i?SS:««?»5P« r HE' LITTLE MAN .AND OTHER SATIRES OHN GAL SWORTHy CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE Cornell University Library PR 6013.A46L7 The little man and other satires. 3 1924 013 615 780 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 361 5780 THE LITTLE MAN AND OTHER SATIRES BY THE SAME AUTHOR Issued by William Heinemann THE ISLAND PHARISEES THE MAN OF PROPERTY THE COUNTRY HOUSE FRATERNITY THE PATRICIAN MOODS, SONGS, and DOGGERELS A MOTLEY THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY THE DARK FLOWER Issued by Other Publishers VILLA RUBEIN and Other Stories PLAYS : 3 Volumes A COMMENTARY THE LITTLE MAN AND OTHER SATIRES BY JOHN GALSWORTHY LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN LONDON : WILLIAM HEINEMANN. I9IS- TO ' H. W. NEVINSON For permission to reprint some of these satires the author is indebted to the Editors of The Nation [English], Scribner's Magazine, and The Delineator. CONTENTS PAGE The Little Man 1 Hall-Marked 39 The Voice of ! 59 The Dead Man! 69 Why Not? 75 Het-Dat 83 Studies of Extravagance — I. the writer 89 II. the critic 103 III. THE PLAIN MAN 114 IV. THE SUPERLATIVE . 125 V. THE PRECEPTOR 134 VI. THE ARTIST 143 Vn. THE HOUSEWIFE 152 VIII. THE LATEST THING 164 IX. THE PERFECT ONE 172 X. THE COMPETITOR 181 X CONTENTS PAGE Abracadabra 197 Hathor: a Memory 211 Sekhet: a Dream 217 A Simple Tale 239 Ultima Thule 255 THE LITTLE MAN AUTHOR'S NOTE Since it is just possible that some one may think "The Little Man" has a deep, dark reference to the war, it may be as well to state that this whimsey was written in October, 1913. THE LITTLE MAN SCENE I Afternoon, on the departure platform of an Austrian railway station. At several little tables outside the buffet persons are taking refreshment, served by a pale young waiter. On a seat against the wall of the buffet a woman of lowly station is sitting beside two large bundles, on one of which she has placed her baby, swathed in a black shawl. Waiter {approaching a table whereat sit an Eng- lish traveller and his wife). Zwei Kaffee? Englishman {paying). Thanks. {To his wife, in an Oxford voice) Sugar? Englishwoman {in a Cambridge voice). One. American Traveller (with field-glasses and a pocket camera— from another table). Waiter, I'd like to have you get my eggs. I've been sitting here quite a while. Waiter. Yes, sare. German Traveller. Kelhier, bezahlen! {His 3 THE LITTLE MAN sc. i voice is, like his moustache, stiff and brushed up at the ends. His figure also is stiff and his hair a little grey; clearly once, if not now, a colonel.) Waiter. Komm' gleich ! (The hahy on the bundle wails. The mother takes it up to soothe it. A young, red- cheeked Dutchman at the fourth table stops eating and laughs.) American. My eggs! Get a wiggle on you! Waiter. Yes, sare. {He rapidly recedes.) {A Little Man in a soft hat is seen to the right of the tables. He stands a moment looking after the hurrying waiter, then seats himself at the fifth table.) Englishman (looking at his watch). Ten minutes more. Englishwoman. Bother! American (addressing them). 'Pears as if they'd a prejudice against eggs here, anyway. (The English look at him, but do not speak.) German (in creditable English). In these places man can get nothing. (The Waiter comes flying back with a com- pote for the Dutch Youth, who pays.) German. KeUner, bezahlen ! 4 SCI THE LITTLE MAN Waiter. Eine Krone sechzig. (The German pays.) American (rising, and taking out his watch — hlandly). See here! If I don't get my eggs before this watch ticks twenty, there'U be an- other waiter in heaven. Waiter {flying). Komm' gleich ! American (seeking sympathy). I'm gettin' kind of mad! (The Englishman halves his newspaper and hands the advertisement half to his wife. The Baby wails. The Mother rocks it. The Dutch Youth stops eating and laughs. The German lights a cigarette. The Little Man sits motionless, nursing his hat. The Waiter comes flying hack with the eggs and places them before the American.) Atjerican (putting away his watch). Good! I don't hke trouble. How much ? (He pays and eats. The Waiter stands a moment at the edge of the platform and passes his hand across his brow. The Little Man eyes him and speaks gently.) Little Man. Herr Ober! (The Waiter turns.) Might I have a glass of beer? 5 THE LITTLE MAN sc i Waiter. Yes, sare. Little Man. Thank you very much. {The Waiter goes.) American {pausing in the deglutition of his eggs — affably). Pardon me, sir; I'd like to have you tell me why you called that Uttle bit of a feller "Herr Ober." Reckon you would know what that means? Mr. Head Waiter. Little Man. Yes, yes. American. I smile. Little Man. Oughtn't I to call him that ? German {abruptly). Nein — Kellner. American. Why, yes ! Just "waiter." {The Englishwoman looks round her paper for a second. The Dutch Youth stops eating and laughs. The Little Man gazes from face to face and nurses his hat.) Little Man. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. German. Gott! American. In my covmtry we're vurry demo- cratic — ^but that's quite a proposition. Englishman {handling coffee-pot, to his wife). More? Englishwoman. No, thanks. German {abruptly). These fellows — ^if you treat 6 8c. I THE LITTLE MAN them in this manner, at once they take liber- ties. You see, you will not get your beer. (As he speaks the Waiter returns, bringing the Little Man's heer, then retires.) American. That 'pears to be one up to democ- racy. (To the Little Man) I judge you go in for brotherhood? Little Man (startled). Oh, no ! I never American. I take considerable stock in Leo Tol- stoi myself. Grand man — ^grand-souled ap- paratus. But I guess you've got to pinch those waiters some to make 'em skip. (To the English, who have carelessly looked his way for a moment) You'll appreciate that, the way he acted about my eggs. (The English make faint motions with their chins, and avert their eyes. To the Waiter, who is standing at the door of the buffet) Waiter ! Mash of beer — jump, now ! Waiter. Komm' gleich ! German. Cigarren! Waiter. Schon. (He disappears.) American (affably — to the Little Man). Now, if I don't get that flash of beer quicker'n you got yours, I shall admire. German (abruptly). Tolstoi is nothing — ^nichts! No good! Ha? 7 THE LITTLE MAN sc. i American (relishing the approach of argument). Well, that is a matter of temperament. Now, I'm all for equality. See that poor woman there — ^vnrry humble woman — ^there she sits among us with her baby. Perhaps you'd like to locate her somewhere else ? German (shrugging). Tolstoi is sentimentalisch. Nietzsche is the true philosopher, the only one. American. Well, that's quite in the prospectus — vurry stimulating party — old Nietzsch — ^virgin mind. But give me Leo! (He turns to the red-cheeked youth.) What do you opine, sir? I guess by your labels, you'll be Dutch. Do they read Tolstoi in your country? (The Dutch Youth laughs.) American. Th9,t is a vurry luminous answer. German. Tolstoi is nothing. Man should himself express. He must push — ^he must be strong. American. That is so. In Amurrica we believe in virility; we like a man to expand — ^to cul- tivate his soul. But we believe in brotherhood too; we're vurry democratic. We draw the line at niggers; but we aspire, we're vurry high-souled. Social barriers and distinctions we've not much use for. Englishman. Do you feel a draught ? 8 SCI THE LITTLE MAN Englishwoman (with a shiver of her shoulder toward the American). I do — ^rather. German. Wait ! You are a young people. American. That is so; there are no flies on us. (To the Little Man, who has been gazing eagerly from face to face) Say! I'd like to have you give us your sentiments in relation to the duty of man. (The Little Man fidgets, and is about to open his mouth.) American. For example — ^is it your opinion that we should kill off the weak and diseased, and all that can't jump around ? German (nodding). Ja, ja ! That is coming. Little Man (looking from face to face). They might be me. (The Dutch Youth laughs.) American (reproving him with a look). That's true humility. 'Tisn't grammar. Now, here's a proposition that brings it nearer the bone: Would you step out of your way to help them when it was liable to bring you trouble ? German. Nein, nein ! That is stupid. Little Man (eager hut wistful). I'm afraid not. Of coiirse one wants to German. Nein, nein ! That is stupid ! What is the duty? 9 THE LITTLE MAN sc. i Little Man. There was St. Francis d'Assisi and St. Julien I'Hospitalier, and American. Vurry lofty dispositions. Guess they died of them. (He rises.) Shake hands, sir — ^my name is — (He hands a card.) I am an ice-machine maker. (He shakes the Little Man's hand.) I Hke your sentiments — I feel kind of^ brotherly. (Catching sight of the Waiter appearing in the doorway). Waiter, where to h — ^11 is that flash of beer? German. Cigarren! Waiter. Komm' gleich ! (He vanishes.) Englishman (consulting watch). Train's late. Englishwoman. Really! Nuisance! (A station Policeman, very square and uni- formed, passes and repasses.) American (resuming his seat — to the German). Now, we don't have so much of that in Amur- rica. Guess we feel more to trust in human nature. German. Ah! ha! you will bresently fmd there is nothing in him but self. Little Man (wistfully). Don't you believe in human nature ? American. Vurry stimulating question. That in- vites remark. (He looks round for opinions. The Dutch Youth laughs.) 10 SCI THE LITTLE MAN Englishman {holding out his half of the paper to hiswife). Qwaipl {His wife swaps.) German. In human nature I believe so far as I can see him — ^no more. American. Now that 'pears to me kind o' blas- phemy. I'm vurry idealistic; I believe in heroism. I opine there's not one of us settin' aroimd here that's not a hero — ^give him the occasion. Little Man. Oh ! Do you beheve that ? American. Well ! I judge a hero is just a per- son that'll help another at the expense of him- self. That's a vurry simple definition. Take that poor woman there. Well, now, she's a heroine, I guess. She would die for her baby any old time. German. Animals wiU die for their babies. That is nothing. American. Vurry true. I carry it fiui;her. I postulate we would all die for that baby if a locomotive was to trundle up right here and try to handle it. I'm an idealist. {To the German) I guess you don't know how good you are. {As the German is twisting up the ends of his moustache — to the Englishwoman) I shoiild like to have you express an opinion, ma'am. This is a high subject. 11 THE LITTLE MAN sc. i Englishwoman. I beg your pardon. American. The English are vurry humanitarian; they have a vurry high sense of duty. So have the Germans, so have the Amurricans. (To the Dutch Youth) I judge even in your Uttle covmtry they have that. This is a vurry civilised epoch. It is an epoch of equality and high-toned ideals. (To the Little Man) What is your nationality, sir? Little Man. I'm afraid I'm nothing particular. My father was half-English and half -American, and my mother half-German and half-Dutch. American. My! That's a bit streaky, any old way. (The Policeman passes again.) Now, I don't believe we've much use any more for those gentlemen in buttons, not amongst the civilised peoples. We've grown kind of mild — ^we don't think of self as we used to do. {The Waiter has appeared in the doorway.) German {in a voice of thunder). Cigarren ! Don- nerwetter ! American {shaking his fist at the vanishing Waiter). That flash of beer ! Waiter. Komm' gleich ! American. A little more, and he will join George Washington ! I was about to remark when he 12 SCI THE LITTLE MAN intruded: The kingdom of Christ nowadays is quite a going concern. The Press is vtury enlightened. We are mighty near to universal brotherhood. The colonel here (He indicates the German), he doesn't know what a lot of stock he holds in that proposition. He is a man of blood and iron, but give him an oppor- tunity to be magnanimous, and he'll be right there. Oh, sir ! yes. (The German, with a profound mixture of pleasure and cynicism, brushes up the ends of his mmistache.) Little Man. I wonder. One wants to, but some- how {He shakes his head.) American. You seem kind of skeery about that. You've had experience maybe. The flesh is weak. I'm an optimist — ^I think we're boimd to make the devil hum in the near future. I opine we shall occasion a good deal of trouble to that old party. There's about to be a holo- caust of selfish interests. We're out for high sacrificial business. The colonel there with old-man Nietzsch — ^he won't know himself. There's going to be a vurry sacred oppor- tunity. (As he speaks, the voice of a Railway Offi- cial is heard in the distance calling out in 13 THE LITTLE MAN sc. i German. It approaches, and the words become audible.) Gerrun (startled). Der Teufel ! (He gets up, and seizes the bag beside him. The Station Official has appeared, he stands for a moment casting his commands at the seated group. The Dutch Youth also rises, and takes his coat and hat. The Official turns on his heel and retires, still issuing directions.) Englishman. What does he say? German. Our drain has come in, de oder plat- form; only one minute we haf. (AU have risen in aflutter.) American. Now, that's vurry provoking. I won't get that flash of beer. (There is a general scurry to gather coats and hats and wraps, during which the lowly woman is seen making desperate attempts to deal with her baby and the two large bundles. Quite defeated, she suddenly puts all down, wrings her hands, and cries out: " Herr Jesu ! Hilfe! " The flying proces- sion turn their heads at that strange cry.) American. What's that? Help? (He continues to run. The Little Man 14 8c. II THE LITTLE MAN spins round, rushes back, picks up haby and bundle on which it was seated.) Little Man. Come along, good woman, come along ! (The woman picks up the other bundle and they run. The Waiter, appearing in the doorway with the bottle of beer, watches with his tired smile.) SCENE II A second-class compartment of a corridor carriage, in motion. In it are seated i/ie 'Englishman and his wife, opposite each other at the corridor end, she with her face to the engine, he with his back. Both are somewhat protected from the rest of the travellers by newspapers. Next to her sits the German, and opposite him sits the American; next the American in one window comer is seated the Dutch Youth; the other window cor- ner is taken by the German's bag. The silence is only broken by the slight rushing noise of the train's progression and the crackling of the Eng- lish newspapers. American (turning to the Dutch Youth). Guess I'd like that winder raised; it's kind of chilly after that old run they gave us. 15 THE LITTLE MAN sen {The Dutch Youth laughs, and goes through the motions of raising the window. The English regard the operation with uneasy irritation. The German opens his bag, which reposes on the comer seat next him, and takes out a book.) American. The Germans are great readers. Vurry stimulating practice. I read most anything myself ! (The German holds up the book so that the title may be read.) "Don Quixote" — ^fine book. We Amurricans take considerable stock in old man Quixote. Bit of a wild-cat — ^but we don't laugh at him. German. He is dead. Dead as a sheep. A good thing, too. American. In Amurrica we have still quite an amount of chivalry. German. Chivalry is nothing — sentimentalisch. In modern days — no good. A man must push, he must pull. American. So you say. But I judge your form of chivalry is sacrifice to the state. We allow more freedom to the individual soul. Where there's something little and weak, we feel it kind of noble to give up to it. That way we feel elevated. 16 sen THE LITTLE MAN {As he speaks there is seen in the corridor doorway the Little Man, with the Woman's Baby still on his arm and the bundle held in the other hand. He peers in anxiously. The English, acutely con- scious, try to dissociate themselves from his presence with their papers. The Dutch Youth laughs.) German. Ach! So! American. Dear me ! Little Man. Is there room? I can't find a seat. American. Why, yes ! There's a seat for one. Little Man (depositing bundle outside, and heav- ing Baby). May I? American. Come right in ! {The German sulkily moves his bag. The Little Man comes in and seats himself gingerly.) American. Where's the mother ? Little Man {ruefully). Afraid she got left behind. {The Dutch Youth laughs. The English unconsciously emerge from their news- papers.) American. My ! That would appear to be quite a domestic incident. {The Englishman suddenly utters a pro- found "Ha, Ha!" and disappears behind 17 THE LITTLE MAN sc. ii his paper. And that paper and the one opposite are seen to shake, and little sguirls and squeaks emerge.) German. And you haf got her bundle, and her baby. Ha ! (He cackles drily.) American (gravely). I smile. I guess Providence has played it pretty low down on you. I judge it's acted real mean. (The Baby wails, and the Little Man jigs it with a sort of gentle desperation, looking apologetically from face to face. His wist- ful glance renews the fire of merriment wherever it alights. The American alone preserves a gravity which seems incapable of being broken.) American. Maybe you'd better get off right smart and restore that baby. There's noth- ing can act madder than a mother. Little Man. Poor thing; yes ! What she must be siiffering ! (-4. gale of laughter shakes the carriage. The English for a moment drop their papers, the better to indulge. The Little Man smiles a wintry smile.) American (in a lull). How did it eventuate? Little Man. We got there just as the train was going to start; and I jumped, thinking I could 18 sen THE LITTLE MAN help her up. But it moved too quickly, and — and — ^left her. (The gale of h/ughter blows up again.) American. Guess I'd have thrown the baby out. Little Man. I was afraid the poor little thing might break. (The Baby wails; the Little Man heaves it; the gale of laughter blows.) American (gravely). It's highly entertaining — ^not for the baby. What kind of an old baby is it, anyway? (He sniffs.) I judge it's a bit — nifify. Little Man. Afraid I've hardly looked at it yet. American. Which end up is it ? Little Man. Oh! I think the right end. Yes, yes, it is. American. Well, that's something. Guess I should hold it out of winder a bit. Vurry excitable things, babies ! Englishwoman (galvanized). No, no ! Englishman (touching her knee). My dear ! American'. You are right, ma'am. I opine there's a draught out there. This baby is precious. We've all of us got stock in this baby in a man- ner of speaking. This is a little bit of univer- sal brotherhood. Is it a woman baby? 19 THE LITTLE MAN sen Little Man. I — I can only see the top of its head. Ameeican. You can't always tell from that. It looks kind of over-wrapped-up. Maybe it had better be unbound. German. Nein, nein, neia ! American. I think you are vurry Hkely right, colonel. It might be a pity to unbind that baby. I guess the lady should be consulted in this matter. Englishwoman. Yes, yes, of course — I Englishman (touching her). Let it be! Little beggar seems all right. American. That would seem only known to Providence at this moment. I judge it might be due to humanity to look at its face. Little Man (gladly). It's sucking my finger. There, there — ^nice little thing — ^there ! American. I would surmise you have created babies in your leisure moments, sir? Little Man. Oh ! no — ^indeed, no. American. Dear me ! That is a loss. (Address- ing himself to the carriage at large) I think we may esteem ourselves fortunate to have this little stranger right here with us; throws a vurry tender and beautiful light on human 20 sen THE LITTLE MAN nature. Dem6nstrates what a hold the little and weak have upon us nowadays. The colonel here — & man of blood and iron — there he sits quite ca'm next door to it. {He sniffs.) Now, this baby is rather chastening —that is a sign of grace, in the colonel — ^that is true heroism. LiTTUE Man (faintly). I — ^I can see its face a httle now. (All bend forward.) Amekican. What sort of a physiognomy has it, anyway ? LiTTiiE Man (still faintly). I don't see anything but — ^but spots. German. Oh! Ha! Pfui! (The Dutch Youth laughs.) American. I am told that is not uncommon amongst babies. Perhaps we could have you inform us, ma'am. Englishwoman. Yes, of course — only — ^what sort of Little Man. They seem all over its — (At the slight recoil of every one) I feel sure it's — ^it's quite a good baby underneath. American. That will be rather difficult to come at. I'm just a bit sensitive. I've vurry little use for affections of the epidermis. 21 THE LITTLE MAN sen German. Pfui! {He has edged away as far as he can get, and is lighting a big cigar. The Dutch Youth draws his legs hack.) American (also taking out a cigar). I guess it wotild be well to fumigate this carriage. Does it suffer, do you think ? Little Man (peering). Really, I don't — I'm not sure — I know so little about babies. I think it would have a nice expression — ^if — if it showed. American. Is it kind of boiled-looking? Little Man. Yes — ^yes, it is. American (looking gravely round). I judge this baby has the measles. (The German screws himself spasmodically against the arm of the Englishwoman's seat.) Englishwoman. Poor little thing! Shall I ? (She half-rises.) i Englishman (touching her). No, no — Dash it ! American. I honour your emotion, ma'am. It does credit to us aU. But I sympathise with your husband too. The measles is a vurry important pestilence in connection with a grown woman. 22 sen THE LITTLE MAN LiTTiiB Man. It likes my finger awfully. Really, it's rather a sweet baby. American {sniffing). Well, that would appear to be quite a question. About them spots, now? Are they rosy? Little Man. No — o; they're dark, almost black. German. Gott! Typhus! {He hounds up onto the arm of the Eng- lishwoman's seat.) American. Typhus! That's quite an indisposi- tion! {The Dutch Youth rises suddenly, and hoUs out into the corridor. He is followed hy the German, puffing clouds of smoke. The English and American sit a moment longer without speaking. The English- woman's face is turned with a carious ex- pression — half-pity, half-fear — toward the Little Man. Then the Englishman gets up.) Englishman. Bit stuffy for you here, dear, isn't it? {He puts his arm through hers, raises her, and almost pushes her through the doorway. She goes, still looking back.) American {gravely). There's nothing I admire 23 THE LITTLE MAN sen more'n courage. Guess I'll go and smoke in the corridor. (As he goes out the Little Man looks very wistfully after him. Screwing up his mouth and' nose, he holds the Baby away from him and wavers; then rising, he puis it on the seat opposite and goes through the motions of letting down the window. Having done so he looks at the Baby, who has begun to wail. Suddenly he raises his hands and clasps them, like a child praying. Since, however, the Baby does not stop wailing, he hovers over it in indecision; then, picking it up, sits down again to dandle it, with his face turned toward the open window. Finding that it still wails, he begins to sing to it in a cracked little voice. It is charmed at once. While he is singing, the American appears in the cor- ridor. Letting down the passage window, he stands there in the doorway with the draught blomng his hair and the smoke of his cigar all about him. The Little Man stops singing and shifts the shawl higher, to protect the Baby's head from the draught.) American (gravely). This is the most sublime 24 sc. Ill THE LITTLE MAN spectacle I have ever envisaged. There ought to be a record of this. (The Little Man looks at Mm, wondering.) We have here a most stimulating epitome of our marvellous ad- vance toward universal brotherhood. You are tjrpical, sir, of the sentiments of modem Christianity. You illustrate the deepest feel- ings in the heart of every man. (The Little Man rises with the Baby and a movement of approach.) Guess I'm wanted in the dining- car. (He vanishes.) (The Little Man sits down again, hut hack to the engine, away from the draught, and looks out of the window, patiently jogging the Baby on his knee.) SCENE III An arrival platform. The Little Man, with the Baby and the bundle, is standing disconsolate, while travellers pass and luggage is being carried by. A Station Official, accompanied by a Policeman, appears from a doorway, behind him. Official (consulting telegram in his hand). Das ist der Herr. (They, advance to the Little Man.) 25 THE LITTLE MAN sc. m Official. Sie haben einen Buben gestohlen ? Little Man. I only speak English and Ameri- can. Official. Dies ist nicht Ihr Bube? (He touches the Baby.) Little Man (shaking his head). Take care — ^it's iU. {The man does not understand.) Ill — ^the baby Official {shaking his head). Verstehe nicht. Dis is nod your baby ? No ? Little Man {shaking his head violently). No, it is not. No. Official {tapping the telegram). Gut! You are 'rested. {He signs to the Policeman, who takes the Little Man's arm.) Little Man. Why? I don't want the poor baby. Official {lifting the hindle). Dies ist nicht Ihr Gepack — ^pag? Little Man. No. OFFICLA.L. Gut. You are 'rested. Little Man. I only took it for the poor woman. I'm not a thief — I'm — I'm Official {shaking head). Verstehe nicht. {The Little Man tries to tear his hair. The disturbed Baby wails.) 26 sc.m THE LITTLE MAN Little Man {dandling it as best he can). There, there — ^poor, poor ! Official. Halt still ! You are 'rested. It is all right. Little Man. Where is the mother? Official. She comm by next draia. Das tele- gram say: Halt eiaen Herrn mit schwarzem Buben and schwarzem Gepack. 'Rest gentle- man mit black baby und black — ^pag. (The Little Man turns up his eyes to heaven.) Official. Komm mit us. (They take the Little Man toward the door from which they have come. A voice stops them.) Ameeican (speaking from as far away as may he). Just a moment ! (The Official stops; the Little Man also stops and sits down on a bench against the wall. The Policeman stands stolidly beside him. The American approaches a step or two, beckoning; the Official goes up to him.) Ameeican. Guess you've got an angel from heaven there ! What's the gentleman in but- tons for? Official. Wasistdas? 27 THE LITTLE MAN sc. m American. Is there anybody here that can understand Amurrican ? Official. Verstehe nicht. American. Well, just watch my gestures. I was saying {he points to the Little Man, then makes gestures of flying) you have an angel from heaven there. You have there a man in whom Gawd (he points upward) takes quite an amount of stock. This is a vurry precious man. You have no call to arrest him (he makes the gesture of arrest). No, sir. Providence has acted pretty mean, loading off that baby on him (he makes the motion of dandling). The little man has a heart of gold. (He points to his heart, and takes out a gold coin.) Official (thinking he is about to be bribed). Aber, das ist zu viel ! American. Now, don't rattle me ! (Pointing to the Little Man) Man (pointing to his heart) Herz (pointing to the coin) von Gold. This is a flower of the field — ^he don't want no gentle- man in buttons to pluck him up. (A little crowd is gathering, including the two English, the German, and the Dutch Youth.) Official. Verstehe absolut nichts. (He taps the telegram) Ich muss mein duty do. American. But I'm telling you. This is a good 28 sc.iu THE LITTLE MAN man. This is probably the best man on Gawd's airth. Official. Das macht nichts — ^gut or no gut, I muss mein duty do. (He turns to go toward the Little Man.) American. Oh! Vurry well, arrest him; do your duty. This baby has typhus. (At the word "typhus" the Official stops.) American (making gestures). First-class typhus, black typhus, schwarzen typhus. Now you have it. I'm kiud o' sorry for you and the gentleman in buttons. Do your duty ! Official. Typhus? Der Bub' — die baby hat typhus ? American. I'm teUing you. Official. Gott im Himmel ! American (spotting the German in the little throng). Here's a gentleman wQl corroborate me. Official (much disturbed, and signing to the Po- liceman to stand clear). Typhus! Aber das ist grassUch ! American. I kind o' thought you'd feel like that. Official. Die Sanitatsmachine ! Gleich ! (A Porter goes to get it. From either side the broken half-moon of persons stand gaz- 29 THE LITTLE MAN sc. m ing at the Little Man, who sits un- happily dandling the Baby in the centre.) Official {raising his hands). Was zu thun? Amekican. Guess you'd better isolate the baby. (A silence, during which the Little Man is heard faintly whistling and clucking to the Baby.) Official (referring once more to his telegram). 'Rest gentleman mit black baby; (Shaking his head) Wir must de gentleman hold. (To the German) Bitte, mein Heir, sagen Sie ihm, den Buben zu niedersetzen. (He makes the gesture of deposit.) German (to the Little Man). He say: Put down the baby. (The Little Man shakes his head, and con- tinues to dandle the Baby.) Official. Sie miissen — ^you must. (The Little Man glowers, in silence) Englishman (in background — muttering). Good man! German. His spirit ever denies; er will nicht. Official (again making his gesture). Aber er muss ! (The Little Man makes a face at him.) Sag' Ihm: Instantly put down baby, and iomm' mit us. (The Baby wails.) 30 sc.m THE LITTLE MAN LiTTLB Man. Leave the poor ill baby here alone? Be-be-be- d — d first ! American (jumping onto a trunk — with enthur siasm). Bully! (The English clap their hands; the Dutch Youth laughs. The Official is mutter- ing, greatly incensed.) American. What does that body-snatcher say? German. He say this man use the baby to save himself from arrest. Very smart — ^he say. American. I judge you do him an injustice. (Showing of the Little Man with a sweep of his arm.) This is a vurry white man. He's got a black baby, and he won't leave it in the lurch. Guess we would aU act noble, that way, give us the chance. (The Little Man rises, holding out the Baby, and advances a step or two. The half-moon at once gives, increasing its size; the American climbs onto a higher trunk. The Little Man retires and again sits down.) American (addressing the Official). Guess you'd better go out of business and wait for the mother. Official (stamping, his foot). Die Mutter sail 'rested be for taking out baby mit typhus^ 31 THE LITTLE MAN sc. in Ha! {To the Little Man) Put ze baby- down! {The Little Man smiles.) Do you 'ear? Ameeican {addressing the Official). Now, see here. 'Pears to me you don't suspicion just how beautiful this is. Here we have a man giving his life for that old baby that's got no claim on him. This is not a baby of his own making. No, sir, this a vurry Christ-like proposition in the gentleman. Official. Put ze baby down, or ich will gommand some one it to do. Ameeican. That will be vurry interesting to watch. Official {to Policeman). Nehmen Sie den Buben. Dake it vrom him. {The Policeman mutters, hut does not.) Ameeican {to the Geeman). Guess I lost that. Geeman. He say he is not his officier. Ameeican. That just tickles me to death. Official {looking round). Vill nobody dake ze Bub'? Englishwoman {moving a step— faintly) . Yes — I Englishman {grasping her arm). By Jove! Will you! 32 sc.ui THE LITTLE MAN Official {gathering himself for a great effort to take the Baby, and advancing two steps). Zen I gommand you {He stops and his voice dies away.) Zit dere ! American. My! That's wonderful. What a man this is ! What a sublime sense of duty ! {The Dutch Youth laughs. The Official turns on him, but as he does so the Mother of the Baby is seen hurrying.) Mother. Ach ! Ach ! Mei' Bubi ! {Her face is illumined; she is about to rush to the Little Man.) Official {to the Policeman). Nimm die Frau ! {The Policeman catches hold of the Woman.) Official {to the frightened Woman). Warum ha- ben Sie einen Buben mit Typhus mit aus- gebracht ? American {eagerly, from his perch). What was that? I don't want to miss any. German. He say: Why did you a baby with tj^hus with you bring out ? American. Well, that's quite a question. {He takes out the field-glasses slung around him and adjusts them on the Baby.) Mother {bewildered). Mei' Bubi — ^Typhus — aber 33 THE LITTLE MAN sc. ni Typhus? (She shakes her head violenUy.) Nein^ nein, nein ! Typhus ! Official. Er hat Typhus. Mother {shaking her head). Nein, nein, nein ! American {looking through his glasses). Guess she's kind of right! I judge the typhus is where the baby's slobbered on the shawl, and it's come off on him. {The Dutch Youth laughs.) Official {turning on him furiously). Er hat Typhus. American. Now, that's where you slop over. Come right here. {The Official mounts, and looks through the glasses.) American {to the Little Man). Skin out the baby's leg. If we don't locate spots on that, it'll be good enough for me. (The Little Man fumbles out the Baby's little white foot.) Mother. Mei' Bubi ! {She tries to break away.) American. White as a banana. {To the Official — affably) Guess you've made kind of a fool of us with your old typhus. Official. Lass die Frau ! {The Policeman lets her go, and she rushes to her Baby.) 34 sc.m THE LITTLE MAN Mother, Mei' Bubi ! {The Baby, exchanging the warmth of the Little Man for the momentary chill of its Mother, wails.) OFFICLA.L {descending and beckoning to the Police- man). Sie wollen den Herm accusiren? {The Policeman takes the Little Man's arm.) American. What's that? They goin' to pinch him after all ? {The Mother, still hugging her Baby, who has stopped crying, gazes at the Little Man, who sits dazedly looking up. Sud- denly she drops on her kn^es, and with her free hand lifts his hooted foot and kisses it.) American {waving his hat). 'Ra! 'Ra! {He de- scends swiftly, goes up to the Little Man, whose arm the Policeman has dropped, and takes his hand.) Brother, I am proud to know you. This is one of the greatest moments I have ever experienced. {Displaying the Lit- tle Man to the assembled company) I think I sense the situation when I say that we all es- teem it an honour to breathe the rather inferior atmosphere of this station here along with our little friend. I guess we shall all go home and 35 THE LITTLE MAN sc. nr treasure the memoiy of his face as the whitest thing ia our museum of recollections. And perhaps this good woman will also go home and wash the face of our little brother here. I am inspired with a new faith ia mankind. We can all be proud of this mutual experience; we have our share in it; we can kind of feel noble. Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to pre- sent to you a sure-enough saint — only wants a halo, to be transfigured. (To the Little Man) Stand right up. (The Little Man stands up bewildered. They come about him. The Official bows to him, the Policeman salutes him. The Dutch Youth shakes his head and laughs. The Gekman draws himself up very straight, and bows quickly twice. The Englishman and his wife approach at least two steps, then, thinking better of it, turn to each other and recede. The Mother kisses his hand. The Porter returning with the Sanitdtsmachine, turns it on from behind, and its pinkish shower, goldened by a ray of sunlight, falls around the Little Man's head, transfiguring it as he stands with eyes upraised to see whence the portent comes!) 36 sera THE LITTLE MAN Amekican (rushing forward and dropping on his knees). Hold on just a minute! Guess I'll take a snap-shot of the miracle. {He adjusts his pocket camera.) This ought to look bully ! 37 HALL-MARKED The scene is the sitting^oom and veranda of Her bungalow. The room is pleasant, and along the back, where the veranda runs, it seems all window, both French and casement. There is a door right and a door left. The day is bright; the time morning. Her- self, dripping wet, comes running along the veranda, through the French window, with a wet , Scotch terrier in her arms. She vanishes through the door left. A little pause, and Lady Ella comes running, dry, thin, refined, and agitated. She halts where the tracks of water cease at the door left. A little pause, and Maud comes running, fairly dry, stolid, breathless, and drag- ging a bulldog, wet, breathless, and stout, by the crutch end of her en-tout-cas. Lady Ella. Don't bring Hannibal in till I know where she's put Edward ! Maud {brutally, to Hannibal). Bad dog! Bad dog! .(Hannibal snuffles.) 39 HALL-MARKED Lady Ella. Maud, do take him out! Tie him up. Here! (She takes out a lace handker- chief.) No — ^something stronger! Poor dar- ling Edward ! {To Hannibal) You are a bad dog! (Hannibal snuffles.) Maud. Edward began it, Ella. (To Hannibal) Bad dog ! Bad dog ! (Hannibal snuffles.) Lady Ella. Tie him up outside. Here, take my scarf. Where is my poor treasure? (She re- moves her scarf.) Catch! His ear's torn; I saw it. Maud (taking the scarf, to Hannibal). Now! (Hannibal snuffles. She ties the scarf to Ms col- lar.) He smells horrible. Bad dog — ^getting into ponds to fight ! Lady Ella. Tie him up, Maud. I must try in here. (Their hmbands, The Squike and The Rec- tor, come hastening along the veranda.) Maud (to The Rectob). Smell him, Bertie! (To The Squire) You might have that pond drained, Squire ! (She takes Hannibal out, and ties him to the veranda. The Squire and Rector 40 HALL-MARKED ccyme in. Lady Ella is knocking on the door left) Her Voice. All right ! I've boxmd him up ! Lady Ella. May I come in? Her Voice. Just a second ! I've got nothing on. (Lady Ella reco-lls. The Squire and Rec- tor make an involuntary movement of approach.) Lady Ella. Oh ! There you are ! The Rector (doubtfvlly). I was just going to wade iu Lady Ella. Hannibal would have killed him, if she hadn't rushed in ! The Squire. Done him good, little beast ! Lady Ella. Why didn't you go in. Tommy? The Squire. Well, I would — only she Lady Ella. I can't think how she got Edward out of Hannibal's awful mouth ! Maud (without — to Hannibal, who is snuffling on the veranda, and straining at the scarf). Bad dog! Lady Ella. We must simply thank her tremen- dously ! I shall never forget the way she ran in, with her skirts up to her waist ! The Squire. By Jove ! No. Lady Ella. Her clothes must be ruined. That 41 HALL-MARKED pond — ugh! (Shevmnkleshernose.) Tommy, do have it drained. The Rectoe {dreamily). I don't remember her face in church. The Squire. Ah! Yes. Who is she? Pretty- woman ! Laby Ella. I must get the Vet. to Edward. (To The Squire) Tommy, do exert yourself I (Maud re-enters.) The Squire. All right ! (Exerting himself) Here's a bell. Her Voice {through the door). The bleeding's stopped. {They listen.) Shall I send him in to you? Lady Ella. Oh, please! Poor darling ! (Lady Ella prepares to receive Edward. The Squire and Rector stand trans- fixed. The door opens, and a hare arm gently pushes Edward forth. He is band- aged with a smooth towel. There is a snuffle — ^Hannibal has broken the scarf, outside.) Lady Ella {aghast). Look! Hannibal's loose! Maud— Tommy. {To The Rector) You ! {The three rush to prevent Hannibal from re-entering.) 42 HALL-MARKED Lady Ella (to Edward). Yes, I know— you'd like to! You shall bite him when it's safe. Oh! my darling, you do — {She sniffs. Maud and The Squire re-enter.) Have you tied him properly this time ? Maud. With Bertie's braces. Lady Ella. Oh! but Maud. It's all right; they're almost leather. (The Rector re-enters, with a slight look of insecurity.) Lady Ella. Rector, are you sure it's safe ? The Rector (hitching at his trousers). No, indeed,. Lady Ella— I Lady Ella. Tommy, do lend a hand ! The Squhib. All right, Ella; all right! He doesn't mean what you mean ! Lady Ella (transferring Edward to The Squirf). Hold him, Tommy. He's sure to smell out Hannibal ! The Squire (taking Edward hy the collar, and holding his own nose). Jove! Clever if he can smell anything but himself. Phew! She ought to have the Victoria Cross for goin' in that pond. (The door opens, and Herself appears; a fine, frank, handsome woman, in a man's 43 HALL-MARKED orange-coloured motor-coat, hastily thrown on over the substrata of costume.) ' She. So very sorry — ^had to have a bath, and change, of course ! Lady Ella. We're so awfully grateful to you. It was splendid. Maud. Quite, The Rectoe {rather holding himself together). Heroic ! I was just myseK about to The Squikb {restraining Edward). Little beast will fight — ^must apologise — ^you were too quick for me {He looks up at her. She is smiling, and regarding the wounded dog, her head benevolently on one side.) She. Poor dears! They thought they were so safe in that nice pond ! LiADY Ella. Is he very badly torn ? She. Rather nasty. There ought to be a stitch or two put in his ear. Lady Ella. I thought so. Tommy, do — - The Squire. All right. Am I to let him go? Lady Ella. No. Maud. The fly's outside. Bertie, run and tell Jarvis to drive in for the Vet, The Rector {gentle and embarrassed). Run? Well, Maud— I 44 HALL-MARKED She. The doctor would sew it up. My maid can go round. (Hannibal appears at the open casement vnth the broken braces dangling from his collar.) Lady Ella. Look ! Catch him ! Rector ! Maud. Bertie ! Catch him ! (The Rectoe seizes HANNraAL, hut is seen to he in difficulties with his garments. Herself, who has gone out left, returns, with a leather strop in one hand and a pair of braces in the other.) She. Take this strop — ^he can't break that. And would these be any good to you ? (She hands the braces to Maud and goes out onto the veranda and hastily away. Maud, transferring the braces to The Rector, goes out, draws Hannibal from the casement window, and secures him with the strop. The Rector sits suddenly, with the braces in his hands. There is a moment's peace.) Lady Ella. Splendid, isn't she? I do admire her. The Squire. She's all there. The Rector (feelingly). Most kind. (He looks ruefully at the hraces and at Lady Ella. A silence. Maud reappears at the door and stands gazing at the hraces.) 45 HALL-MARKED The Squire (suddenly). Eh? Maud. Yes. The Squiee (looking at his wife). All ! Lady Ella (absorbed in Ed ward). Poor darling! The Squire (bluntly). Ella, the rector wants to get up ! The Rector (gently). Perhaps — ^just for a mo- ment Lady Ella. Oh ! (She turns to the wall.) (The Rector, screened by his wife, retires onto the veranda, to adjust his garments.) The Squire (meditating). So she's married! Lady Ella (absorbed in Edward). Why? The Squire, Braces. Lady Ella. Oh! Yes. We ought to ask them to dinner. Tommy. The Squire. Ah ! Yes. .Wonder who they are? (The Rector and Maud reappear.) The Rector. Really very good of her to lend her husband's — I was — er — quite Maud. That'll do, Bertie. (They see Her returning along the veranda, followed by a sandy, redrfaced gentleman in leather leggings, with a needle and cot- ton in his hand.) 46 HALL-MARKED Herself. Caught the doctor just starting. So lucky! Lady Ella. Oh! Thank goodness ! Doctor. How do, Lady Ella? How do, Squire —how do, Rector? {To Maud) How de do? This the beast? _ I see. Quite! Who 'U hold him forme? Lady Ella. Oh! I! Herself. D'you know, I think I'd better. It's so dreadful when it's your own, isn't it ? Shall we go in here, doctor? Come along, pretty boy! (She takes Edward, and they pass into the room, left) Lady Ella. I dreaded it. She is splendid ! The Squire. Dogs take to her. That's a sure sign. The Rector. Little things — one can always tell. The SQuraE. Something very attractive about her — ^what ! Fine build of woman. Maud. I shall get hold of her for parish work. The Rector. Ah ! Excellent — excellent ! Do ! The Squire. Wonder if her husband shoots? She seems quite — er — quite Lady Ella {watching the door). Quite! Alto- gether charming; one of the iiicest faces I ever 47 HALL-MARKED saw. (The Doctor comes out alone.) Oh! Doctor — ^have you — ^is it Doctor. Right as rain! She held him like an angel — ^he just licked her, and never made a sound. Ladt Ella. Poor darling ! Can I — (She signs toward the door.) Doctor. Better leave 'em a mmute. She's mop- pin' 'im off, {He lorinkles his nose.) Wonder- ful clever hands ! The Squire. I say — ^who is she? Doctor {looking from face to face with a dubious and rather quizzical expression). Who? Well — ■ There you have me! All I know is she's a first-rate nurse — ^been helpin' me with a case in Ditch Lane. Nice woman, too — ^thorough good sort! Quite an acquisition here. H'm! {Again that quizzical glance.) Excuse me hurryin' off — ^very late. Good-bye, Rector! Good-bye, Lady Ella ! Good-bye ! {He goes. A silence.) The Squire. H'm ! I suppose we ought to be a bit careful. (Jarvis, flyman of the old school, has ap- peared on the veranda.) Jarvis {to The Rector). Beg pardon, sir. Is the little dog all right? 48 HALL-MARKED Maud. Yes. Jarvis {touching Ms hat). Seein' you've missed, your train, m'm, shall I wait, and take you 'ome again? Maud. No. Jarvis. Cert'nly, m'm, (He touches his hat with a circular gesture, and is about to withdraw.) Lady Ella. Oh ! Jarvis — ^what's the name of the people here ? Jarvis. Challenger's the name'I've driven 'em in, my lady. The Squire. Challenger? Sounds like a hound.. What's he like? Jarvis {scratching his head). Wears a soft 'at, sir. The Squire. H'm ! Ah ! Jarvis. Very nice gentleman, very nice lady. 'Elped me with my old mare when she 'ad the 'ighsteria last week — couldn't 'a' been kinder if they'd 'a' been angels from 'eaven. Won- derful fond o' dumb aiiimals, the two of 'em. I don't pay no attention to gossip, meself . Maud. Gossip ? What gossip ? Jarvis {backing). Did I make use of the word^ m'm? You'll excuse me, I'm sure. There's always talk where there's newcomers. I takes people as I finds 'em. 49 HALI^MARKED The Rectob. Yes, yes, Jarvis — quite — quite right ! Jarvis. Yes, sir. I've— I've got a 'abit that way at my time o' Ufe. Maud (sharply). How long have they been here, Jarvis ? Jaevis. Well — er — a matter of three weeks, m'm. (A slight involuntary stir. Apologetic) Of course, in my profession, I can't afford to take notice of whether there's the trifle of a ring between 'em, as the sayin' is. 'Tisn't 'ardly my business like. (A silence.) Lady Ella (suddenly). Er — ^thank you, Jarvis; you needn't wait. Jarvis. No, m'lady! Your service, sir — service, m'm. (He goes.) (A silence.) The Squire (drawing a little closer). Three weeks ? I say — er — ^wasn't there a book ? The Rector (abstracted). Three weeks — I cer- tainly haven't seen them in church. Maud. A trifle of a ring ! Lady Ella (impulsively). Oh, bother! I'm sure she's aU right. And if she isn't, I don't care. She's been much too splendid. The Squire. Must think of the village. Didn't quite like the doctor's way of puttin' us off. 60 HALL-MABKED Lady Ella. The poor darling owes his life to her. The Squire. H'm ! Dash it ! Yes ! Can't for- get the way she ran into that stinkin' pond. Maud. Had she a wedding-ring on ? (They look at each other, hut no one knows.) Lady Ella. Well, I'm not going to be ungrate- ful! The Squike. It'd be dashed awkward — mustn't take a false step, Ella. The Rbctoe. And I've got his braces! (He puts his hand to his waist.) Maud (wamingly). Bertie ! The Squire. That's all right, Rector — ^we're goin' to be perfectly polite, and — and — ^thank her, and all that. Lady Ella. We can see she's a good sort. What does it matter? Maud. My dear Ella! "What does it matter!" We've got to know. The Rector. We do want light. The Squire. I'll ring the bell. (He rings. They look at each other aghast.) Lady Ella. What did you ring for. Tommy? The Squire (flabbergasted). God knows' Maud. Somebody'U come. The Squere. Rector— you— you've got to 51 HALI^MARKED Maud. Yes, Bertie. The Rector. Dear me! But — er — ^what — er — How? The Squire {deeply — to himself). The whole thing's damn delicate. (The door right is opened and a Maid ap- pears. She is a determined-looking female. They face her in silence.) The Rector. Er — er — ^your master is not in ? The Maid. No. 'E's gone up to London. The Rector. Er — Mr. Challenger, I think? The Maid. Yes. The Rector. Yes ! Er — quite so ! The Maid (eyeing them). D'you want — Mrs. Challenger? The Rector. Ah ! Not precisely The Squire (to him in a low, determined voice). Go on. The Rector (desperately). I asked because there was a — a — Mr. Challenger I used to know in the nineties, and I thought — ^you wouldn't happen to know how long they've been mar- ried ? My friend marr The Maid. Three weeks. The Rector. Quite so — quite so! I shall hope it will turn out to be — Er — ^thank you — Ha! 52 HALL-MARKED Lady Ella. Out dog has been fighting with the jrector's, and Mrs. Challenger rescued him; she's bathing his ear. We're waiting to thank her. You needn't The Maid (eyeing them). No. (She turns and goes out.) The Squibe. Phew! What a gorgon! I say, Rector, did you really know a Challenger in the nineties ? The Rector (vnjnng his brow). No. The Squire. Ha ! Jolly good ! Lady Ella. Well, you see ! — it's all right. The Rector. Yes, indeed. A great relief ! Lady Ella (moving to the door). I must go in now. The Squire. Hold on! You goin' to ask 'em to — ^to — anjrthing ? Lady Ella. Yes. Maud. I shouldn't. Lady Ella. Why not? We all like the look of her. The Rector. I think we should punish ourselves for entertaining that uncharitable thought. Lady Ella. Yes. It's horrible not having the courage to take people as they are. The Squire. As they are ? H'm ! How can you till you know ? 53 HALL-MARKED Lady Ella. Trust our instincts, of course. The Squire. And supposing she'd turned out not married — eh? Lady Ella. She'd still be herself, wouldn't she? Maud. Ella! The Squire. H'm ! Don't know about that. Lady Ella. Of course she would, Tommy. The Rector (his hand stealing to his waist). _ Well ! It's a great weight off my ! Lady Ella. There's the poor darling snuffling. I must go in. (She knocks on the door. It is opened, and Edward comes out briskly, with a neat little white pointed ear-cap on one ear.) Lady Ella. Precious ! (She Herself comes out, now properly dressed in flax-blue linen.) Lady Ella. How perfectly sweet of you to make him that ! She. He's such a dear. And the other poor dog? Maud. Quite safe, thanks to your strop. (Hannibal appears at the window, with the broken strop dangling. Following her gaze, they turn and see him) Maud. Oh ! There, he's broken it. Bertie ! She. Let me ! (She seizes Hannibal.) 54 HALL-MARKED The Squire. We're really most tremendously obliged to you. Afraid we've been an awful nuisance. She. Not a bit. I love dogs. The SQuraE. Hope to make the acquaintance of Mr. — of your husband. LadyEua (to^DWARD, who is straining). Gently, darling! Tommy, take him. (The Squire does so.) Maud (approaching Hannibal). Is he behaving? (She stops short, and her face suddenly shoots forward at Her hands that are holding Han- nibal's neck.) She. Oh ! yes — ^he's a love. Maud (regaining her upright position, and pursing her lips; in a peculiar voice). Bertie, take Han- nibal. (The Rector takes him.) Lady Ella (producing a card). I can't be too grateful for all you've done for my poor dar- ling. This is where we live. Do come — and see — (Maud, whose eyes have never left those hands, tweaks Lady Ella's dress.) That is — I'm— I^ (Herself looks at Lady Ella in surprise.) The Squire. I don't know if your husband shoots, 55 HALL-MARKED but — ^if — (Maud, catching his eye, taps the third finger of her left hand) — er — he — does — er — er (Herself hoks at The Squire surprised.) Maud {turning to her hushand, repeats the gesture with the low and simple word) Look ! The Rector {with round eyes, severely). Han- nibal ! {He lifts him hodily, and carries him away.) Maud. Don't squeeze him, Bertie ! {She follows through the French window.) The Squire {abruptly — of the unoffending Ed- ward). That dog'U be forgettin' himself in a minute. {He picks up Edward, and takes him out. Lady Ella is left staring.) Lady Ella {at last). You mustn't think, I — ^you mustn't think, we — Oh! I mu^t just see they don't let Edward get at Hannibal. {She skims away.) (Herself is left staring after Lady Ella, in surprise.) She. What is the matter with them? {The door is opened.) The Maid {entering, and holding out a wedding- ring — severely). You left this, m'm, in the bathroom. 56 HALL-MARKED She {looking, startled, at 'Hje^^ finger). Oh! (Taking it) I hadn't missed it. Thank you, Martha. (The Maid goes. A hand, slipping in at the casement window, softly lays a pair of braces on the window-sill. She looks at the braces, then at the ring. Her lip curls.) She {murmuring deeply). Ah! 57 THE VOICE OF The proprietor of "The Paradise" had said freely that she would "knock them." Broad, full- coloured, and with the clear, swimming eye of an imagiQative man, he was trusted when he spoke thus of his new "turns." There was the feeling that he had once more discovered a good thing. And on the afternoon of the new star's dress rehearsal it was noticed that he came down to watch her, smoking his cigar calmly in the front row of the stalls. When she had finished and withdrawn, the chef d'orchestre, while folding up his score, felt something tickling his ear. "Bensoni, this is hot goods !" Turning that dim, lined face of his, whose moustache was always coming out of wax, Signor Bensoni answered: "A bit of all right, boss !" "If they hug her real big to-night, send roimd to my room." "I wiU." Evening came, and under the gilt-starred dome the house was packed. Rows and rows of serious seekers for amusement; and all the customary 59 THE VOICE OF ! crowd of those who "drop in" — old clients with hair and without hair, in evening clothes, or straight from their oflBces or race-course; bare- necked ladies sitting; ladies who never sat, but under large hats stood looking into the distance, or moved with alacrity in no particular direction, and halted swiftly with a gentle humming; loun- ging and high-coUared youths, furtively or boldly staring, and unconsciously tightening their lips; distinguished goatee-bearded foreigners wander- ing without rest. And always round the door- ways the huge attendants, in their long, closely buttoned coats. The little Peruvian bears had danced. The Volpo troupe in claret-coloured tights had gone once more without mishap through their hair- breadth tumbles. The Mulligatawny quartet had contributed their "unparalleled plate spray." "Donks, the human ass," had brayed. Signor Bensoni had conducted to its close his "Pot-pour- riture" which afforded so many men an oppor- tunity to stretch their legs. Arsenico had swal- lowed many things with conspicuous impunity. "Great and Small Scratch" had scratched. "Fraulein Tizi, the charming female vocalist," had suddenly removed his stays. There had been no minute dull; yet over the whole performance 60 THE VOICE OF had hung that advent of the new star, that sense of waiting for a greater moment. She came at last — ^in black and her own white- ness, "La Bellissima," straight from Brazil; tall, with raven-dark hair, and her beautiful face as pale as ivory. Tranquilly smiling with eyes only, she seemed to draw the gaze of all into those dark weUs of dancing life; and, holding out her arms, that seemed fairer and rounder than the arms of women, she said: "Ladies and gentlemen, I will dance for you de latest GoUywog BraziUan cater- pillar crawl." Then, in lime-light streaming down on her from the centre of the gallery, she moved back to the comer of the stage. Those who were wandering stood still ; every face craned forward. For, side- long, with a mouth widened till it nearly reached her ears, her legs straddling, and her stomach writhing, she was moving incomparably across the stage. Her face, twisted on her neck, at an alarming angle, was distorted to a strange, inim- itable hideousness. She reached the wings, and turned. A voice cried out: "Epatant!" Her arms, those round white arms, seemed yellow and skinny now, her obviously slender hips had achieved miraculous importance; each movement of her whole frame was attuned to a perfect har- 61 THE VOICE OF ! mony of ugliness. Twice she went thus marvel- lously up and down, in the ever-deepening hush. Then the music stopped, the lime-light ceased to flow, and she stood once more tranquil and up- right, beautiful, with her smiliug eyes. A roar of enthusiasm broke, salvo after salvo — clapping and "Bravos," and comments flying from mouth to mouth. "Rippia'!" "Bizarre — I say — ^how bizarre!" ^' Of the most chic!" "Wunderschon!" "Bully!" Raising her arms again for silence, she said quite simply: " Good ! I wiU now, ladies and gen- tlemen, sing you the latest Patagonian Squaw Squall. I sing you first, however, few bars of 'Che far6' old-fashion, to show you my natm-al tones — so you will see." And in a deep, sweet voice began at once: "Che far6 senz' Euridice"; while through the whole house ran a shuflBe of preparation for the futm-e. Then aU was sud- denly still; for from her hps, remarkably enlarged, was issuing a superb cacophony. Like the screech- ing of parrots, and miauling of tiger-cats fighting in a forest, it forced attention from even the least musical. Before the first verse was ended, the imcontrol- lable applause had drowned her; and she stood, not bowing, smiling with her Ups now — ^her pretty 62 THE VOICE OF lips. Then raising a slender forefinger, she began the second verse. Even more strangely harsh and dissonant, from Ups more monstrously disfigured, the great sovind came. And, as though in tune with that crescendo, the lime-fight brightened till she seemed aU wrapped in flame. Before the storm of acclamation could burst from the en- rapttired house, a voice coming from the gaUery was heard suddenly to cry: "Woman! Blasphemous creature ! You have profaned Beauty !" For a single second there was utter silence, then a huge, angry "Hush!" was hurled up at the speaker; and all eyes tmned toward the stage. There stood the beautiful creature, motionless, staring up into the lime-fight. And the voice from the gaUery was heard again. "The blind applaud you; it is natural. But you — unnatural! Go!" The beautiful creature threw up her head, as though struck below the jaw, and with hands flung out, rushed from the stage. Then, amidst the babel of a thousand cries — "Chuck the brute out!" "Throw him over ! " " Where's the manager ? " " Encore, en- core!" — ^the manager himself came out from the wings. He stood gazing up into the stream of lime-fight, and there was instant silence. 63 THE VOICE OF ! " Hullo ! up there ! Have you got him ? " A voice, far and small, travelled back in answer: "It's no one up here, sir !" "What? Limes! It was in front of you!" A second faint, small voice came quavering down: "There's been no one hollerin' near me, sir." "Cut off your light!" Down came the quavering voice: "I 'ave cut off, sir." "What?" "I 'ave cut off — I'm disconnected." "Look at it !" And, pointing toward the bril- liant ray still showering down onto the stage, whence a faint smoke seemed rising, the man- ager stepped back into the wings. Then, throughout the house, arose a rustling and a scuffling, as of a thousand fvutively con- sulting; and through it, of it, continually louder, the whisper— "Fire !" And from every row some one stole out; the women in the large hats clustered, and trooped toward the doors. In five minutes "The Para- dise" was empty, save of its officials. But of fire there was none. Down in the orchestra, standing well away from the centre, so that he coiild see the stream of lime- light, the manager said: 64 THE VOICE OF "Electrics!" "Yes, sir." "Cut off every light." "Right, sir." With a choking sound the lights went out; and all was black — ^but for that golden pathway still flowing down the darkness. For a moment the manager blinked silently at the strange effiilgence. Then his scared voice rose: "Send for the Boss — look ahve ! Where's Limes ? ' ' Close to his elbow a dark little quick-eyed man, with his air of professional stupidity, an- swered in doubt: "Here, sir." "It's up to you. Limes !" The little man, wiping his forehead, gazed at the stream of golden light, powdering out to silver at its edges. "I've took out me limes, and I'm disconnected, and this blanky ray goes on. What am I to do? There's nothing up there to cause it. Go an' see for yourself, sir !" Then, passing his hand across his mouth, he blurted out: "It's got to do with that there voice — I shouldn't be surprised. Un- nat'ral-hke; the voice o' " The manager interrupted sharply: "Don't be a d — dass. Limes!" And, suddenly, all saw the proprietor passing 65 THE VOICE OF from the prompt side behind that faint mist where the ray fell. "What's the theatre dark like this for? Why is it empty ? What's happened ? " The manager answered. "We're trying to find out, sir; a madman in the gallery, whom we couldn't locate, made a disturb- ance, called the new tiim 'A natural'; and now there's some hanky with this lime. It's been taken out, and yet it goes on like that !" "What cleared the house?" The manager pointed at the stage. "It looked like smoke," he said: "That light's loose; we can't get hold of its end anywhere." From behind him Signor Bensoni suddenly pushed up his dim, scared face. "Boss!" he stammered: "It's the most bizarre — ^the most bizarre — ^thing I ever struck — Limes thinks " "Yes?" The Boss turned and spoke very quickly : " What does he think — ^yes ? " "He thinks — ^the voice wasn't from the gallery — ^but higher; he thinks — ^he thinks — ^it was the voice of — voice of " A sudden sparkle lit up the Boss's eyes. "Yes?" he hissed out; "yes?" "He thinks it was the voice of — Hullo!" 66 •rtm VOICE OF — i The stream of light had vanished. All was darkness. Some one called: "Up with yom- lights !" As the lights leaped forth, all about the house, the Boss was seen to rush to the centre of the stage, where the ray had been. "Bizarre ! By gum ! . . . Hullo ! Up there !" No soimd, no ray of light, answered that pas- sionately eager shout. The Boss spun round: "Electrics! You blaz- ing ass ! Ten to one but you've cut my connec- tion, turning up the lights like that. The voice of — ! Great snakes! What a turn! "What a turn! I'd have given it a thou' a week! . . . Hullo! up there! Hullo!" But there came no answer from under the gilt- starred dome. 67 THE DEAD MAN In the spring of the year 1950 a lawyer and his friend were sitting over their wine and wahiuts. The lawyer said: "In turning over my father's papers the other day, T came across this cutting from a newspaper. It is dated December, 19 — . Rather a singular document. If you Uke I'll read it to you." "Do," said the friend. The lawyer began to read: 'Some sensation was caused in a London poUce colut yesterday by a poorly dressed but respect- able-looking man who appHed to the magistrate for advice. ,We give the conversation verba- tim: "Your Worship, may I ask you a question?" "If it is one that I can answer." "It's just this: AmIaUve?" "Go away!" "Your Worship, I am perfectly serious. It's a 69 THE DEAD MAN matter of vital importance to me to know; I am a chain-maker." "Are you sane?" "Your Worship, I am quite sane." "Then what do you mean by coming here and asking me a question like that?" "Your Worship, I am out of work." "What has that to do with it?" "Your Worship, it's like this. I've been out of work, through no fault of my own, for two months. Your Worship has heard,, no doubt, that there are hundreds of thousands of us chaps." "Well, go on!" "Your Worship, I don't belong to a union; as you know, there's no union to my trade." "Yes, yes." "Your Worship, I came to the end of my re- sources three weeks ago. I've done my best to get work, but I've not been successful." "Have you applied to the distress committee of your district?" "I have, your Worship; but they are fuU- up." "Have you been to the parish authorities?" "Yes, your Worship; and to the parson." 70 THE DEAD MAN "Haven't you any rdationg or friends to help you?" "Half of them, your Worship, are in my con- dition, and I've exhausted the others." "You've ?" "Exhausted the others — ^had all they could spare." "Have you a wife and children?" "No, your Worship; that's against me, it makes me come in late everywhere." "Yes, yes — ^weU, you have the poor law; you have the right to " "Your Worship, I have been in two of those places — ^but last night dozens of us were turned away for want of accommodation. Your Wor- ship, I am in need of food; have I the right to work?" "Only under the poor law." "I've told you, sir, I couldn't get in there last night. Can't I force anybody else to give me work?" "I'm afraid not." "Your Worship, I'm very badly in want of food; will you allow me to beg in the streets?" "No, no; I can't. You know I can't." 71 THE DEAD MAN "Well, your Worship, may I steal?" "Now, now; you mustn't waste the time of the court." "But, your Worship, it's very serious to me; I'm literally starving, I am indeed! Will you allow me to sell my coat or trousers — " Unbut- toning his coat, the applicant revealed a bare chest. "I've nothing else to '■ "You mustn't go about in an indecent state; I can't allow you to go outside the law." "Well, sir, will you give me permission, any- way, to sleep out at night, without being taken up for vagrancy ? " "Once for all, I have no power to allow you to do any of these things." "What am I to do, sir, then? I'm telling you the truth. I want to keep within the law. Can you give me advice how to go on living without food?" "I wish I could." "Well, then, I ask you, sir: In the eyes of the law, am I alive at all?" "That is a question, my man, which I cannot answer. On the face of it, you appear to be ahve only if you break the law; but I trust you will 72 THE DEAD MAN not do that. I am very sony for you; you can have a shilling from the box. Next case ! " ' . . . The lawyer stopped. "Yes," said his friend, "that is very interesting; very singular indeed. Curious state of things existing then!" 73 WHY NOT? Travelling one day from Ashford to Charing Cross, I fell into conversation with a gentleman in a speckled straw hat. He asked me, very soon, my business in life. I informed him, and hesitat- ing to be inferior in friendly curiosity, inquired of him in turn. He wavered a moment, then replied: "A wife-insurance agent." "A life-insurance ? " "A wife-insurance agent"; and, handing me his card, he added: "Don't you know my place?" I answered that I had not that advantage. " ReaUy ! " he said ; " I am surprised. I thought every one was beginning to know of me." "A it^/e-insurance agent, I think you said?" "Certainly," he answered. "Let me explain! You see, for many years I was a sohcitor; and the notion came to me one day in the course of business. I can assure you it did not take me long to grasp its possibihties." 75 WHY NOT? He smoked for a moment silently, and then went on : "When I first started I was a good deal bothered how to get myseK known, for I was afraid of wounding the susceptibilities of the public. You see, the matter's dehcate. One might have been misunderstood, and laid oneseK open to attack in some of those papers that — er — ^you know. It was my wife who solved that difficulty. 'Don't advertise,' she said; 'go quietly round amongst your married friends. The thing is good — it will spread itself.' " He paused, took his cigar from his mouth, and smiled. "My dear sir, she was right. I issued five hundred pohcies that first year. Since then busi- ness has been going up by leaps and bounds; four thousand pohcies last year; this year they'll double that again." I interrupted him to say: "But forgive me ! I haven't quite grasped as yet the natvire of this insurance." He looked at me as who should ask: "Where can you have hved lately?" but repUed cour- teously: "I will come to that presently. The notion struck me one day in court, watching a divorce 76 WHY NOT? case I had in hand. I was acting for the petitioner — ^nice fellow, friend of my own, best type of Englishman. The poor chap had said to me — as a matter of fact, you know, they all do: 'I don't like claimin' damages. It may be my duty; but somehow I feel it's not quite deUcate.' I told him that the law expected it. 'But, of course,' I said, 'I quite understand your feelings. It is awkward. You're not in any way bound to.' *0h, well!' he said, 'I suppose it'll have to be — ; no good standing out against custom.' "Well, as I say, watching him that afternoon in the witness-box, the inspiration came to me. Why should innocent people be put to aU this difficulty about making up their minds whether or no to claim damages, and be left with that unpleasant feeling afterward; for, say what you Uke, it is awkward for men with a sense of honour — or is it humour? I never know. Why, I re- member one of my own clients — society man, you'd probably recollect his case — I had him in my office four consecutive days changing his mind, and it was only when, quite by chance, he learned that his wife really was fond of the other fellow that he decided on putting in a claim. Well, as I say, watching my client in that other case, the idea came to me: 'Why not wife-insur- 77 WHY NOT? ance for misfortunes of this kind? Is there any distinction in law between that and any other kind of accident? Here's a definite injury, to a definite bit of property, definitely assessed on hard facts, and paid for in hard cash, and no more Account taken of private feelings, or spirituality, as you might say, than when you lose a toe by a defect in your employer's machine !' I turned it over and over and over agaiu; I could not see any distinction, and felt immediately what an immense thiag it was that I had struck. Per- fectly simple, too; I had only to get at the per- ■centage of divorce to marriage. Well, being a bit of an actuary, I was very soon able to cal- culate my proper scale of premiums. These are payable, you know, on the same principle as life- insurance, and work out very small on the whole. Aud — ^but this I consider a stroke of genius, quite my own idea, too — ^if there's no divorce within twenty-five years of taking out the policy, the insm-ed gets a substantial bonus. That's where I rebut all possible charge of fostering immorahty. For, you see, the law permits you to benefit by your wife's misconduct — so, of course, does my insurance; but, whereas the law holds out no inducement to the husband not to seek divorce, my insurance, through its bonus, does — ^it is, in 78 WHY NOT? fact, a premium on family life. No one has had a bonus yet, naturally, because I've only been es- tablished three years. But the principle is abso- lute. -To put it crudely, instead of a simple benefit from the wife's infidelity such as the law gives you, you have a benefit from her infidehty, counteracted by a benefit from her fidelity. I'm anxious to make that clear, of course, on moral grounds. You ask me, perhaps, can I afford this bonus? Certainly — I allow for it on the figures; so that my system is not only morally sounder than the law, but really first-rate busi- ness." He paused, but, as I did not speak, went on again: "I was very anxious to have got out a policy which took in also the risk of breach of promise; but at present I haven't been able to fix that up. Up till marriage, of course, the whole thing is in flux, and there's too much danger of collusion. Still, the system's young yet, and I don't despair, because I know very well that in breach-of-prom- ise actions the same question of personal honour is involved, and people with any sense of humour feel a great deUcacy about bringing them. How- ever, as I say, the risk of mala fides is too great at present. You may contend, of course, that there's- risk of mala fides in my divorce insurance, but you 79 WHY NOT? see I'm really secured against that by the Court." And here he laid one finger on his nose, and sunk his voice almost to a whisper: "For no man can recover pom me, on his policy unless the Court has given him his decree, which is practically a certifi- cate that the misconduct was secret and the relations of wife and husband those of cat and dog. Unless the Court is satisfied of this, you see, it never grants relief; and vyithout a decree granted there's no bene- fit to be had under my policies." Then, recovering his voice, he went on buoyantly: "I pride myself, in fact, on not departing either from the letter or the spirit of the law. All that my system deals with is the matter of personal deKcacy. Under my policies you can go into Court, without ask- ing for damages, and come out a free man, without a stain on your honour and minus that miserable feeling that people know you've benefited by your wife's disgrace. And then you come to me, and I salve the wound. If you think it over, you'll see that the thiug is absolutely sound. You come out of Court with clean hands. Instead of feel- ing the whole world's grinning at your having made money out of your wife's infidelity, not a soul knows but me. Secrecy, of course, is guar- anteed." As he spoke, we ran into a station, and he arose. 80 WHY NOT? "I get down here, sir," he said, lifting his speck- led hat: "Remember, I only follow out the prin- ciple of the law — ^what's good enough for that is good enough for me. You have my card, in case at any time !" 81 HEY-DAY And the Recording Angel said: " Man ! Millions of years have passed since you came iato being, and, now that you can fly, and speak without wires from one end of the earth to the other, you may well say there is nothing you cannot do. You have achieved triumphs of architecture, music, literature, painting, and sci- ence, such as you may never surpass. You have sampled aU the resources of the earth and all the sensations of your soul. Your civihsation is un- doubted. Let us consider its nature. "You annually slay, and gorge yourself on, more billions of other creat;u:es than ever you slew and ate in all your history. This you do for the sake of health ! "You deck yourself with fur and feathers, as did your first progenitors, destroying in savage ways myriads of creatures whose natural coverings you covet. This you do for the sake of beauty ! "You clothe yourself in garments produced by labour so miserably paid that their makers are starved of everything that you appreciate in life. This you do for the sake of commerce ! 83 HEY-DAY "You prepare year by year engines of destruc- tion more colossal and terrific than ever were prepared in the darkest ages of your existence. This you do for the sake of peace ! "You put these engines of destruction into use, and blow far more men into far smaller pieces than men have ever yet been blown. This you do for the sakie of honour ! "You pile up year by year fortunes more stu- pendous, and form combinations of capital more powerful, than the world has ever known, out of the labour of men as poor and miserable as men have ever been, in towns blacker, huger, and less restful than ever were yet constructed. This you do for the sake of progress ! "You organise and distribute journals, more and more perfectly adjusted to the lower levels of so- ciety's tastes, with a rapidity and completeness hitherto tinparaUeled. This you do for the sake of knowledge ! "You provide pageantry for the eye, by shows, pictiu-e palaces, and sports, such as shall give au- diences the most perfect rest from mental or physical exertion. This you do for the sake of culture ! "You devise comfort in your hotels, houses, and means of locomotion, such as your ancestors never 84 HEY-DAY dreamed of in their most ecstatic moments. This you do for the sake of your physique ! "You prosecute scientific learning till you are acutely conscious of the nature and cure of al- most all your sicknesses. This you do for the assuagement of your nerves ! "You so discuss everything under the stm, that you no longer beheve ia anything. This you do for the assurance of your spiritual happiness ! "Of all this you are extremely proud. Man! You are in your hey-day !" And Man answered: "Recording Angel! You have judged us in om- hey-day. Hear us reply: "When first in molten space the protoplasm came, you watched, iascrutable, that jelly thing profane with life the breathless majesty of chaos; watched it live on, become a fish, a bird, a beast, a man. In caves and water-dweUings our ances- tors held on to life. Across snowy wastes, in trackless forests, over pathless seas, they roamed, hopeless, in fear of every death. And, all the time, you sat up there, and watched serenely ! "During a thousand centuries, painfully, through every ill, past every counterstroke of Nature, oiu' ancestors gained consciousness of self. You sat up there, and frowned ! 85 HEY-DAY "Through unimaginable trouble, in grief darker than night, with bitterness more bitter than the sea, our ancestors learned how to love others be- side self. You sat up there, and took a feather from yoiu" wing ! "Groping and purblind, whipped and himted by savage instincts, failing, stumbling, our ances- tors shaped the rudiments of justice. You sat up there, and dipped that feather in a puiple cloud ! "Out of the desperate morasses and the tangled woods of fear and superstition, their backs against the rocky walls of death, their eyes fronting the eternal abysses of uncertainty, our ancestors won through to the refuge of a faith in their own hearts. You sat up there, and wrote down its deficiencies ! "And we, their children, in this our hey-day — with what force and faith we have inherited, med- dling, and muddling, and dreaming of perfection, adventuring, and running riot in the welter of discovery, now torpid, now raving mad, yet ever moving forward — ^make what we can out of our poor hiunanity. You sit up there, and read us the record of our failures ! "Recording Angel ! Something human is more precious than all the judgments of the Sky !" 86 STUDIES OF EXTRAVAGANCE I. THE WRITER Every morning when he awoke his first thought was: How am I? For it was extremely impor- tant that he should be well, seeing that when he was not well he could neither produce what he knew he ought, nor contemplate that lack of production with equanimity. Having discovered that he did not ache anywhere, he would say to his wife: "Are you all right?" and, while she was answering, he would think: "Yes — ^if I make that last chapter pass subjectively through Blank's personality, then I had better — " and so on. Not having heard whether his wife were all right, he would get out of bed and do that which he face- tiously called "abdominable cult," for it was nec- essary that he should digest his food and preserve his figure, and while he was doing it he would partly think: "I am doing this well," and partly he would think: "That fellow in The Parnassus is quite wrong — ^he simply doesn't see — " And pausing for a moment with nothing on, and his toes level with the top of a chest of drawers, he would say to his wife: "What I think about that 89 THE WRITER Parnassus fellow is that he doesn't grasp the fact that my books — " And he would not fail to hear her answer warmly: "Of course he doesn't; he's a perfect idiot." He would then shave. This was his most creative moment, and he would soon cut himself and utter a little groan, for it would be needful now to find his special cotton wool and stop the bleeding, which was a paltry business and not favourable to the flight of gen- ius. And if his wife, taking advantage of the in- cident, said something which she had long been waiting to say, he would answer, wondering a little what it was she had said, and thinking: "There it is, I get no time for steady thought." Having finished shaving he would bathe, and a philosophical conclusion would almost invari- ably come to him just before he douched himself with cold — so that he would pause, and call out through the door: "You know, I think the su- preme principle — " And while his wife was an- swering, he would resume the drowning of her words, having fortunately remembered just in time that his circulation would suffer if he did not douse himself with cold while he was still warm. He would dry himself, dreamily develop- ing that theory of the universe and imparting it to his wife in sentences that seldom had an end, 90 THE WRITER so that it was not necessary for her to answer them. While dressiag he would stray a little, thinking: "Why can't I concentrate myself on my work; it's awful!" And if he had by any chance a button off, he would present himself rather imwiUingly, feeling that it was a waste of his time. Watching her frown from sheer self- effacement over her button-sewing, he would think: "She is wonderful! How can she put up with doing things for me all day long?" And he would fidget a little, feeling in his bones that the postman had already come. He went down always thinking: "Oh, hang it! this infernal post taking up all my time!" And as he neared the breakfast-room, he would quicken his pace; seeing a large pile of letters on the table, he would say automatically: "Curse!" and his eyes woiild brighten. If — as seldom hap- pened — ^there were not a green-coloured wrapper enclosing mentions of him in the press, he would mvumiu-: "Thank God!" and his face would fall. It was his custom to eat feverishly, walking a good deal and reading about himself, and when his wife tried to bring him to a sense of his dis- order he would tighten his lips without a word and think: "I have a good deal of self-control." He seldom commenced work before eleven, for, 91 THE WRITER though he always intended to, he found it prac- tically impossible not to dictate to his wife things about himself, such as how he could not lecture here; or where he had been bom; or how much he would take for this; and why he would not consider that; together with those letters which began: "Mtdear , "Thanks tremendously for your letter about my book, and its valuable criticism. Of course, I think you are quite wrong. . . . You don't seem to have grasped . . . In fact, I don't think you ever quite do me justice. . . . " Yours affectionately, When his wife had copied those that might be valuable after he was dead, he would stamp the envelopes and, exclaiming: "Nearly eleven — ^my God !" would go somewhere where they think. It was during those hours when he sat in a certain chair with a pen in his hand that he was able to rest from thought about himself; save, indeed, in those moments, not too frequent, when he could not help reflecting: "That's a fine page — ^I have seldom written anything better"; or in those moments, too frequent, when he sighed deeply and thought: "I am not the man I was." About haK past one, he would get up, with the 92 THE WRITER pages in his hand, and, seeking out his wife, would give them to her to read, remarking: "Here's the wretched stuff— no good at all"; and, taking a position where he thought she could not see him, would do such things as did not prevent his knowing what effect the pages made on her. If the effect were good he would often feel how wonderful she was; if itVere not good he had at once a chiUy sensation in the pit of his stomach, and ate very little lunch. When, in the afternoons, he took his walks abroad, he passed great quantities of things and people without noticing, becaiise he was thinking deeply on such questions as whether he were more of an observer or more of an imaginative artist; whether he were properly appreciated in Germany; and particularly whether one were not in danger of thinking too much about oneself. But every now and then he would stop and say to himself: "I really must see more of life, I really must take in more fuel"; and he would passionately fix his eyes on a cloud, or a flower, or a man walking, and there would instantly come into his mind the thought: "I have writ- ten twenty books — ^ten more wiU make thirty — that cloud is grey"; or: "That fellow X is jealous of me! _ This flower is blue"; or: "This 93 THE WRITER man is walking very — ^very — D — ^n The Morn- ing Muff, it always runs me down!" And he would have a sort of sore, beaten feeling, knowing that he had not observed those things as accu- rately as he would have wished to. During these excursions, too, he would often reflect impersonally upon matters of the day, large questions of art, pubUc policy, and the human soul; and would almost instantly find that he had always thought this or that; and at once see the necessity for putting his conclusion forward in his book or in the press, phrasing it, of course, in a way that no one else could; and there would start up before him little bits of newspaper with these words on them: "No one, perhaps, save Mr. , could have so ably set forth the case for Baluchistan"; or, "In The Daily Miracle there is a noble letter from that eminent writer, Mr. , pleading againsc the hyperspirit- uaUsm of our age." Very often he would say to himself, as he walked with eyes fixed on things that he did not see: ■'This existence is not healthy. I really must get away and take a complete holiday, and not think at all about my work; I am getting too self-centred." And he would go home and say to his wife: "Let's go to Sicily, or Spain, or some- 94 THE WRITER where. Let's get away from all this, and just live." And when she answered: "How jolly!" he would repeat, a Uttle absently: "How jolly!" considering what would be the best arrangement for forwarding his letters. And if, as sometimes happened, they did go, he would spend almost a whole morning living, and thinking how jolly it was to be away from everything; but toward the afternoon he would feel a sensation as though he were a sofa that had been sat on too much, a sort of subsidence very deep within him. This would be followed in the evening by a disinclina- tion to Uve; and that feeling would grow until on the third day he received his letters, together with a green-coloured wrapper enclosing some mentions of himself, and he would say: "Those fellows — ^no getting away from them!" and feel irresistibly impelled to sit down. Having done so he would take up his pen, not writing anything, indeed — ^because of the determination to "live," as yet not quite extinct — ^but comparatively easy in his mind. On the following day he would say to his wife: "I beheve I can work here." And she would answer, smiling: "That's splendid"; and he would think: "She's wonderful!" and begin to write. On other occasions, while walking the streets 95 THE WRIJER or about the countryside, he would suddenly be appalled at his own ignorance, and would say to himself: "I know simply nothing — I must read." And going home he would dictate to his wife the names of a number of books to be procured from the library. When they arrived he would look at them a little gravely and think: "By Jove! Have I got to read those?" and the same eve- ning he would take one up. He would not, how- ever, get beyond the fourth page, if it were a novel, before he would say: "Muck! He can't write!" and would feel absolutely stimulated to take up his own pen and write something that was worth reading. Sometimes, on the other hand, he would put the novel down after the third page, exclaiming: "By Jove! He can write !" And there would rise within him such a sense of dejection at his own inferiority that he would feel simply compelled to try to see whether he really was inferior. But if the book were not a novel he sometimes finished the first chapter before one of two feel- ings came over him: Either that what he had just read was what he had himself long thought — that, of course, would be when the book was a good one; or that what he had just read was not true, or at all events debatable. In each of these 96 THE WRITER events he found it impossible to go on reading, but would remark to his wife: "This fellow says what I've always said"; or, "This fellow says so and so, now I say — " and he would argue the matter with her, taking both sides of the question, so as to save her aU unnecessary speech. There were times when he felt that he abso- lutely must hear music, and he would enter the concert-hall with his wife in the pleasurable cer- tainty that he was going to lose himself. Toward the middle of the second number, especially if it happened to be music that he liked, he would begin to nod; and presently, on waking up, would get a feeling that he really was an artist. From that moment on he was conscious of certain noises being made somewhere in his neighboiu-hood caus- ing a titillation of his nerves favourable to deep and earnest thoughts about his work. On going out his wife would ask him: "Wasn't the Mozart lovely?" or, "How did you hke the Strauss?" and he would answer: "Rather!" wondering a Uttle which was which; or he would look at her out of the comer of his eye and glance secretly at the programme to see whether he had really heard them, and which Strauss it might be. He was extremely averse to being interviewed, or photographed, and all that sort of pubKcity, 97 THE WRITER and only made exceptions in most cases because his wife would say to him: "Oh! I think yoU ought"; or because he could not bear to refuse anybody anything; together, perhaps, with a sort of latent dislike of waste, deep dovra in his soul. When he saw the results he never failed to ejacu- late: "Never again! No, really — ^never again! The whole thing is wrong and stupid !" And he would order a few copies. For he dreaded nothing so much as the thought that he might become an egoist, and, knowing the dangers of his profession, fought continually against it. Often he would complain to his wife: "I don't think of you enough." And she would smile and say: "Don't you?" And he would feel better, having confessed his soul. Sometimes for an hour at a time he would make really heroic efforts not to answer her before having reaUy grasped what she had said; and to check a tend- ency, that he sometimes feared was growing on him, to say: "What?" whether he had heard or no. In truth, he was not (as he often said) con- stitutionally given to small talk. Conversation that did not promise a chance of dialectic victory was hardly to his liking; so that he felt bound in sincerity to eschew it, which sometimes caused him to sit silent for "quite a while," as the Amer- 98 THE WRITER icans have phrased it. But once committed to an argument he found it difficult to leave off, having a natural, if somewhat sacred, belief in his own convictions. His attitude to his creations was, perhaps, pe- culiar. He either did not mention them, or touched on them, if absolutely obliged, with a Hght and somewhat disparaging tongue; this did not, indeed, come from any real distrust of them, but rather from a superstitious feeling that one must not tempt Providence in the solemn things of life. If other people touched on them in the same way, he had, not unnaturally, a feeling of real pain, such as comes to a man when he sees an instance of cruelty or injustice. And, though something always told him that it was neither wise nor dignified to notice outrages of this order, he would mutter to his wife: "Well, I suppose it is true — I can't write"; feeling, perhaps, that — ■ if he could not with decency notice such injuries, she might. And, indeed, she did, using warmer words than even he felt justified, which was soothing. After tea it was his habit to sit down a second time, pen in hand; not infrequently he would spend those hours divided between the feeling that it was his duty to write something and the 99 THE WRITER feeling that it was his duty not to write any- thing if he had nothing to say; and he generally wrote a good deal; for deep down he was con- vinced that if he did not write he would gradu- ally fade away till there would be nothing left for him to read apd think about, and, though he was often tempted to beheve and even to tell his wife that fame was an unworthy thing, he always deferred that pleasure, afraid, perhaps, of too much happiness. In regard to the society of his fellows he liked almost anybody, though a little impatient with those, especially authors, who took themselves too seriously; and there were just one or two that he reaUy could not stand, they were so ob- viously full of Jealousy, a passion of which he was naturally intolerant and had, of course, no need to indulge in. And he would speak of them with extreme dryness — ^nothing more, disdaining to dis- parage. It was, perhaps, a weakness in him that he foimd it difficult to accept adverse criticism as anything but an expression of that same yel- low sickness; and yet there were moments when no words would adequately convey his low opin- ion of his own powers. At such times he would seek out his wife and confide to her his conviction that he was a poor thing, no good at all, with- 100 THE WRITER out a thought in his head; and while she was re- plying: "Rubbish ! You know there's nobody to hold a candle to you," or words to that effect, he would look at her tragically, and murmur: "Ah! you're prejudiced!" Only at such supreme mo- ments of dejection, indeed, did he feel it a pity that he had married her, seeing how much more convincing her words would have been if he had not. He never read the papers till the evening, partly because he had not time, and partly be- cause he so seldom found anything in them. This was not remarkable, for he turned their leaves quickly, pausing, indeed, naturally, if there were any mention of his name; and if his wife asked Tn'm whether he had read this or that he would answer: "No," surprised at the funny things that seemed to interest her. Before going up to bed he would sit and smoke. And sometimes fancies would come to him, and sometimes none. Once in a way he would look up at the stars, and think: "What a worm I am ! Tliis wonderful Infinity ! I must get more of it — ^more of it into my work; more of the feeling that the whole is marvellous and great, and man a httle clutch of breath and dust, an atom, a straw, a nothing!" 101 THE WRITER And a sort of exaltation would seize on him, so that he knew that if only he did get that into his work, as he wished to, as he felt at that mo- ment that he could, he would be the greatest writer the world had ever seen, the greatest man, almost greater than he wished to be, almost too great to be mentioned in the press, greater than Infinity itself — ^for would he not be Infinity's creator? And suddenly he would check himself with the thought: "I must be carefid — I must be careful. If I let my brain go at this time of night, I sha'n't write a decent word to-morrow !" And he would drink some milk and go to bed. 102 II. THE CRITIC He often thought: "This is a dog's life! I must give it up, and strike out for myself. If I can't write better than most of these fellows, it'll be very queer." But he had not yet done so. He had in his extreme youth published fiction, but it had never been the best work of which he was capable-— it was not likely that it could be, seeing that even then he was constantly diverted from the ham-bone of his inspiration by the duty of perusing and passing judgment on the work of other men. If pressed to say exactly why he did not strike out for himself, he found it difficult to answer, and what he answered was hardly as true as he could have wished; for, though truthful, he was not devoid of the instmct of self-preservation. He could hardly, for example, admit that he pre- ferred to think what much better books he could iave written if only he had not been handicapped, to actually striking out ^nd writing them. To be- heve this was an inward comfort not readily to 103 THE CRITIC be put to the rude test of actual experience. Nor would it have been human of him to acknowledge a satisfaction in feeling that he could put in their proper places those who had to an extent, as one might say, retarded his creative genius by compelling him to read their books. But these, after all, were but minor factors in his long hesitation, for he was not a conceited or mali- cious person. Fundamentally, no doubt, he lived what he called "a dog's life" with pleasure, partly because he was used to it — and what a man is used to he is loath to part with; partly because he really had a liking for books; and partly be- cause to be a judge is better than to be judged. And no one could deny that he had a distinctly high conception of his functions. He had long laid down for himseK certain leading principles of professional conduct, from which he never de- parted, such as that a critic must not have any personal feelings, or be influenced by any private considerations whatever. This, no doubt, was why he often went a little out of his way to be more severe than usual with writers whom he sus- pected of a secret hope that personal acquaintance- ship might incline him to favour them. He would, indeed, carry that principle further, and, where he had, out of an impersonal enthusiasm at some 104 THE CRITIC time or another, written in terms of striking praise, he would make an opportunity later on of deliberately taking that writer down a peg or two lower than he deserved, lest his praise might be suspected of having been the outcome of per- sonal motives, or of gush — ^for which he had a great abhorrence. In this way he preserved a remarkably pure sense of independence; a feel- ing that he was master in his own house, to be dictated to only by a proper conviction of his own importance. It is true that there were cer- tain writers whom, for one reason or another, he could not very well stand; some having written to him to point out inaccuracies, or counter one of his critical conclusions, or, stiU worse, thanked him for having seen exactly what they had meant — a very unwise and even undignified thing to do, as he could not help thinking; others, again, having excited in him a natural dislike by their appearance, conduct, or manner of thought, or by having, perhaps, acquired too rapid or too swollen a reputation to be, in his opinion, good for them. In such cases, of course, he was not so unhuman as to disguise his convictions. For he was, before all things, an EngHshman with a very strong belief in the freest play for individual taste. But of almost any first book by an un- 105 THjE CRITIC known author he wrote with an impersonality which it would have been diflScult to surpass. Then there was his principle that one must never be influenced in judging a book by any- thing one has said of a previous book by the same writer — each work standing entirely on its own basis. He found this important, and made a point of never rereading his own criticisms; so that the rhythm of his judgment, which, if it had risen to a work in 1920, would fall over the author's next in 1921, was entirely unbiassed by recollection, and followed merely those immutable laws of change and the moon so potent in regard to tides and human affairs. For sameness and consistency he had a natural contempt. It was the unexpected both in art and criticism that he particularly looked for; anything being, as he said, preferable to dulness — a senti- ment in which he was supported by the pubhc; not that, to do him justice, this weighed with him, for he had a genuine distrust of the public, as was proper for one sitting in a seat of judg- ment. He knew that there were so-called critics who had a kind of formula for each writer, as divines have sermons suitable to certain occasions. For example: "We have in 'The Mazy Swim' another of Mr, Hyphen Dash's virile stories. . . . 106 THE CRITIC We can thoroughly recommend this pulsating tale, with its true and beautiful character study of Little Katie, to every healthy reader as one of the best that Mr. Hyphen Dash has yet given us." Or: "We cannot say that 'The Mazy Swim' is likely to increase Mr. Hyphen Dash's reputation. It is sheer melodrama, such as we are beginning to expect from this writer. . . . The whole is artificial to a degree. ... No sane reader will, for a moment, beheve in Little Katie." Toward this sort of thing he showed small patience, hav- ing noticed with some acumen a relationship be- tween the name of the writer, the politics of the paper, and the temper of the criticism. No ! For him, if criticism did not embody the individual mood and temper of the critic, it was not worthy of the name. But the canon which of all he regarded as most sacred was this: A critic must surrender himself to the mood and temper of the work he is crit- icising, take the thing as it is with- its own special method and technique, its own point of view, and, only when all that is admitted, let his critical faculty off the chain. He was never tired of in- sisting on this, both to himseK and others, and never sat down to a book without having it firmly in his mind. Not infrequently, however, he found 107 THE CRITIC that the author was, as it were, wilfully employ- ing a technique or writing in a mood with which he had no sympathy, or had chosen a subject ob- viously distasteful, or a set of premises that did not lead to the conclusion which he would have preferred. In such cases his scrupulous honesty warned him not to compromise with his con- science, but to say outright that it would have been better if the technique of the story had been objective instead of subjective; that the morbid- ity of the work prevented serious consideration of a subject which should never have been chosen; or that he would ever maintain that the hero was too weak a character to be a hero, and the book, therefore, of little interest. If any one pointed out to him that had the hero been a strong char- acter there would have been no book, it being, in point of fact, the study of a weak character, he would answer: "That may be so, but it does not affect what I say — the book would have been better and more important if it had been the study of a strong character." And he would take the earliest opporttmity of enforcing his re- corded criticism that the hero was no hero, and the book no book to speak of. For, though not obstinate, he was a man who stood to his guns. He took his duty to the public very seriously, and 108 THE CRITIC felt it, as it were, a point of honour never to admit himself in the wrong. It was so easy to do that and so fatal; and the fact of being anony- mous, as on the whole he preferred to be, made it all the harder to abstain (on principle and for the dignity of criticism) from noticing printed con- tradictions to his conclusions. In spite of aU the heart he put into his work, there were times when, like other men, he suffered from dejection, feeling that the moment had really come when he must either strike out for him- self into creative work, or compile a volume of synthetic criticism. And he would say: "None of us fellows are doing any constructive critical work; no one nowadays seems to have any con- ception of the first principles of criticism." Hav- ing talked that theory out thoroughly he would feel better, and next day would take an oppor- tunity of writing: "We are not like the academic French, to whom the principles of criticism are so terribly important; oixr genius lies rather in individual judgments, pliant and changing as the works they judge." There was that in him which, like the land from which he sprang, could ill brook control. He approved of discipline, but knew exactly where it was deleterious to apply it to himself; and 109 THE CRITIC no one, pernaps, had a finer and larger concep- tion of individual liberty. In this way he main- tained the best traditions of a calling whose very essence was superiority. In course of conversa- tion he would frequently admit, being a man of generous calibre, that the artist, by reason of long years of devoted craftsmanship, had possibly the -most intimate knowledge of his art, but he would not fail to point out, and very wisely, that there was no such unreUable testimony as that of ex- perts, who had an axe to grind, each of his own way of doing things; for comprehensive views •of literature seen in due perspective there was nothing — ^he thought — ^like the trained critic, ris- ing superior, as it were professionally, to myopia and individual prejudice. Of the new school who maintained that true criticism was but reproduction in terms of sym- pathy, and just as creative as the creative work it reproduced, he was a httle impatient, not so much ■on the ground that to make a model of a moun- tain was not quite the same thing as to make the mountain; but because he felt in his bones that the true creativeness of criticism (in which he had a high belief) was its destructive and satiric ■qua