Part 7

The League of Nations continues to engage attention; but if I were building a house I should build it underground. War can never be eliminated, and it is certain in the future to be waged chiefly in the air and without warning. It is probably high time to turn our scaffold poles into spades.

I send you to-day two short poems from the East. Although written hundreds and hundreds of years ago by Chinese poets, they touch the spot to-day:—

Sir, from my dear old home you come, And all its glories you can name; Oh, tell me,—has the winter-plum Yet blossomed o’er the window frame?

And this:—

You ask when I’m coming: alas! not just yet ... How the rain filled the pools on that night when we met! Oh, when shall we ever snuff candles again, And recall the glad hours of that evening of rain?

—What is the special charm of those? But they haunt me.—Good night,

R. H.

LXXXVI

VERENA RABY TO RICHARD HAVEN

DEAR RICHARD,—You were very good to reply so quickly about poor Blanche’s husband. I wish other people were as prompt and true to their word. Dr. Else must now, I suppose, gang the gait that the stars have prescribed for him; but of course one has to remember that my interference might be also in the stellar programme.

What I think I most want is advice as to the disposition of money after I am dead. I suppose I ought to be giving it to my own needy relations while I am alive. There is poor Letitia, for one. That husband of hers does nothing to add to his pension, and I know she is in need of all kinds of things. Roy is on my mind too. Not that his father is not well off, but fathers and sons so often fail to understand each other, and I feel sure that the boy, if helped a little, might become serious and develop into a self-supporting man. At present he seems to do nothing but fall in and out of love. I do not intend to blame him for that, but I should like to see more stability. He sends me the fullest account of his young ladies, each of whom is perfect in turn. How lovely to be young and absurd and not ashamed of inconstancy! As we grow older we acquire such stupid cautions.

V.

LXXXVII

RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY

Look here, Verena, I wish you wouldn’t say fulsome things about my promptness and so forth. My promptness is sheer self-indulgence, to prevent the bore of accumulated correspondence. As for my sagacity, don’t be so sure about it. You may be taken in by my brevity and the confidence of it all; and I may be utterly wrong about everything. Why not?

Meanwhile, I have to remark that either everything is in the stellar programme (as you so happily call Fate) or nothing is. If your suggested interference with the bibulous proclivities of Dr. Else is written there, so is my dissuasion of you.

If you are bent upon some form of corruption—bribing people into Virtue—why not try it with the young? There’s Roy, as you say, all ready to be an ass. Might not he allow his life to be regulated by the promise of “A Gift for a Good Boy”? Not long ago some rich man left his son a fortune on condition that he never approached within a certain fixed distance—several miles—of Piccadilly Circus. It got into the papers, I remember. How it can be known whether or not these conditions are observed I have no notion. I trust it does not mean ceaseless tracking by private detectives. But there is always a certain fascination about them and I wonder that dramatists have not done more with the idea. Personally I think I hate such tampering with destiny, fortunate or ill, but you must do as you wish with your own. Besides, as I said before, it is probably as much your fate to set up obstacles to Roy’s folly as it is his to be foolish. We only play at free will.

What is at the moment interesting me more than such metaphysics is the problem: Where are the scallops? Once upon a time there used to be Coquilles St. Jacques twice a week, but my faithful landlady can’t get scallops anywhere in these days. Why do things suddenly disappear like this? Is it because the scallop is a cheap luxury, and the fishmonger wants to deal only in the expensive articles? Whitechapel (that very sensible country) is probably full of scallops.

Here’s another Chinese poem which gives me great joy:—

Confusion overwhelming me, as in a drunken dream, I note that Spring has fled and wander off to hill and stream; With a friendly Buddhist priest I seek a respite from the strife And manifold anomalies which go to make up life.

Good night, my dear,

R. H.

LXXXVIII

ROY BARRANCE TO VERENA RABY

DEAR AUNT VERENA,—Thank you for your very kind letter, but really I don’t think I am in any such danger as you seem to fear (and it’s frightfully decent of you to take so much interest in me and my affairs) because I always feel that I am a kind of darling of the gods. This must sound horribly conceited, but it isn’t as bad as that really. It’s a kind of faith in a higher protection, and there’s no harm in having that, is there? Anyhow, it keeps me from getting into anything like very serious trouble. I’ve just had another example of this watchfulness, and it’s so wonderful that I must tell you about it.

You remember about Stella and how glad we were that it was all over with her? We shouldn’t have suited each other a bit, and as a matter of fact I think she would have dragged me down. Well, after not seeing her for weeks, I ran into her in Bond Street on Monday, and before I knew where I was I’d asked her to dine at the Elysian the next day. That was yesterday. It was foolish, I know, but she was so nice and friendly in spite of it all, and looked rather pathetic, and I always think one should be as kind as possible—in fact I learnt it from you.

Anyway, I did it, and then went off and began to regret it at once. I saw what an ass I had been to re-open friendship with her. No one should ever re-open with old flames, particularly when they haven’t played the game. And a meal is particularly unwise, because there may be an extra glass of wine and then where are you? You get soft and melting and forget what you ought to remember, and all the fat is in the fire once more, and before you know where you are you are very likely engaged again. So I went about kicking myself for being so gentle and impulsive, and had a rotten night. The next day I couldn’t telephone or wire to call it off, because I hadn’t her address, and the wretched dinner hung over me like the sword of what’s-his-name all day. Some men of course wouldn’t have gone at all, but I hate breaking engagements.

But—and this is the point—I needn’t have worried at all; and after such a wonderful experience of watchfulness over me I shall never worry again—I should be a monster of ingratitude if I did. Because all the time my guardian angel was working for me. For when I had dressed and started out to get to the Elysian punctually, what do you think?—there was a cordon of police all round it, to keep me and every one away, and thousands of people looking on. The restaurant had caught fire and was gradually but surely burning to the ground! Wasn’t that an extraordinary piece of luck, or rather, not luck but intervention? Of course it was no good looking for Stella among such a crowd, so I went off to the Club and dined alone.

A religious fellow would make a tract about an experience of this kind. I’m afraid I can’t be called religious exactly, but I have learnt my lesson.

I am still having bad nights thinking about my future.—Your affectionate nephew,

ROY

LXXXIX

CLEMENCY POWER TO PATRICIA POWER

PAT, MY ANGEL,—I am comfortable enough here but I wish I could hail an aeroplane and drop in on you all for a few hours. Some day we shall be able to do impulsive and impossible things like that. Miss Raby is certainly getting stronger, and could very well do her own reading, but she seems to like me. I am saving money too—because there’s nothing to do with it—and when my time is finished you must come to London to meet me and I’ll stand you some nice dinners and theatres before we go back.

I hope I’ve done the school children a little good, but it’s heartbreaking to be a teacher, because one is fighting nature most of the time. “Be thoughtful, be good, be considerate,” we say, by which we mean “Behave so that the comfort of older people, who own the world, may be as little disturbed as possible.” But oh the little poets and rebels we are suppressing and perhaps destroying!

We’re all women here, except the Doctor and the Rector, who are both old and oh so polite. The Doctor’s wife, Mrs. Ferguson, is the affable arch type who tells anecdotes and is “quite sure God has a sense of humour”—you know the kind I mean. The Rector’s wife is soft and clinging and full of superlative praise. But I mustn’t be critical, because every one here is kind and nice, and as for Miss Raby I’d do anything for her.

Give Herself my love and say I’ll write very soon. Adela ought to write to me, tell her.—Your devoted

CLEM.

XC

HORACE MUN-BROWN TO VERENA RABY

DEAR AUNT,—As you know, there is great need of a revival in all kinds of home industries if we are to regain, or rather to hold, our place among the nations, and I am far too keen a political economist not to be giving much thought to the matter. What I am at the moment most interested in is the carpet manufacture. I have heard of a firm in the West of England which merely needs a little more capital to do the most astonishing things, and I wonder if you would advance me a thousand or so to invest in it. I ask as a loan—no speculation at all.

One of the reasons why I have a leaning towards this industry—apart from the fact that carpets must always be needed—is that the other day when I was in the South Kensington Museum, looking about for inspiration, I noticed an ancient rug, hanging on the wall, which represented a map. It at once struck me that it would be a first-class notion to make map carpets for sale in this country. Think of the enormous success that a carpet-map of the Western Front would have been during the late War. Conversation need never have faltered, and if you had a real soldier to tea or dinner he could have made his story extraordinarily vivid by walking about the room and illustrating the various positions. Or take a carpet-map of Ireland—how that would help in our understanding of the Irish question! In nurseries too, the carpet could teach geography. Children crawling over it from one country to another could get a most astonishing notion of boundaries and so forth.

The more I think of the scheme, the more I am taken by it; and I hope, dear Aunt, that you will see eye to eye with me. Trusting that you are progressing favourably towards a complete recovery—I am, your affectionate nephew,

HORACE MUN-BROWN

_P.S._—I never see Hazel now, but still live in hopes.

XCI

VERENA RABY TO RICHARD HAVEN

MY DEAR FRIEND AND PHILOSOPHER,—How wise you are! On paper. When I meet you and see your dear old face I know you are capable of quite as many incautious impulses as most of us; but when I read your cool counsels and generalizations you seem to assume a white beard of immense proportions and to be superior to all human temptations or foibles.

Now, tell me, don’t you think there is any way in which a little money might help to get England back to a sense of orderliness and responsibility again? Nesta and I have been wondering if lecturers could be employed, perhaps with cinema films, to excite people about England—the idea of England as the country that ought to set a good example, that always has led and should lead again. A kind of pictorial pageant of its greatness. Or there might be illustrated lives of its greatest men, to stimulate the ambition of the young and their parents. It is all very vague in my mind, but don’t you think there is something in it? The Rector, I confess, is very cold. He says that what is needed is more faith, more piety, and anything that I could do to that end would be the best thing of all; but when I ask him how, all he can suggest is a new peal of bells here and a handsome donation to the spire fund of the church at Bournemouth where he was before he came here, which was left unfinished. Nesta says that, according to her recollection, Bournemouth has too many spires as it is. I know you are usually sarcastic about the Church, but do tell me candidly what you think.

In exchange for all yours, I must give you the last verse of a consolatory poem written for me by a young sympathizer aged nine:—

How we watch the feeble flicker, Watch the face so wan! Day by day she groweth weaker, Soon she will be gone.

Apropos of children—Nesta’s Lobbie said a rather nice thing the other day. There was a wonderful sunset and she went out into the garden to see it. Then she said—“Mother, I can’t think how God made the sky. I can understand His making nuts”—here she rubbed her thumb and finger together as though moulding something—“and even flowers. But the sky—no!”—Your grateful

V.

XCII

RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR VERENA, you have hurt me this time. I never thought you had it in you to do so, but you have. You tell me to tell you something “candidly.” Now, when have I ever done anything else?

As for the Church, I don’t think this the best time to give it spires. It is not architecturally that it needs help, and I never thought so with more conviction than when, at a State banquet the other night, to which I was bidden, I saw a Bishop in purple evening dress. He looked an astonishingly long way from Bethlehem.

As for the cinema scheme, it is ingenious and might serve; but I think I should wait a little until the present fermentation subsides. You would never get a Picture Palace manager to put it on now, when every one is thoughtless and lavish with money and only excitement is popular. I remember seeing an Italian cinema audience go wild over a film about Mameli, who wrote their national song and joined Garibaldi; but that was just before a war—with Turkey—and not after. Before a war you can do wonders with people; but after—no. It is then that the big men are needed.

I don’t often send you anything really wicked, but the temptation to-day is too great to be resisted. You are fond, I know, of those lines by T. E. Brown called “My Garden.” Well, in the magazine of Dartmouth Royal Naval College some irreverent imp once wrote a parody which I can no longer keep to myself. By what right an embryonic admiral should also be a humorous poet I can’t determine; but there is no logic in life. Here is his mischief:—

A garden is a loathsome thing—eh, what? Blight, snail, Pea-weevil, Green-fly such a lot! My handiest tool Is powerless, yet the fool (Next door) contends that slugs are not. Not slugs! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have some brine; ’Tis very sure they shall not walk in mine.

—That of course is sacrilege, and I haven’t the heart to add anything serious to it.

Here’s a nice thing said recently by an old French general, retired, in charge of the Invalides Hospital. “Heroes—yes; a hero can be an affair of a quarter of an hour, but it takes a life-time to make an honest man.”

Morpheus calls.

R. H.

XCIII

NICHOLAS DEVOSE TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAREST SERENA,—I rejoiced to have your letter. I was afraid that you might not be well enough to write; I was afraid that you might not wish to write. I am on my way back and you shall know when I reach London. I will do as you say: you would be wiser than I.

N.

XCIV

LOUISA PARRISH TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR VERENA,—It is too long since I wrote to you. The reason is that the trouble about maids has been so constant and distressing. I am sure that there could not be a house where more consideration is shown, but we cannot get any to stay. I don’t understand it in the least. I have even offered to buy a gramophone for the kitchen, but it is useless. I brought myself to this step very reluctantly, because some of the records with what I believe is called “patter” in them are so vulgar, and too many of the songs too. Our last cook stayed only four days and vanished in the night. She seemed such a nice woman, but you never can tell, they are so deceitful. When we came down in the morning there was a note on the kitchen table and no breakfast. She had actually got out of the window after we had gone to bed.

I now have one coming from the North with an excellent character but she wants £45 a year. Isn’t it monstrous? The housemaid has been here for three weeks, but I wake several times every night and fancy I hear her making off. Life would be hardly worth living, under such circumstances, but for our friends.

I hope your news is good. My own constant ailment does not show any improvement and if only I could feel any confidence about the house I should go to Buxton. I heard from a visitor at the Vicarage yesterday of another case of spinal trouble which seems very like your own. That too was the result of a fall. It was many years ago and the poor sufferer is still helpless; but we all hope better things for you.—Your sincerely loving friend,

LOUISA

_P.S._—My brother Claude has had another stroke.

XCV

ANTOINETTE ROSSITER TO HER MOTHER

DEAREST MUMMIE,—I had a funny dream last night. I dreamt about you and me going to see the Queen and I had a hole in my stocking. The Queen didn’t see the hole but you made me cross by drawing attention to it and apologizing. I said to the Queen, “I suppose you never wear the same stockings again, Queen Mary,” and she said, laughing, “Oh, yes, I do but you mustn’t call me Queen Mary, you must call me Ma’am.” Wasn’t it funny?

When you come home you will find new curtains in the drawing-room which Daddy has had put up for a surprise for you. I oughtn’t to have told you, but you must pretend you didn’t know and be tremendously excited. My cold has gone. I used four handkerchiefs a day.—Your very loving

TONY

x x x x x

XCVI

ROY BARRANCE TO VERENA RABY

_Dear Aunt Verena_,—I am feeling very run down and depressed, because my star has set. What I mean is that Margot has gone. Her people have taken a place in Scotland and of course she had to go too. As I believe I told you, she never intends to marry, but all the same she was a jolly good sort and we had some topping walks together. We used to go to the Zoo too, and as her father is a Fellow all the keepers know her and show her the special things. Being cooped up in London is rotten and I wondered if I might come to you for a few days for some country air and perhaps cheer you up a bit. You must be very dull lying there all the time with nothing but women about you. I should be out most of the day, and I daresay there are some people to play tennis with and a golf course not too far off. Margot has been to Herefordshire and she says it’s ripping, and what she doesn’t know about the country isn’t worth knowing. Of course if all this bores you, you’ll say so, won’t you?—Your affectionate nephew,

ROY

_P.S._—I haven’t seen Stella since that awful Elysian business.

XCVII

RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR, I have to confess to a sad failure. You must know that I am always hoping for an adventure that shall be worth narrating in a letter to you, and sometimes I even strive for them. My latest deliberate flirtation with the Goddess of Chance occurred this afternoon; and being deliberate it failed. At least there is nothing in it for the immediate and sacred purpose: but one never knows how long an arm can be.

It happened this way. I had invited Anna—you know, Fred Distyn’s sister—to a matinée; and she was to meet me in the lobby five minutes before the rise of the curtain. I was there even earlier and stood waiting and watching the eager faces of the arriving audience for fully ten minutes after the play had begun. This eagerness to be inside a theatre and witness rubbish is (as you know) a terrible commentary on life and the intellectual resources of civilization; but that is beside the point.

Having waited for a quarter of an hour I then deposited with the commissionaire a minutely-painted word-portrait of Anna, together with her ticket, and took my seat.

When the first Act was over and there was still no Anna, I told the commissionaire to find some one in the street who looked as though a theatre would amuse him—or, if need be, her—and invite him or her to occupy the empty place.

Now could one set a better trap for Fortune than that?

But it was a hopeless fiasco. Instead of playing the Haroun Al Raschid and going out into the highways and byways, the commissionaire gave the ticket to his wife, who happened to be calling on him for some of his Saturday wages. My own fault, of course, for I ought to have gone myself. One should never delegate the privileges of romance.

Here is an old favourite, for a change:—

Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in! Say I’m weary, say I’m sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I’m growing old, but add Jenny kissed me.

I suppose you know that the Jenny of this poem was Jane Welsh Carlyle?—Your devoted

R. H.

XCVIII

NICHOLAS DEVOSE TO VERENA RABY

[_Telegram_]

Am at Garland’s Hotel, tell me what to do.

NICHOLAS

XCIX

NESTA ROSSITER TO ROY BARRANCE

DEAR ROY,—Aunt Verena asks me to say that she will be delighted if you will come for a few days next week, but she warns you that you will find things very slow here. We are a small party, the liveliest of us being my little Lobbie, whom I don’t think you have seen. As she is now six, this shows that you have neglected your kith and kin. If you care for fishing you had better bring your rod, as the Arrow is not far off. And I wish you would go to that shop in the Haymarket just above the Haymarket Theatre and get one of those glass coffee machines—medium size. I should also like a biggish box of Plasticine for Lobbie.—Your affectionate cousin,

NESTA

C

VERENA RABY TO NICHOLAS DEVOSE

DEAR,—I have thought much since your last letter and more still since the telegram came. Please do not come yet. I could not bear it. Old as the rest of me has become, all that appertains to you is preserved, as though in some heart-cell apart, and as fresh as yesterday. I am not equal to the emotion of seeing you just yet, nor am I sure that I want to. The you that I know is no longer the you that others see—he is young and ambitious and often masterful and yet with such strange fits of misgiving. But I should love to have a portfolio of your sketches, if you could trust them to the railway. Choose those that you think the best or that you made under the happiest conditions. No, let there be one or two when you were least happy.

Are you grey? I am.

SERENA

CI

RICHARD HAVEN TO VERENA RABY

MY DEAR, I hope that this heat isn’t too much for you, but perhaps your circumambient heights promote a breeze. London has been stifling. The War has certainly broken down many of our old conventions. Who, even in the hottest summer, ever before saw bathing in the Trafalgar Square fountains? Or stark naked boys careering round Gordon’s statue. But I saw them to-day—a score of them—with a policeman after them; for against bathing there is a law to break, apparently. The constable did not run, he merely advanced; but they scampered before him, all gleaming in the evening sun, dragging their scanty clothes behind them, and those who were leading paused now and then to get a leg into their trousers, hesitated, failed, and were away again. It is astonishing how little space can intervene between what appears to be a sauntering policeman and a naked fleeing boy. This constable was like Fate.