely and said she was obliged to me for the offer, but it was hard enough to pay for butcher's meat; she couldn't afford poultry.

Then at last, all my efforts having failed, I reluctantly took my pen and wrote to Filmer. In reply I received another of his scrawls:--

"What's this about a raven? Don't let it grow on you. The Victory Croquet Club is taking my ROLLER, £7 carriage forward. I gave £3 10s. for it second-hand ten years ago.

"N.B.--I had great difficulty in reading your writing. Don't cultivate illegibility; it's tiresome for your friends."

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* * * * *

"Referring to charges of drunkenness the Chairman said there were 13 men and five women fined for drunkenness and residing at Chiswick."-- _Local Paper._

To reside at Chiswick may be an eccentricity, but surely is not an offence.

* * * * *

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"JOHN FERGUSON."

After the unsatisfying theatre-diet which has fallen to me of late I was doubly glad to get my teeth into Mr. St. JOHN ERVINE'S good meaty ration at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith. His theme is as old and new as Job. _John Ferguson_ is a saintly Ulster farmer, apostle of the doctrine of non- resistance (rare type in those parts, I understand) and eager justifier of the ways of God to men. _Ferguson's_ beloved farm is mortgaged; foreclosure imminent. Help is confidently expected from brother _Andrew_ in America, but does not come. Daughter _Hannah_, sent with a message to the brutal mortgagee, is outraged by him. Prospective son-in-law _James_, man of great words but little heart, rushes into the night to kill the ravisher. But it is silent son _Andrew_ (destined for the ministry) who does the killing, because he knows _James_ to be a craven.

_John Ferguson_ urges confidently the will of God that _James_, whom he believes blood-guilty, should not avoid arrest, and refuses to hide him. But when young _Andrew_ insists on giving himself up to save _James_ and his own peace the old man's faith, weakened, falters; he protests in his anguish, but rallies to accept this last blow from the hand of God--made none the easier to bear by the arrival, just a fatal fortnight late, of the money from his brother, a forgetful sort of man, who had mistaken the date of the mail. The tragic irony of the whole is skilfully heightened by the fact that it is half-witted "_Clutie_," with his penny whistle and his random words, who goads young _Andrew_ to his vengeance.

A grim tale finely (perhaps just a little too diffusely) told and admirably presented. Mr. ERVINE'S most effective stroke was, I think, the character of _James Cæsar_, with his pathetic yet revolting self-condemnation, interpreted with a real mastery of art without artifice by Mr. J.M. KERRIGAN, of the old band of "Irish Players." Miss MOYNA MACGILL (a name new to me) played her _Hannah_ with an exquisite sincerity and restraint. A particular moment when, from her hysterical laughter at the careful choice made by her father's God of the moment for the arrival of the money, she breaks into a passionate "It's not right! It's not just!" was very fine. The whole character was skilfully built up. The part by no means played itself.

Mr. HERBERT MARSHALL'S _Andrew_ was also an excellent performance. Was it quite right, however, that the morning after the murder he should appear so completely unruffled? (I admit I don't know my Ulster intimately). I rather think that Mr. MILES MALLESON'S well-studied "_Clutie_" might have been a little less coherent, with more fawning in his manner. He seemed something too normal for his purpose in the piece. The way in which the other characters staved off his piping was beyond all praise. I should guess, from specimens submitted, that his repertory was not extensive.

Mr. REA, as the father, was of course competent, but surely a little overplacid throughout. He accepted the blow of his daughter's dishonour with scarcely a sign that submission caused him any serious pang--a seeming indifference shared by Miss MAIRE O'NEILL (_Hannah's_ mother), who appeared quite untroubled a few minutes after the harrowing relation, and indeed seemed throughout to be playing too easily. Mr. RAYMOND VALENTINE had a "fat" part as the villain, and well and fatly he played it.

I realise more than ever the difficulties of an Irish Settlement.

T.

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* * * * *

FAME.

For a long time past I had felt that something ought to be done about it, and then one evening as I opened my paper in the Tube I came suddenly upon the following paragraph:--

"Lunching yesterday with Jack Poppington at the Bitz, where, by the way, M. Caramel treated us to a superbly priceless _mousse à la Canadienne_, he told me that his _Little Pests_ is selling like wildfire and proving a real bonanza to the lucky publishers, Messrs. Painter and Lilley. Had a pleasant chat with him about old times in the Army Pay Corps, in which we served together for nearly sixteen months during one of the hottest periods of hostilities 'out yonder.' More famous amongst the general public for his black ribboned tortoiseshell monocle and invariable presence at all truly semi-smart Bohemian functions, Poppington keeps a brindled bulldog, grows primulas and is, of course, known to a select circle as the energetic Organising Secretary of the North Battersea Entomological Society."

The letterpress which I have quoted above was headed "Popular Pap" and formed a kind of frame for a photograph of Mr. Poppington, which seemed to show that his luncheon at the Bitz had not really agreed with him after all, and at the bottom of the column I noted the familiar signature of "_Marchand du Beurre_."

As usual when I read paragraphs of this kind I first of all blushed guiltily and glanced round to see whether anyone had noticed how eagerly I was drinking it all in. Then I put on the faint superior smile of recognition which I felt that the situation obviously demanded. Good old Poppington! One of the best. What recollections it stirred! _Marchand_ and he and I--

When I left the Tube I carefully crumpled the paper up and threw it away, and in the middle of dinner I took care to remark casually to Araminta, "By the way, I suppose you put _Little Pests_ on the library list?"

"Awfully sorry," she said, "but I'm afraid I hadn't heard of them."

"Poppington's latest," I said curtly.

"I'm afraid I haven't heard of Poppington either."

I gave a sigh of desperation and leant back in my chair.

"Well, really!" I protested. "Surely the man himself--everybody--I mean--his--his eye-glass--his bulldog--of course only a few of us fully appreciate the extent of his actual research work--but still--"

"All right, I'll get it," she replied.

That finished off Araminta easily enough, but the situation none the less was serious. Paragraphs exactly like this had been meeting my eye in almost every popular paper for month after month, and, though I use two memory systems and have an electric scalp shampoo each week, I find them increasingly difficult to cope with. _Who's Which_ already transgresses the established canons of literary art. It is almost as tall lying down as standing up, and fellows like Poppington are not even in _Who's Which_. He had not, you observed, even obtained an O.B.E. What would happen if I met him at some public gathering or dinner and by some awful mischance forgot those salient facts?

It appeared to me that a process for reproducing short biographies of this nature in a slightly larger type on the shirt-fronts of eminent personages was badly needed; it should be coupled, I felt, with an arrangement of periscopes to help one when sitting beside the great man or standing behind his back. Or he might perhaps wear upon his sleeve something like the divisional signs which were so useful in France. Old Poppington, for instance, might have a--might wear an--I mean there might be something or other on his coat in red or green or blue to indicate the nature and scope of his secretarial activities and give a fellow the right lead. And to think that every week dozens and dozens of new Poppingtons are springing up like crocuses about me! It was a bewildering thought. They were becoming perhaps the most numerous and influential class in the community. I had visions of mass meetings of "well-known" men--"well-known" men marching in procession with flags to Downing Street to demand State recognition, statues and pensions, and insisting that it should be made a penal offence not to recognise their well-known features in the street. I made a great resolve. Why should I be left out of it? I determined to join the crowd.

I had got rather out of touch with old _Marchand_ for some time, and had indeed forgotten exactly what he looked like, but I persuaded a mutual friend to point him out to me, and, selecting the psychological moment, cannoned into him heavily in the street. His spectacles dropped off and his note-book fell out of his hand.

"Why, if it isn't _Du Beurre_!" I shouted, feigning an ecstatic surprise.

"I am sorry," he said rather stiffly, when he had recovered his breath, "but I am afraid I haven't the pleasure--"

"I am John Smith," I said.

"I am afraid I still--"

"Allow me to tell you all about myself," I said. And I did.

I was a little nervous as to how he would take it, but the event justified me. When I opened my paper next evening I found the following words:--

"Ran across John Smith of Ravenscourt Park yesterday afternoon. Chatting with him about one thing and another, he told me something of the methods he has employed to bring about his present celebrity in that salubrious suburb. He has never, it appears, written a book, collaborated in a review, appeared in a night-club, lunched at the Bitz, sat on a committee, or been summoned as a witness in a sensational divorce case. His record, I fancy, must be one of the most thoroughly unique in Greater London."

There was no photograph of John Smith, but, biting partly into this paragraph and partly into another on the opposite side of the column, was one of Mortimer Despenser, the new film star, featured in _Scented Sin_, which really did almost as well. Dear old _Du Beurre_!

EVOE.

* * * * *

MUSIC À LA MODE.

There was a young singer whose moans Struck a chill to her auditors' bones; So she had to explain That she wasn't in pain, But was trying to sing quarter-tones.

There once was a basso, a swain Who came from the rolling Ukraine; He could sing double D From breakfast till tea Without any symptom of strain.

There was a benevolent peer Who wished to make Art less severe, So he learned the Jazz drum And bids fair to become The black man's most terrible fear.

There once was a critic whose bane Was his dread of a style that was plain, So, resolved to refresh us, He strove to be precious, But sank to the nether inane.

* * * * *

"AMATEUR SNOOKER POOL CHAMPIONSHIP: S.H. FRY DEFLATED."--_Provincial Paper._

It was noticed even during the Billiard competition that he never really got the wind up.

* * * * *

"The chief obstacle to the development of water-power is usually the question of finance, and if the scheme will not hold water from that point of view it is not likely to float."--_Electrical Review._

And if it holds too much water it is certain to sink.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Undeniably Mr. CARADOC EVANS is the bold boy. No doubt you remember (since they are so difficult to forget) the two volumes in which he dealt faithfully (and a bit over) with the manners of his countrymen in the land of their fathers. I have heard, and can well believe, that some of Mr. EVANS' own people were moved by this tribute even to the extent of threatening its author with personal violence. And now he has turned from Welsh Wales to English London, and gives us in _My Neighbours_ (MELROSE) a further collection of sketches pleasantly calculated to prove that the general detestability of his compatriots remains unchanged by their migration from a whitewashed cottage to a villa in Suburbia. Whatever you may think of Mr. EVANS' work, whether it attracts or violently repels, there can be no question of its devastating skill. His sketches, no more than a few pages in length, contain never an idle word, and the phrases bite like vitriol. Moreover he employs an idiom that is (I conjecture) a direct transcription from native speech, which adds enormously to the effect. Understand me, not for worlds would I commend these volumes haphazard to the fastidious; I only say they are clever, arresting and violently individual. Also that, if you have not so far met the work of Mr. EVANS, here is your opportunity, in a volume that shows it at its best, or worst. Half-an-hour's reading will give you an excellent idea of it. At the end of that time you will probably send either to the chemist for a restorative or to the bookseller for the two previous volumes. Meanwhile, if I were the writer, I should purchase a bulldog.

* * * * *

Mrs. GEORGE WEMYSS has for some time past specialised in spinster-aunts, bachelor-uncles and charming nieces. In _Oranges and Lemons_ (CONSTABLE) she introduces us pleasantly to some more. The plot, in fact, is chiefly concerned with the violent squabbles of an uncle and aunt, who belong to different sides of the family, for the good graces of _Diana_ (who is nineteen, or thereabouts, and radiant), and _Shant_, (who says so--just like that--and is five). There are also several young men. To test his abilities in the _Admirable Crichton_ line _Diana_ maroons the most favoured of these, together with three other aspirants to her hand, and her bachelor uncle, on an island in a Scottish loch, hamperless, on a soft day. As the affections of all the lovers remain undimmed, you can guess what kind of a girl _Diana_ must have been. _Shant's_ even more responsible job is to tumble off a pony and allay the temporary tartness which existed between her two elderly admirers, so that nothing but oranges and orange-blossoms remain. Really, of course, none of the story much matters. But if you want the sensation of having stayed with delightful people in delightful places, where rising prices are not even mentioned or thought of, Mrs. WEMYSS can give it you all the time.

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_Night and Day_ (DUCKWORTH) is the title of VIRGINIA WOOLF'S last book; but there is no night for the author's clarity of vision, or her cleverness in describing every detail she has seen, or her delicate precision of style; there is only daylight, temperate, pervading, but at times, I am afraid, almost irritatingly calm. "Give me one indiscretion of sympathy or emotion on behalf of your characters," the reader is tempted to implore her; "let me feel that you are a little bit excited about them and I shall feel excited too." The story, after all, is the simple one (to put it in the shudderingly crude language of former days) of a girl's change of heart from an unreal love to one of whose sincerity she eventually convinces herself. _Katharine Hilbery_, the granddaughter of a great poet, brought up by a father whose only interest is in literature, and a charming mother who wanders in fields of Victorian romance, breaks off her engagement with a civil servant who has more taste than talent for letters, and chooses instead a man slightly below her in social position, but with firmness and decision of character and genuine skill in--what? Ironmongery? No, literature. All through the book I found myself wondering whether a mind so finely tempered as _Katharine's_, a perception so acute, was really fitted for anything so commonplace as, after all, love is. And I longed for the authoress, who explained every mood so amazingly well, to explain this too.

* * * * *

Mrs. NORRIS is evidently a specialist in unconventional situations. In her last novel her theme was the intrigue between a man and his step-mother. In _Sisters_ (MURRAY) it is the passion of a man for his living wife's married sister, and in neither case does the author seem to be conscious of anything out of the ordinary. Not that there is any air of naughtiness about the business. _Peter_, a rich cripple, loved _Cherry_, the youngest and prettiest of the three _Strickland_ girls. But _Martin_, a casual impecunious stranger, stepped in and took her in one bite before _Peter_ could quite realise she was no longer a child. So in default he married _Alix_, who was, incidentally, worth six of her. Meeting his _Cherry_, disillusioned about an unsatisfactory and unsuccessful _Martin_, he reaches out his hand for this forbidden fruit. Whereupon _Alix_, the selfless, drives herself and _Martin_ over a cliff by way of making things smooth for _Peter_ and _Cherry_, which was inconsiderate, if resourceful; for, while _Alix_ is happily killed, poor _Martin_ only breaks his back, so that all may end with the balance on the credit side of the Recording Angel's ledger with _Cherry_ nursing her hopeless invalid. An unlikely story, pleasantly and competently told.

* * * * *

My appreciation of _The Ancient Allan_ (CASSELL) may be measured by my keen disappointment on finding that the concluding pages of the book were absent in the copy vouchsafed to me, and that (apparently) in their place a double dose of pages 279-294 was offered. Nevertheless I can safely assert that you will find this a yarn worth reading, for here Sir RIDER HAGGARD is in as good form as ever he was, when both he and _Allan Quatermain_ were younger. _Lady Ragnall_, who is an old friend to readers of _The Ivory Child_, reappears here, having in her possession a mysterious and potent herb, which she persuades _Allan_ to inhale. Then the fun takes on a great liveliness. _Allan_ is wafted back to the days when Egypt was under the domination of the Persians, and he in his ancient existence performed some of the very doughtiest of deeds. No one living can tell such a tale with a greater dexterity and zest than Sir RIDER. And at that I will leave it, with one more regret that I was not allowed to be present when _Allan_ recovered from the effects of Taduki (the herb that did it).

* * * * *

I find that when the medicine of thought is wrapped up in the jam of fiction I generally take both more willingly than either alone. But if my author, holding out the spoonful, protests that the jam isn't jam at all but part of the dose, then my mouth does not open with quite its usual happy confidence. Miss W.M. LETTS has said something of the sort about her great little book, _Corporal's Corner_ (WELLS, GARDNER, DARTON), and I wish she hadn't. It is cast in the form of letters written by a soldier in hospital to a nurse who has been good to him and whose lover has been killed at the Front. Miss Letts introduces it with a foreword which conveys the impression that a real _Corporal Jack_ wrote these letters to a real nurse; but the letters themselves convince--or very nearly convince--me that the foreword itself is a mere device of authorship, and one which defeats its own intention of adding weight to the wise and tender and often humorous things the writer has to say. From his own death-bed _Corporal Jack_, together with his own love-story and that of his chum _Mac_, writes what he can of comfort to his friend, and whether his hand or Miss LETTS'S held the pen the book is the work of someone who knows all about sorrow, and only the initiated--who must be many for a decade to come--will know quite how well it is done.

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