JULES CASTIER and RONALD BOSWELL
JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LTD
First Published 1921
First Published in The Week-End Library 1931
MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
MORRISON AND GIBB LTD, LONDON AND EDINBURGH
I. Portraits II. Diplomacy III. The Tower of Babel IV. A Business Man in the Army V. The Story of Private Biggs VI. An Air Raid VII. Love and the Infant Dundas VIII. A Great Chef IX. Prelude a la Soiree d'un General X. Private Brommit's Conversion XI. Justice XII. Variations XIII. The Cure XIV. The Beginning of the End XV. Danse Macabre XVI. The Glory of the Garden XVII. Letter from Colonel Parker to Aurelle XVIII. General Bramble's Return
"As to what the picture represents, that depends upon who looks at it."—Whistler.
The French Mission in its profound wisdom had sent as liaison officer to the Scottish Division a captain of Dragoons whose name was Beltara.
"Are you any relation to the painter, sir?" Aurelle, the interpreter, asked him.
"What did you say?" said the dragoon. "Say that again, will you? You are in the army, aren't you? You are a soldier, for a little time at any rate? and you claim to know that such people as painters exist? You actually admit the existence of that God-forsaken species?"
And he related how he had visited the French War Office after he had been wounded, and how an old colonel had made friends with him and had tried to find him a congenial job.
"What's your profession in civilian life, capitaine?" the old man had asked as he filled in a form.
"I am a painter, sir."
"A painter?" the colonel exclaimed, dumbfounded. "A painter? Why, damn it all!"
And after thinking it over for a minute he added, with the kindly wink of an accomplice in crime, "Well, let's put down nil, eh? It won't look quite so silly."
* * * * *
Captain Beltara and Aurelle soon became inseparable companions. They had the same tastes and different professions, which is the ideal recipe for friendship. Aurelle admired the sketches in which the painter recorded the flexible lines of the Flemish landscape; Beltara was a kindly critic of the young man's rather feeble verses.
"You would perhaps be a poet," he said to him, "if you were not burdened with a certain degree of culture. An artist must be an idiot. The only perfect ones are the sculptors; then come the landscape painters; then painters in general; after them the writers. The critics are not at all stupid; and the really intelligent men never do anything."
"Why shouldn't intelligence have an art of its own, as sensibility has?"
"No, my friend, no. Art is a game; intelligence is a profession. Look at me, for instance; now that I no longer touch my brushes, I sometimes actually catch myself thinking; it's quite alarming."
"You ought to paint some portraits here, mon capitaine. Aren't you tempted? These sunburnt British complexions——"
"Of course, my boy, it is tempting; but I haven't got my things with me. Besides, would they consent to sit?"
"Of course they would, for as long as you like. To-morrow I'll bring round young Dundas, the aide-de-camp. He's got nothing to do; he'll be delighted."
* * * * *
Next day Beltara made a three-crayon sketch of Lieutenant Dundas. The young aide-de-camp turned out quite a good sitter; all he asked was to be allowed to do something, which meant shouting his hunting cries, cracking his favourite whip and talking to his dog.
"Ah," said Aurelle, at the end of the sitting, "I like that immensely—really. It's so lightly touched—it's a mere nothing, and yet the whole of England is there."
And, waving his hands with the ritual gestures of the infatuated picture-lover, he praised the artlessness of the clear, wide eyes, the delightful freshness of the complexion, and the charming candour of the smile.
But the Cherub planted himself in front of his portrait, struck the classical pose of the golfer, and, poising his arms and hitting at an imaginary ball, pronounced judgment on the work of art with perfect frankness.
"My God," he said, "what an awful thing! How the deuce did you see, old man, that my breeches were laced at the side?"
"What on earth can that matter?" asked Aurelle, annoyed.
"Matter! Would you like to be painted with your nose behind your ear? My God! It's about as much like me as it is like Lloyd George."
"Likeness is quite a secondary quality," said Aurelle condescendingly. "The interesting thing is not the individual; it is the type, the synthesis of a whole race or class."
"In the days when I was starving in my native South," said the painter, "I used to paint portraits of tradesmen's wives for a fiver. When I had done, the family assembled for a private view. 'Well,' said the husband, 'it's not so bad; but what about the likeness, eh? You put it in afterwards, I suppose?' 'The likeness?' I indignantly replied. 'The likeness? My dear sir, I am a painter of ideals; I don't paint your wife as she is, I paint her as she ought to be. Your wife? Why, you see her every day—she cannot interest you. But my painting—ah, you never saw anything like my painting!' And the tradesman was convinced, and went about repeating in every cafe on the Cannebiere, 'Beltara, mon bon, is the painter of ideals; he does not paint my wife as she is, he paints her as she ought to be.'"
"Well," interrupted young Lieutenant Dundas, "if you can make my breeches lace in front, I should be most grateful. I look like a damned fool as it is now!"
* * * * *
The following week Beltara, who had managed to get hold of some paints, made excellent studies in oil of Colonel Parker and Major Knight. The major, who was stout, found his corporation somewhat exaggerated.
"Yes," said the painter, "but with the varnish, you know——"
And with an expressive movement of his hands he made as if to restore the figure to more normal dimensions.
The colonel, who was lean, wanted to be padded out.
"Yes," said Beltara, "but with the varnish, you know——"
And his hands, moving back again, gave promise of astonishing expansions.
Having regained a taste for his profession, he tried his hand at some of the finest types in the Division. His portraits met with various verdicts; each model thought his own rotten and the others excellent.
The Divisional Squadron Commander found his boots badly polished. The C.R.E. commented severely on the important mistakes in the order of his ribbons; the Legion of Honour being a foreign order should not have preceded the Bath, and the Japanese Rising Sun ought to have followed the Italian Order for Valour.
The only unqualified praise came from the sergeant-major who acted as chief clerk to General Bramble. He was a much-beribboned old warrior with a head like a faun and three red hairs on top of it. He had the respectful familiarity of the underling who knows he is indispensable, and he used to come in at all times of the day and criticize the captain's work.
"That's fine, sir," he would say, "that's fine."
After some time he asked Aurelle whether the captain would consent "to take his photo." The request was accepted, for the old N.C.O.'s beacon-like countenance tempted the painter, and he made a kindly caricature.
"Well, sir," the old soldier said to him, "I've seen lots of photographer chaps the likes of you—I've seen lots at fairs in Scotland—but I've never seen one as gives you a portrait so quick."
He soon told General Bramble of the painter's prowess; and as he exercised a respectful but all-powerful authority over the general, he persuaded him to come and give the French liaison officer a sitting.
The general proved an admirable model of discipline. Beltara, who was very anxious to be successful in this attempt, demanded several sittings. The general arrived punctually, took up his pose with charming deliberation, and when the painter had done, said "Thank you," with a smile, and went away without saying another word.
"Look here," Beltara said to Aurelle, "does this bore him or not? He hasn't come one single time to look at what I have done. I can't understand it."
"He'll look at it when you've finished," Aurelle replied. "I'm sure he's delighted, and he'll let you see it when the time comes."
As a matter of fact after the last sitting, when the painter had said "Thank you, sir, I think I could only spoil it now," the general slowly descended from the platform, took a few solemn steps round the easel, and stared at his portrait for some minutes.
"Humph!" he said at length, and left the room.
* * * * *
Dr. O'Grady, who was a man of real artistic culture, seemed somehow to understand that keeping decorations in their correct order is not the only criterion of the beauty of a portrait. The grateful Beltara proposed to make a sketch of him, and during the sitting was pleased to find himself in agreement with the doctor upon many things.
"The main point," said the painter, "is to see simply—outlines, general masses. The thing is not to copy nature with childish minuteness."
"No, of course not," replied the doctor. "Besides, it can't be done."
"Of course it can't, because nature is so endlessly full of details which can never all be considered. The thing is to suggest their presence."
"Quite so," said the doctor.
But when he came to gaze upon the face he loved so well, and saw it transformed into outlines and general masses, he seemed a little surprised.
"Well, of course," he said, "it is excellent—oh, it's very, very good—but don't you think you have made me a little too old? I have no lines at the corner of my mouth, and my hair is not quite so thin."
He appealed to the aide-de-camp who was just then passing by.
"Dundas, is this like me?"
"Certainly, Doc; but it's ten years younger."
The doctor's smile darkened, and he began rather insistently to praise the Old Masters.
"Modern painting," he proclaimed, "is too brutal."
"Good heavens," said Aurelle, "a great artist cannot paint with a powder-puff; you must be able to feel that the fellow with the pencil was not a eunuch."
"Really," he went on, when the doctor had left in rather a bad temper, "he's as ridiculous as the others. I think his portrait is very vigorous, and not in the least a skit, whatever he may say."
"Just sit down there a minute, old man," said the painter. "I shall be jolly glad to work from an intelligent model for once. They all want to look like tailors' fashion-plates. Now, I can't change my style; I don't paint in beauty paste, I render what I see—it's like Diderot's old story about the amateur who asked a floral painter to portray a lion. 'With pleasure,' said the artist, 'but you may expect a lion that will be as like a rose as I can make him.'"
The conversation lasted a long time; it was friendly and technical. Aurelle praised Beltara's painting; Beltara expressed his joy at having found so penetrating and artistic a critic in the midst of so many Philistines.
"I prefer your opinion to a painter's; it's certainly sincerer. Would you mind turning your profile a bit more towards me? Some months before the war I had two friends in my studio to whom I wished to show a little picture I intended for the Salon. 'Yes,' said the younger of them, 'it's all right, but there ought to be a light spot in that corner; your lights are not well balanced.' 'Shut up, you fool,' the other whispered to him, 'that'll make it really good!' Come on, old man, come and look; I think that sketch can be left as it is."
Aurelle walked up to the painter, and, cocking his head on one side, looked at the drawing.
"It's charming," he said at last with some reluctance. "It's charming. There are some delightful touches—all that still life on the table, it might be a Chardin—and I like the background very much indeed."
"Well, old man, I'm glad you like it. Take it back with you when you go on leave and give it to your wife."
"Er—" sighed Aurelle, "thank you, mon capitaine; it's really very kind of you. Only—you'll think me no end of a fool—you see, if it is to be for my wife, I'd like you to touch up the profile just a little. Of course you understand."
And Beltara, who was a decent fellow, adorned his friend's face with the Grecian nose and the small mouth which the gods had denied him.
"We are not foreigners; we are English; it is you that are foreigners."—An English Lady Abroad.
When Dr. O'Grady and Aurelle had succeeded, with some difficulty, in obtaining a room from old Madame de Vauclere, Colonel Parker went over to see them and was charmed with the chateau and the park.
France and England, he said, were the only two countries in which fine gardens were to be found, and he told the story of the American who asked the secret of those well-mown lawns and was answered, "Nothing is simpler: water them for twelve hundred years."
Then he inquired timidly whether he also might not be quartered at the chateau.
"It wouldn't do very well, sir; Madame is mortally afraid of new-comers, and she has a right, being a widow, to refuse to billet you."
"Aurelle, my boy, do be a good fellow, and go and arrange matters."
After much complaining, Madame de Vauclere consented to put the colonel up: all her sons were officers, and she could not withstand sentimental arguments for very long.
The next day Parker's orderly joined the doctor's in the chateau kitchen, and together they annexed the fireplace. To make room for their own utensils, they took down a lot of comical little French articles, removed what they saw no use for, put the kettle on, and whistled hymns as they filled the cupboards with tins of boot polish in scientifically graded rows.
After adoring them on the first day, putting up with them on the second, and cursing them on the third, the old cook came up to Aurelle with many lamentations, and dwelt at some length on the sad state of her saucepans; but she found the interpreter dealing with far more serious problems.
Colonel Parker, suddenly realizing that it was inconvenient for the general to be quartered away from his Staff, had decided to transfer the whole H.Q. to the chateau of Vauclere.
"Explain to the old lady that I want a very good room for the general, and the billiard-room for our clerks."
"Why, it's impossible, sir; she has no good room left."
"What about her own?" said Colonel Parker.
Madame de Vauclere, heart-broken, but vanquished by the magic word "General," which Aurelle kept on repeating sixty times a minute, tearfully abandoned her canopied bed and her red damask chairs, and took refuge on the second floor.
Meanwhile the drawing-room with its ancient tapestries was filled with an army of phlegmatic clerks occupied in heaping up innumerable cases containing the history in triplicate of the Division, its men, horses, arms and achievements.
"Maps" set up his drawing-board on a couple of arm-chairs; "Intelligence" concealed their secrets in an Aubusson boudoir; and the telephone men sauntered about in the dignified, slow, bantering fashion of the British workman. They set up their wires in the park, and cut branches off the oaks and lime trees; they bored holes in the old walls, and, as they wished to sleep near their work they put up tents on the lawns.
The Staff asked for their horses; and the animals were picketed in the garden walks, as the stables were too small. In the garden the Engineers made a dug-out in case of a possible bombardment. The orderlies' football developed a distinct liking for the window-panes of the summer-house. The park assumed the aspect first of a building site and then of a training camp, and new-comers said, "These French gardens are badly kept!"
This methodical work of destruction had been going on for about a week when "Intelligence" got going.
"Intelligence" was represented at the Division by Captain Forbes.
Forbes, who had never yet arrested a real spy, saw potential spies everywhere, and as he was fond of the company of the great, he always made his suspicions a pretext for going to see General Bramble or Colonel Parker. One day he remained closeted for an hour with the colonel, who summoned Aurelle as soon as he had left.
"Do you know," he said to him, "there are most dangerous things going on here. Two old women are constantly being seen in this chateau. What the deuce are they up to?"
"What do you mean?" gasped Aurelle. "This is their house, sir; it's Madame de Vauclere and her maid."
"Well, you go and tell them from me to clear out as soon as possible. The presence of civilians among a Staff cannot be tolerated; the Intelligence people have complained about it, and they are perfectly right."
"But where are they to go to, sir?"
"That's no concern of mine."
Aurelle turned round furiously and left the room. Coming across Dr. O'Grady in the park, he asked his advice about the matter.
"Why, doctor, she had a perfect right to refuse to billet us, and from a military point of view we should certainly be better off at Nieppe. She was asked to do us a favour, she grants it, and her kindness is taken as a reason for her expulsion! I can't 'evacuate her to the rear,' as Forbes would say; she'd die of it!"
"I should have thought," said the doctor, "that after three years you knew the British temperament better than this. Just go and tell the colonel, politely and firmly, that you refuse to carry out his orders. Then depict Madame de Vauclere's situation in your grandest and most tragic manner. Tell him her family has been living in the chateau for the last two thousand years, that one of her ancestors came over to England with William the Conqueror, and that her grandfather was a friend of Queen Victoria's. Then the colonel will apologize and place a whole wing at the disposal of your protegee."
Dr. O'Grady's prescription was carried out in detail by Aurelle with most satisfactory results.
"You are right," said the colonel, "Forbes is a damned idiot. The old lady can stay on, and if anybody annoys her, let her come to me."
"It's all these servants who are such a nuisance to her, sir," said Aurelle. "It's very painful for her to see her own house turned upside-down."
"Upside-down?" gasped the colonel. "Why, the house is far better kept than it was in her time. I have had the water in the cisterns analysed; I have had sweet-peas planted and the tennis lawn rolled. What can she complain of?"
In the well-appointed kitchen garden, where stout-limbed pear trees bordered square beds of sprouting lettuce, Aurelle joined O'Grady.
"Doctor, you're a great man, and my old lady is saved. But it appears she ought to thank her lucky stars for having placed her under the British Protectorate, which, in exchange for her freedom, provides her with a faultless tennis lawn and microbeless water."
"There is nothing," said the doctor gravely, "that the British Government is not ready to do for the good of the natives."
THE TOWER OF BABEL
"Des barques romaines, disais-je.—Non, disais-tu, portugaises."—Jean Giraudoux.
"Wot you require, sir," interrupted Private Brommit, "is a glass o' boilin' 'ot milk an' whisky, with lots o' cinnamon."
Aurelle, who was suffering from an attack of influenza, was at Estrees, under the care of Dr. O'Grady, who tirelessly prescribed ammoniated quinine.
"I say, doctor," said the young Frenchman, "this is a drug that's utterly unknown in France. It seems strange that medicines should have a nationality."
"Why shouldn't they?" said the doctor. "Many diseases are national. If a Frenchman has a bathe after a meal, he is stricken with congestion of the stomach and is drowned. An Englishman never has congestion of the stomach."
"No," said Aurelle; "he is drowned all the same, but his friends say he had cramp, and the honour of Britain is saved."
Private Brommit knocked at the door and showed in Colonel Parker, who sat down by the bed and asked Aurelle how he was getting on.
"He is much better," said the doctor; "a few more doses of quinine——"
"I am glad to hear that," replied the colonel, "because I shall want you, Aurelle. G.H.Q. is sending me on a mission for a fortnight to one of your Brittany ports; I am to organize the training of the Portuguese Division. I have orders to take an interpreter with me. I thought of you for the job."
"But," Aurelle put in, "I don't know a word of Portuguese."
"What does that matter?" said the colonel. "You're an interpreter, aren't you? Isn't that enough?"
* * * * *
The following day Aurelle told his servant to try and find a Portuguese in the little town of Estrees.
"Brommit is an admirable fellow," said Colonel Parker, "he found whisky for me in the middle of the bush, and quite drinkable beer in France. If I say to him, 'Don't come back without a Portuguese,' he is sure to bring one with him, dead or alive."
As a matter of fact, that very evening he brought back with him a nervous, talkative little man.
"Ze Poortooguez in fifteen days," exclaimed the little man, gesticulating freely with his small plump hands "A language so rich, so flexible, in fifteen days! Ah, you have ze luck, young man, to 'ave found in zis town Juan Garretos, of Portalegre, Master of Arts of ze University of Coimbra, and positivist philosopher. Ze Poortooguez in fifteen days! Do you know at least ze Low Latin? ze Greek? ze Hebrew? ze Arabic? ze Chinese? If not, it is useless to go furzer."
Aurelle confessed his ignorance.
"Never mind," said Juan Garretos indulgently; "ze shape of your 'ead inspire me wiz confidence: for ten francs ze hour I accept you. Only, mind, no chattering; ze Latins always talk too much. Not a single word of ze English between us now. Faz favor d'fallar Portuguez—do me ze favour of speaking ze Poortooguez. Know first zat, in ze Poortooguez, one speak in ze zird person. You must call your speaker Excellency.'"
"What's that?" Aurelle interrupted. "I thought you had just had a democratic revolution."
"Precisely," said the positivist philosopher, wringing his little hands, "precisely. In France you made ze revolucaoung in order zat every man should be called 'citizen.' What a waste of energy! In Poortugal we made ze revolucaoung in order zat every man should be called 'His Highness.' Instead of levelling down we levelled up. It is better. Under ze old order ze children of ze poor were rapachos, and zose of ze aristocracy were meninos: now zey are all meninos. Zat is a revolucaoung! Faz favor d'fallar Portuguez. Ze Latins always talk too much."
Having thus earned his ten francs by an hour's unceasing eloquence, he made a fairer proposal to Aurelle next day.
"I will arrange with you for a fixed sum," he said. "If I teach you two souzand words, you give me fifty francs."
"Very well," replied Aurelle, "two thousand words will be a sufficient vocabulary to begin with."
"All right," said Juan Garretos; "now listen to me. All ze words which in ze English end with 'tion' are ze same in ze Poortooguez wiz ze ending 'caoung.' Revolution—revolucaoung; constitution—constitucaoung; inquisition—inquisicaoung. Now zere are in ze English two souzand words ending in 'tion.' Your Excellency owes me fifty francs. Faz favor d'fallar Portuguez."
* * * * *
A fortnight later Colonel Parker and Aurelle stepped on to the platform at B——, where they were met by Major Baraquin, the officer commanding the garrison, and Captain Pereira, the Portuguese liaison officer.
Major Baraquin was a very old soldier. He had seen service—in the 1870 campaign. All strangers, Allies included, inspired him with a distrust which even his respect for his superiors failed to remove. When the French War Office ordered him to place his barracks at the disposal of a British colonel, discipline required him to obey, but hostile memories inspired him with savage resistance.
"After all, sir," said Aurelle to Parker, "his grandfather was at Waterloo."
"Are you quite sure," asked the colonel, "that he was not there himself?"
Above all things, Major Baraquin would never admit that the armies of other nations might have different habits from his own. That the British soldier should eat jam and drink tea filled him with generous indignation.
"The colonel," Aurelle translated, "requests me to ask you ..."
"No, no, no," replied Major Baraquin in stentorian tones, without troubling to listen any further.
"But it will be necessary, sir, for the Portuguese who are going to land...."
"No, no, no, I tell you," Major Baraquin repeated, resolved upon ignoring demands which he considered subversive and childish. This refrain was as far as he ever got in his conversations with Aurelle.
* * * * *
Next day several large British transports arrived, and disgorged upon the quay thousands of small, black-haired men who gazed mournfully upon the alien soil. It was snowing, and most of them were seeing snow for the first time in their lives. They wandered about in the mud, shivering in their spotted blue cotton uniforms and dreaming, no doubt, of sunny Alemtejo.
"They'll fight well," said Captain Pereira, "they'll fight well. Wellington called them his fighting cocks, and Napoleon said his Portuguese legion made the best troops in the world. But can you wonder they are sad?"
Each of them had brought with him a pink handkerchief containing his collection of souvenirs—little reminders of his village, his people, or his best girl—and when they were told that they could not take their pink parcels with them to the front, there was a heart-breaking outcry.
Major Baraquin, with unconscious and sinister humour, had quartered them in the shambles.
"It would be better——" began Colonel Parker.
"Il vaudrait peut-etre mieux——" Aurelle attempted to translate.
"Vossa Excellencia——" began Captain Pereira.
"No, no, no," said the old warrior passionately.
The Portuguese went to the shambles.
A BUSINESS MAN IN THE ARMY
"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man."—G. B. Shaw (in A Revolutionist's Handbook).
Colonel Musgrave of the R.A.S.C. had been instructed to superintend the supply and transport arrangements of the Portuguese Division, and Lieutenant Barefoot, in charge of a Labour Company, had been detailed to assist him.
"These men," he explained to Colonel Musgrave, "are all Southampton dockers. In peace time I am their employer, and Sergeant Scott over there is their foreman. They tell me your Labour Companies have often shown rather poor discipline. There's no fear of anything like that with my men; they have been chosen with care, and look up to me as if I were a king. Scott, my sergeant, can do anything; neither he nor my men ever drink a drop. As for me, I am a real business man, and I intend to introduce new methods into the army."
Barefoot was fifty years old; he had a bald head shaped like an egg. He had just enlisted to serve his King and country, and was overflowing with goodwill.
The next morning twenty of his men were dead-drunk, two were absent at roll-call, and Sergeant Scott had a scar on his nose which seemed to be the result of a somewhat sudden encounter with mother earth.
"No matter," said the worthy N.C.O., "Barefoot is an ass, and never notices anything."
Next day the first batch of Portuguese troops arrived. British tugs towed the huge transports round the tiny harbour with graceful ease, and the decks seethed with masses of troops. The harbour captain and the Ponts et Chaussees engineer were loud in protest against these wonders, as being "contrary to the ideas of the Service." The wharves were filled with motor lorries, mountains of pressed hay, sacks of oats and boxes of biscuits.
Colonel Musgrave, who was to take charge of this treasure-store, began to make his plan of campaign.
"To-morrow, Friday," he said, "there will be a parade on the wharf at 7 a.m. I shall hold an inspection myself before work is begun."
On Friday morning at seven, Barefoot, his labourers and the lorries were all paraded on the wharf in excellent order. At eight the colonel got up, had his bath and shaved. Then he partook of eggs and bacon, bread and jam, and drank two cups of tea. Towards nine o'clock his car took him to the wharf. When he saw the men standing motionless, the officer saluting and the lorries all in a row, his face went as red as a brick, and he stood up in his car and addressed them angrily:
"So you are incapable of the slightest initiative! If I am absent for an hour, detained by more important work, everything comes to a standstill! I see I cannot rely on anyone here except myself!"
The same evening he called the officers together.
"To-morrow, Saturday," he said, "there will be a parade at 7 a. m.—and this time I shall be there."
The next morning Barefoot with his men and lorries paraded once more on the wharf, with a sea-wind sweeping an icy rain into their faces. At half-past seven the lieutenant took action.
"We will start work," he said. "The colonel was quite right yesterday and spoke like a real business man. In our respect for narrow formalism, we stupidly wasted a whole morning's work."
So his men began to pile up the cases, the lorries started to move the sacks of oats, and the day's work was pretty well advanced when Colonel Musgrave appeared. Having had his bath and shaved, and absorbed poached eggs on toast, bread, marmalade and three cups of tea, he had not been able to be ready before ten. Suddenly coming upon all this healthy bustle, he leaped out of his car, and angrily addressed the eager Barefoot, who was approaching him with a modest smile.
"Who has had the impudence to call the men off parade before my arrival?" he said. "So if I happen to be detained elsewhere by more important work, my orders are simply disregarded! I see again that I cannot rely on anyone here except myself!"
Meanwhile the crestfallen Barefoot was meditating upon the mysterious ways of the army. Musgrave inspected the work and decided that everything was to be done all over again. The biscuits were to be put in the shed where the oats had been piled, and the oats were to be put out in the open where the biscuits had been. The meat was to change places with the jam, and the mustard with the bacon. The lorries were to take away again everything they had just brought up. So that when lunch-time arrived, everything was in exactly the same state as it had been at dawn. The Admiralty announced the arrival of a transport at two o'clock; the men were supposed to find their rations ready for them upon landing.
Musgrave very pluckily decided that the Labour Company were to have no rest, and were just to be content with nibbling a light lunch while they went on with their work.
Barefoot, who had got up at six and was very hungry, approached the colonel in fear and trembling.
"May I leave my sergeant in charge for half an hour, sir?" he asked. "He can do everything as well as I can. I should like just to run along to the nearest cafe and have something warm to eat."
Musgrave gazed at him in mournful astonishment.
"Really," he said, "you young fellows don't seem to realize that there's a war on." Whereupon he stepped into his car and drove off to the hotel.
* * * * *
Barefoot, somewhat downcast, buttonholed the interpreter, who was father-confessor to all Englishmen in distress. Aurelle begged him not to get excited.
"You are always talking about introducing your business methods into the army. As if that were possible! Why, the objects of the two things are entirely different. A business man is always looking for work; an officer is always trying to avoid it. If you neglect these principles, I can foresee an ignominious end in store for you, Barefoot, and Colonel Musgrave will trample on your corpse."
Now the thirty thousand Portuguese had been fed during their long voyage on tinned food; and as the transports' holds were being cleared, innumerable empty tins began to accumulate on the wharves. Barefoot and his men were ordered to gather these tins together into regular heaps. These grew so rapidly that the Mayor of the town was exceedingly concerned to see such a waste of space in a harbour already filled to bursting-point, and sent a pointed letter to Colonel Musgrave, asking him to find some other place for his empty tins.
Colonel Musgrave ordered his interpreter to write an equally pointed letter, reminding the Mayor of B—— that the removal of refuse was a municipal concern, and that the British Army was therefore waiting for the Town to hand over a plot of ground for the purpose.
Barefoot happened to speak of this difficulty one day to the business man at whose house he was billeted; and the latter told him that a process had recently been discovered by which old tins could be melted down and used again, and that a company had been floated to work out the scheme; they would be sure to purchase Colonel Musgrave's tins.
The enthusiastic Barefoot began to see visions of profitable and glorious enterprises. Not only would he rid his chief and the Mayor of B—— of a lot of cumbersome salvage, but this modest contract for some tens of tons might well serve as a model to those responsible for the sale of the millions of empty tins scattered daily by the British Army over the plains of Flanders and Artois. And the Commander-in-Chief would call the attention of the War Office to the fact that "Lieutenant E. W. Barefoot, by his bold and intelligent initiative, had enabled salvage to be carried out to the extent of several million pounds."
"Aurelle," he said to the interpreter, "let's write to this company immediately; we'll speak about it to the colonel when we get their reply."
The answer came by return; they were offered twenty francs per ton, carriage at the company's cost.
Barefoot explained his scheme to Colonel Musgrave with assumed modesty, adding that it would be a good thing to flatten out the tins before dispatching them, and that Sergeant Scott, who was a handy man, could easily undertake the job.
"First of all," said the colonel, "why can't you mind your own business? Don't you know you are forbidden to correspond with strangers upon matters pertaining to the service without consulting your superior officers? And who told you I've not been thinking for quite a long time of selling your damned tins? Do you think things are as simple as all that in the army? Fetch Aurelle; I'm going to see the superintendent of the French Customs."
Three years' experience had taught Colonel Musgrave that the French Customs Service were always to be relied on.
"Kindly ask this gentleman whether the British Army, having imported tins with their contents without paying any duty, has the right to sell these tins empty in France?"
"No," answered the official, when the colonel's question had been translated to him, "there is an order from our headquarters about the matter. The British Army must not carry on any sale of metal on French soil."
"Thank him very much," said the colonel, satisfied.
"Now just look here," he said to Barefoot on returning, "what a nice mess you would have made if I hadn't known my business. Let this be a lesson to you. In future it will be better if you look after your men and leave the rest to me. As for the tins, I have thought of a solution which will satisfy everyone concerned."
Next day Barefoot received orders to have the tins packed on lorries, and carried in several loads to the end of the pier, whence they were neatly cast into the sea. In this way the Mayor was spared the trouble of finding a dumping-ground, the British Government paid for the petrol consumed by the lorries, the Ponts et Chaussees bore the expense of the dredging, and, as Colonel Musgrave said, every one was satisfied.
* * * * *
Colonel Parker, before rejoining the Division, wrote out a report, as usual, about the operations at B——.
"I beg to draw attention," the document ran, "to the excellent organization of the Supply arrangements. Thirty thousand men have been provided with rations in a harbour where no British base existed. This result is due especially to the organizing abilities displayed by Colonel A. C. Musgrave, C.M.G., D.S.O. (R.A.S.C.). Although this officer has only recently been promoted, I consider it my duty to recommend him ..."
"What about Barefoot?" said Aurelle. "Couldn't he be made a captain?"
"Barefoot? That damned shopkeeper fellow whom Musgrave told me about? The man who wanted to introduce his methods into the army? He's a public danger, my boy! But I can propose your friend Major Baraquin for a C.M.G., if you like."
"Baraquin?" Aurelle exclaimed in turn. "Why, he always refused everything you asked him for."
"Yes," said the colonel; "he's not very easy to get on with; he doesn't understand things; but he's a soldier, every inch of him! I like old Baraquin!"
THE STORY OF PRIVATE BIGGS
"La Nature fait peu de gens vaillants; c'est la bonne institution et la discipline."—Charron.
The new padre was a stout, artless man with a kind face. He was only just out from England, and delighted the general with his air of innocent surprise.
"What's making all that noise?" he asked.
"Our guns," said Colonel Parker.
"Really?" replied the padre, in mild astonishment. As he walked into the camp, he was stopped by a sentry.
"Who goes there?"
"Friend," he answered. Then he went up to the man and added anxiously, "I suppose that was the right thing to answer, wasn't it?"
The general was delighted at these stories, and asked the Rev. Mr. Jeffries to take his meals at his own table.
"Padre," he said, "don't you think our mess is a happy family?"
"Padre," chimed in the doctor approvingly, "don't you think that this mess has all the characteristics of a family? It is just a group of people thrown together by chance, who never understand each other in the least, who criticize one another severely, and are compelled by circumstances to put up with each other."
"There's nothing to joke about," said Colonel Parker. "It's these compulsory associations that often give rise to the finest devotion."
And being in a lively mood that evening, he related the story of Private Biggs:
"You remember Biggs, who used to be my orderly? He was a shy, refined little fellow, who used to sell neckties in peace-time. He loathed war, shells, blood and danger.
"Well, at the end of 1916, the powers that be sent the battalion to Gamaches training camp. A training camp, padre, is a plot of ground traversed by imitation trenches, where officers who have never been near the line teach war-worn veterans their business.
"The officers in charge of these camps, having a clientele to satisfy, start some new fashion every season. This spring I understand that 'open file' is to be the order of the day; last autumn 'massed formation' was the watchword of the best firms. There's a lot of talk been going on for some time, too, about 'firing from the hip'; that's one of my friend Lamb's absolutely original creations—a clever fellow that; he ought to do very well.
"At Gamaches the officer in command was Major Macleod, a bloodthirsty Scot whose hobby was bayonet work. He was very successful at showing that, when all's said and done, it's the bayonet that wins battles. Others before him have sworn that it is only hand-grenades, heavy guns, or even cavalry that can give a decisive victory. But Macleod's doctrine was original in one respect: he favoured moral suggestion rather than actual practice for the manufacture of his soldiers. For the somewhat repulsive slaughter of bayonet fighting he found it necessary to inspire the men with a fierce hatred of the enemy.
"For this purpose he had bags of straw stuffed to the shape of German soldiers, adorned with a sort of German helmet and painted field-grey, and these were given as targets to our Highlanders.
"'Blood is flowing,' he used to repeat as the training proceeded, 'blood is flowing, and you must rejoice at the sight of it. Don't get tender-hearted; just think only of stabbing in the right place. To withdraw the bayonet from the corpse, place your foot on the stomach.'
"You can imagine how Biggs's soul revolted at these speeches. In vain did Sergeant-Major Fairbanks of the Guards deliver himself of his most bloodthirsty repertoire; Biggs's tender heart was horror-struck at the idea of bowels and brains exposed, and it was always owing to him that the most carefully-prepared charges were deprived of the warlike frenzy demanded by Major Macleod.
"'As you were!' Sergeant-Major Fairbanks used to yell. 'As you were! Now then, Private Biggs.' And after twenty attempts had failed, he would conclude sadly, 'Well, boys, mark my words, come Judgment Day, when we're all p'radin' for the final review an' the Lord comes along, no sooner will the Archangel give the order, "'Tention!" than 'e'll 'ave to shout, "As you were! Now then, Private Biggs!"'
"When the period of training was over, Macleod assembled all our men in a large shed and gave 'em his celebrated lecture on 'hatred of the enemy.'
"I was really curious to hear him, because people at G.H.Q. were always talking about the extraordinary influence he had over the troops' moral. 'One of Macleod's speeches,' said the Chief of Staff, 'does the Huns as much harm as ten batteries of heavy howitzers.'
"The lecturer began with a ghastly description of the shooting of prisoners, and went on to a nauseating account of the effects of gas and a terrible story about the crucifixion of a Canadian sergeant; and then, when our flesh was creeping and our throats were dry, came a really eloquent hymn of hate, ending with an appeal to the avenging bayonet.
"Macleod was silent for a few minutes, enjoying the sight of our haggard faces; then, considering we were sufficiently worked up, he went on:
"'Now, if there is any one of you who wants anything explained, let him speak up; I'm ready to answer any questions.'
"Out of the silence came the still, small voice of Private Biggs.
"'Yes, my man,' said Major Macleod kindly.
"'Please, sir, can you tell me how I can transfer to the Army Service Corps?'
"That evening, in the kitchen, our orderlies discussed the incident, and discovered in course of conversation that Biggs had never killed a man. All the others were tough old warriors, and they were much astonished.
"Kemble, the general's orderly, a giant with a dozen or so to his account, was full of pity for the poor little Cockney. 'Mon, mon,' he said, 'I can hardly believe ye. Why, never a single one? Not even wounded?'
"'No,' said Biggs, 'honest Injun. I run so slowly, I'm always the last to get there—I never get a chance.'
"Well, a few days later, the battalion was up in the line again, and was sent into a little stunt opposite Fleurbaix, to straighten out a salient. You remember, sir? It's one of the best things the Division has ever done.
"Artillery preparation, low barrage, cutting communications—everything came off like clockwork, and we caught the Boches in their holes like rabbits.
"While the men were busy with their rifles, grenades and bayonets, cleaning up the conquered trenches, suddenly a voice was heard shouting:
"'Harry, Harry, where are you?... Just send Biggs along here, will you?... Pass the word along to Private Biggs.'
"It was the voice of the Highlander, Kemble. Some giant grasped Biggs by the seat of his trousers and swung him and his rifle up to the parapet. Then two strong hands seized the little man, and he was swung in mid-air from man to man right up the file till he was finally handed over to Kemble, who seized him affectionately with his left hand, and, full of joy at the dainty treat he had in store for his friend, cried, 'Mon, mon, look in this wee hole: I've got twa of 'em at the end of my rifle, but I've kept 'em for you.'
"This is a true story," added Colonel Parker, "and it shows once more that the British soldier has a kind heart."
The Rev. Mr. Jeffries had turned very pale.
AN AIR RAID
"I do not like seriousness. I think it is irreligious."—Chesterton.
"They'll be here soon," said Dr. O'Grady. "The moon is low, and the shadows are long, and these oblique lights will suit them very well."
The division was in rest on the hills overlooking Abbeville, and the doctor was walking to and fro with Colonel Parker and Aurelle along the lime-bordered terrace, from which they could see the town that was going to be attacked. From the wet grassy lawns near by groups of anxious women were scanning the horizon.
"Yesterday evening, in a suburb," said Aurelle, "they killed a baker's three children."
"I am sorry," put in the doctor, "they should be favoured with this fine weather. The law of the storm seems to be exactly the same for these barbarians as it is for innocent birds. It's absolutely contradictory to the notion of a just Divinity."
"Doctor," said Aurelle, "you are an unbeliever."
"No," replied the doctor, "I am an Irishman, and I respect the bitter wisdom of the Catholic faith. But this universe of ours, I confess, strikes me as completely non-moral. Shells and decorations fall haphazard from above on the just and the unjust alike; M. Poincare's carburettor gets out of order just as often as the Kaiser's. The Gods have thrown up their job, and handed it over to the Fates. It is true that Apollo, who is a well-behaved person, takes out his chariot every morning; that may satisfy the poets and the astronomers, but it distresses the moralist. How satisfactory it would be if the resistance of the air were relative to the virtues of the airman, and if Archimedes' principle did not apply to pirates!"
"O'Grady," observed Colonel Parker, "you know the words of the psalm: 'As for the ungodly, it is not so with them; but they are like the chaff which the wind scattereth away from the face of the earth.'"
"Yes, colonel; but supposing you, a good man, and I, a sinner, were suddenly hit by a bomb——"
"But, doctor," Aurelle interrupted, "this science of yours is after all only an act of faith."
"How so, my boy? It is obvious that there are laws in this world. If I press the trigger of this revolver, the bullet will fly out, and if General Webb is given an Army Corps, General Bramble will have a bilious attack."
"Quite so, doctor; you observe a few series linked together, and you conclude that the world is governed by laws. But the most important facts—life, thought, love—elude your observations. You may perhaps be sure that the sun is going to rise to-morrow morning, but you don't know what Colonel Parker is going to say next minute. Yet you assert that the colonel is a machine; that is because your religion tells you to."
"So does every one else's religion," said the doctor. "Only yesterday I read in the Bishop of Broadfield's message: 'The prayers for rain cannot take place this week, as the barometer is too high.'"
Far away over the plain, in the direction of Amiens, the star-sprinkled sky began to flicker with tiny, flashing points of light.
"Here they come," said Aurelle.
"They'll be ten minutes yet," said the doctor. They resumed their walk.
"O'Grady," Colonel Parker put in, "you're getting more crazy every day. You claim, if I comprehend your foolish ideas aright, that a scientist can foretell rain better than an Anglican bishop. What a magnificent paradox! Meteorology and medicine are far less solid sciences than theology. You say that the universe is governed by laws, don't you? Nothing is less certain. It is true that chance seems to have established a relative balance in the tiny corner of the universe which we inhabit, but there is nothing to show that this balance is going to last. If you were to press the trigger of this revolver to-morrow, it is just possible that it would not go off. It is also possible that the German aeroplanes will cease to fly, and that General Bramble will take a dislike to the gramophone. I should not be surprised at any of these things; I should simply recognize that supernatural forces had come into our lives."
"Doctor," said Aurelle, "you know the clock which my orderly Brommit winds up every evening? Let us suppose that on one of the molecules that go to make up the minute-hand of that clock there live a race of beings who are infinitely small, and yet as intelligent as we are. These little creatures have measured their world, and have noticed that the speed of its motion is constant; they have discovered that their planet covers a fixed distance in a fixed period of time, which for us is a minute and for them a century. Amongst their people there are two schools of thought. The scientists claim that the laws of the universe are immutable, and that no supernatural power can intervene to change them. The believers admit the existence of these laws, but they also assert that there is a divine being who can interfere with their course; and to that being they address prayers. In that tiny world, which of them is right? The believers, of course; for there is such a being as Private Brommit, and if he forgets one evening to wind up the clock, the scientists and all their proud theories will vanish away like smoke in a cataclysm which will bring whole worlds to their doom."
"That's so," said the doctor; "but if they had prayed——"
"Listen," interrupted Aurelle.
The park had become strangely silent; and though there was no wind, they could hear the gentle rustling of the leaves, the barking of a dog in the valley, the crackling of a twig under a bird's weight. Up above, in the clear sky, there was a feeling of some hostile presence, and a disagreeable little buzzing sound, as though there were some invisible mosquito up among the stars.
"They're here now," said the doctor.
The noise increased: a buzzing swarm of giant bees seemed to be approaching the hill.
Suddenly there was a long hiss, and a ray of light leaped forth from the valley and began to search the sky with a sort of superhuman thoroughness. The women on the lawn ran away to the shelter of the trees. The short, sharp barking of the guns, the deeper rumble of the bombs that were beginning to fall on the town, and the earth-shaking explosions terrified them beyond endurance.
"I'm going to shut my eyes," said one, "it's easier like that."
"My God," exclaimed another, "I can't move my legs an inch!"
"Fear," said the doctor, "shows itself in hereditary reflexes. Man, when in danger, seeks the pack, and fright makes his flesh creep, because his furred ancestors bristled all over when in combat, in order to appear enormous and terrible."
A terrific explosion shook the hill, and flames arose over the town.
"They're aiming at the station," said the colonel. "Those searchlights do more harm than good. They simply frame the target and show it up."
"When I was at Havre," Aurelle remarked, "a gunner went to ask the Engineers for some searchlights that were rotting away in some store or other. 'Quite impossible,' said the engineer; 'they're the war reserve; we're forbidden to touch them.' He could never be brought to understand that the war we were carrying on over here was the one that was specified in his schedule."
The great panting and throbbing of an aeroplane was coming nearer, and the whole sky was quivering with the noise of machinery like a huge factory.
"My God," exclaimed the doctor, "we're in for it this time!"
But the stars twinkled gently on, and above the din they heard the clear, delicate notes of a bird's song—just as though the throbbing motors, the whizzing shells and the frightened wailing of the women were nothing but the harmonies devised by the divine composer of some military-pastoral symphony to sustain the slender melody of a bird.
"Listen," whispered Colonel Parker, "listen—a nightingale!"
LOVE AND THE INFANT DUNDAS
"... Of which, if thou be a severe sour-complexion'd man, then I hereby disallow thee to be a competent judge."—The Compleat Angler.
The Infant Dundas struck up a rag-time on the sergeant-major's typewriter, did a juggling turn with the army list, and let forth a few hunting yells; then, seeing that the interpreter had reached the required state of exasperation, he said:
"Aurelle, why should we stay in this camp? Let's go into the town; I'll get hold of the Intelligence car, and we'll go and see Germaine."
Germaine was a pretty, friendly girl who sold novels, chocolates and electric lamps at Abbeville. Dundas, who was not interested in women, pretended to have a discreet passion for her; in his mind France was associated with the idea of love-affairs, and he thought it the right thing to have a girl-friend there, just as he would have thought it correct to hunt in Ireland, or to ski at St. Moritz.
But when Germaine, with feigned timidity, directed on him the slowly dwindling fire of her gaze, Dundas was afraid to put his arm round her waist; this rosy-cheeked giant, who was a champion boxer and had been wounded five times, was as bashful and shy as a child.
"Good morning," he would say with a blush.
"Good morning," Germaine would answer, adding in a lower voice for Aurelle's benefit, "Tell him to buy something."
In vain did Aurelle endeavour to find books for the Infant. French novels bored him; only the elder Dumas and Alphonse Daudet found favour in his eyes. Dundas would buy his seventeenth electric lamp, stop a few minutes on the doorstep to play with Germaine's black dog Dick, and then say good-bye, giving her hand a long squeeze and going away perfectly happy in the thought that he had done his duty and gone on the spree in France in the correct manner.
"A nice boy, your friend—but he is rather shy," she used to say.
On Sundays she went for walks along the river with an enormous mother and ungainly sisters, escorted gravely by Dundas. The mess did not approve of these rustic idylls.
"I saw him sitting beside her in a field," said Colonel Parker, "and his horse was tied to a tree. I think it's disgusting."
"It's shameful," said the padre.
"I'll speak to him about it," said the general, "it's a disgrace to the mess."
Aurelle tried to speak up for his friend.
"Maybe," said the doctor, "pleasure is a right in France, but in England it's a crime. With you, Aurelle, when girls see you taking a lady-friend out, their opinion of you goes up. In London, on the other hand——"
"Do you mean to say, doctor, that the English never flirt?"
"They flirt more than you do, my boy; that's why they say less about it. Austerity of doctrine bears a direct proportion to strength of instinct. You like to discuss these matters, because you think lightly of them, and in that we Irish resemble you. Our great writers, such as Bernard Shaw, write thousands of paradoxes about marriage, because their thoughts are chaste. The English are far more prudish because their passions are stronger."
"What's all this you're saying, doctor?" interrupted the general. "I seem to be hearing very strange doctrines."
"We're talking about French morals, sir."
"Is it true, Messiou," inquired Colonel Parker, "that it is the custom in France for a man to take his wife and his mistress to the theatre together to the same box?"
"You needn't try to convince Aurelle of your virtue, colonel," said the doctor; "he's been living with you for four years, and he knows you."
* * * * *
Meanwhile Dundas continued to go down into Abbeville every day and meet his friend. The shelling had got very bad, and the inhabitants began to leave the town. Germaine, however, remained calm. One day a shell hit the shop next door to hers, and shattered the whole of the whitewashed front of the house, and the plaster crumbling away revealed a fine wooden building which for the last two centuries had been concealing its splendid carved beams beneath a wretched coat of whitewash. So also did Germaine, divested by danger of her superficial vulgarity, suddenly show her mettle and prove herself the daughter of a race of soldiers.
Accordingly Dundas had conceived a warm and respectful friendship for her. But he went no further until one day when the alarm caught them together just as he was bidding her good-bye; then only did the darkness and the pleasant excitement of danger cause him to forget ceremony and convention for a few minutes.
Next day Germaine presented the Infant with a fat yellow book; it was Madame de Staels Corinne. The rosy-cheeked one looked askance at the small closely printed pages.
"Aurelle," he implored, "be a good chap and tell me what it's all about—I'm not going to read the damned thing!"
"It's the story of a young Scotch laird," replied Aurelle, "who wants to marry a foreign girl against his family's wish."
"My God!" exclaimed Dundas. "Do you think she expects me to marry her? My cousin Lord Bamford married a dancer and he's very happy; he's the gentleman and she has the brains. But in this case it's the mother—she's a terrible creature!"
"The Zulus," put in the doctor, who was listening, "have a religious custom which forbids the bridegroom-elect to see his mother-in-law. Should he happen but to see her footprints in the sand, he must turn and flee. Nothing could be wiser; for love implies an absurd and boundless admiration for the loved one, and her mother, appearing to the lover in the very image of his beloved without the charm and liveliness of youth, will deter him from that brief spell of folly which is so necessary for the propagation of the species."
"Some mothers are charming," argued Aurelle.
"That's another danger," said the doctor, "for as the mother always tends to live her daughter's emotional life, there is a constant risk of her falling in love with her son-in-law."
"My God!" cried Dundas, horror-struck.
However, the German airmen set his fears at rest that very evening by destroying half the town. The statue of Admiral Courbet in the middle of the square near the bookseller's shop was hit by a bomb. The admiral continued to point an outstretched finger towards the station, but the bookseller cleared out. Germaine followed him regretfully.
As she was unable to take her dog Dick—a horrid mongrel, half-poodle and half-spaniel—Dundas gravely consented to look after him. He loved dogs with a sentimental warmth which he denied to men. Their ideas interested him, their philosophy was the same as his, and he used to talk to them for hours at a time like a nurse to her children.
The general and Colonel Parker were not a bit astonished when he introduced Dick into the mess. They had found fault with him for falling in love, but they approved of his adopting a dog.
Dick, an Abbeville guttersnipe, was therefore admitted to the refinements of the general's table. He remained, however, a rough son of the people, and barked when Private Brommit appeared with the meat.
"Behave yourself, sir," Dundas said to him, genuinely shocked, "behave yourself. A well-brought-up dog never, never does that. A good dog never barks indoors, never, never, never."
Germaine's pet was offended and disappeared for three days. The orderlies reported he had been seen in the country in doubtful company. At last he returned, cheerful and unkempt, with one ear torn and one eye bleeding, and asked to be let in by barking merrily.
"You're a very naughty dog, sir," said Dundas as he nursed him adroitly, "a very, very bad little dog indeed."
Whereupon he turned towards the general.
"I'm very much afraid, sir," he said, "that this fellow Dick is not quite a gentleman."
"He's a French dog," replied General Bramble with sorrowful forbearance.
A GREAT CHEF
"Le roi ordonnait le matin petit souper ou tres petit souper; mais ce dernier etait abondant et de trois services sans le fruit."—Saint-Simon.
In the month of February 1918, Aurelle was ordered by the French mission at British G.H.Q. to report at the sous-prefecture at Abbeville and to hold himself for one day at the disposal of M. Lucas, who would call for him in due course.
Aurelle waited for some time for M. Lucas, who eventually appeared escorted by an English chauffeur. He was a rather stout, clean-shaven little man, and wore a well-made blue suit and a yachting cap. With his hands in his pockets, his curt speech and the authority of his demeanour, he looked every inch a man accustomed to command.
"You are the interpreter from G.H.Q.?" he asked. "Have you a written order?"
Aurelle was obliged to admit he had only received an order by telephone.
"I can't understand it!" said M. Lucas. "The most necessary precautions are neglected. Have you at least been told who I am? No? Well, listen to me, my friend, and kindly hold your tongue for a minute."
He went and shut the door of the sous-prefet's office, and came back to the interpreter. "I am——" he began.
He looked nervously about him, closed a window, and whispered very softly, "I am His Majesty the King of England's chef."
"Chef?" Aurelle repeated, not grasping his meaning.
"His Majesty the King of England's chef," the great man deigned to repeat, smiling kindly at the astonishment the young man showed at this revelation.
"You must know, my friend, that to-morrow the President of the Republic is to be His Majesty's guest in this town. The activity of the German airmen obliges us to keep the programme secret till the last moment. However, I have been sent out in advance with Sir Charles to inspect the British Officers' Club, where the lunch is to take place. You are to accompany me there."
So they set off for the former Chateau de Vauclere, now transformed by British genius for comfort into an officers' club, Aurelle escorting the royal cook and the equerry, who was an old English gentleman with a pink face, white whiskers and grey spats. Above their heads circled the squadron of aeroplanes which had been ordered to protect the favoured city.
During the drive, M. Lucas condescended to say a few words of explanation.
"Our lunch is to be quite informal; the menu very simple—ever since the beginning of the war His Majesty has expressed a wish to be rationed like his people—river trout, tournedos aux pommes, some fruit, and cider to drink."
"But, Monsieur Lucas," interrupted Sir Charles timidly, "you know Her Majesty prefers to drink milk."
"The Queen will drink cider like every one else," replied the chef curtly.
Sir Charles was charmed with the paved courtyard of the chateau, the brick and stone facade with its carved escutcheons, the simple curves of the dining-room panelling, and the picture over the door, which he attributed, not without reason, to Nattier.
"It's very, very small," murmured M. Lucas pensively. "However, as it's war-time——"
Then he inquired about the kitchen. It was a vast and well-lighted place; the red and white tiles on the polished floor shone brightly in the sunshine; magnificent but useless copper saucepans hung upon the walls.
In front of the oven a cook in a white cap was at work with a few assistants. Surprised by the noise, he turned round, and, suddenly recognizing the man in the blue suit, went as white as his cap, and dropped the pan he was holding in his hand.
"You?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, my friend," replied the august visitor quite simply. "What a surprise to find you here! What a pleasure also," he added kindly. "Ah, now I feel relieved! An alfresco meal, a strange kitchen like this, made me very anxious, I must confess. But with such a lieutenant as you, my dear friend, the battle is already half won."
"Yes," he continued, turning towards Aurelle, who was gazing with emotion upon the encounter and thinking of Napoleon entrusting his cavalry to Ney on the eve of Waterloo, "it is a curious coincidence to find Jean Paillard here. At the age of fifteen we made our debut together under the great Escoffier. When I was appointed chef to the Ritz, Paillard took charge of the Carlton; when I took Westminster, he accepted Norfolk."
Having thus unconsciously delivered himself of this romantic couplet—which goes to prove once again that poetry is the ancient and natural expression of all true feeling—M. Lucas paused for a moment, and, lowering his gaze, added in an infinitely expressive undertone:
"And here I am now with the King. What about you?"
"I?" replied the other with a touch of shame. "It's only two months since I was released; till then I was in the trenches."
"What!" exclaimed M. Lucas, scandalized. "In the trenches? A chef like you!"
"Yes," answered Jean Paillard with dignity. "I was cook at G.H.Q."
With a shrug of resignation the two artists deplored the waste of talent for which armed democracies are responsible; and M. Lucas began in resolute tones to announce his plan of campaign. He had the curt precision which all great captains possess.
"Since the war broke out, His Majesty has expressed a wish to be rationed like his people. Therefore the menu is to be very simple: truite a la Bellevue, tournedos aux pommes, some fruit.—Of course there will have to be an entree and some dessert for the Staff. The drink will be cider."
"May I remind you, Monsieur Lucas," Sir Charles put in anxiously, "that Her Majesty prefers to drink milk?"
"I have already told you," said the chef, annoyed, "that the Queen will drink cider like everybody else.... Nevertheless, Paillard, you will kindly show me the contents of your cellar; there will, of course, have to be wine for the Staff. The tournedos, I need hardly say, are to be grilled over a charcoal fire, and larded, of course. As to salad—seasoning, tomatoes and walnuts——"
As he gave his orders, he illustrated their execution with gestures of the utmost solemnity, and his hands moved busily amongst imaginary saucepans.
"The menu is short," he said, "but it must be perfect. The great cook is better recognized by the perfection of a piece of beef—or let me say rather by the seasoning of a salad—than by the richness of his sweets. One of the finest successes in my career—the one I enjoy recalling above all others—is that of having initiated the English aristocracy into the mysteries of Camembert. The choice of fruit—now I come to think of it, Paillard, have you any peaches?"
"I should think we had!" said the latter, breaking open the lid of a crate which revealed a number of delicately shaded ripe peaches glowing in their beds of straw and cotton-wool.
The chef took one and stroked it gently.
"Paillard, Paillard," he said sadly, "do you call these peaches? I can see you have been a soldier, poor fellow. Never mind, I can send the car to Montreuil."
He remained a few minutes longer in meditation; then, satisfied at last, he decided to leave the chateau. In the street, he took Aurelle's arm very kindly.
"My friend," he said, "I think that will do, thank you. And if you ever have the opportunity of seeing Their Majesties, don't let it slip by. In France, you have very wrong ideas, I assure you; since the Revolution, you have a prejudice against Royal Families. It is childish; you can take my word for it. I have been living with this one for more than five years, and I assure you they are quite respectable people."
PRELUDE A LA SOIREE D'UN GENERAL
"... of cabbages and kings."—Lewis Carroll.
A blue forage-cap appeared under the flap of the camouflaged tent.
"Messiou," cried the general, "we were beginning to despair of ever seeing you again."
"Yo-ho! Hello—o!" shouted the Infant Dundas. "I am glad! Come and have some lunch, old man."
Aurelle, happy to find his friends again, fell to heartily on the mutton, boiled potatoes and mint sauce. When they reached the cheese, General Bramble questioned him about his journey.
"Well, Messiou, what about your leave? What is Paris looking like nowadays, and why did your mother the French Mission tell us she was keeping you two days at Abbeville?"
Aurelle told then the story of M. Lucas and of the King's visit.
"What's that, Messiou?" said General Bramble. "You've seen our King? Does he look well?"
"Very well indeed, sir."
"Good old George!" muttered the general tenderly. "Yes, he looked quite well when he came here. Tell us that story of the cook over again, Messiou; it's a jolly good story."
Aurelle complied, and when he had done, he bent over towards Colonel Parker and asked him why the general spoke of the King like an affectionate nurse.
"The King," said the colonel, "is much more to us than you might imagine. To the general, who is an Etonian, he is a kind of neighbour. To Dundas, he's the colonel of his regiment. To the padre, he's the head of the Church. To an old Tory like me, he's the living embodiment of England's traditions and prejudices, and the pledge of her loyalty to them in the future. As for the paternal tone, that's because for half a century the King was a Queen. Loyalism became an attitude of protective chivalry; nothing could have consolidated the dynasty more firmly. Royalty is beloved not only by the aristocracy but by all classes. It's a great asset to a people without imagination like ours to be able to see in one man the embodiment of the nation."
"Messiou," interposed the general, "didn't they give you an M.V.O. for your services?"
"What is that, sir—a new ribbon?"
"My God!" exclaimed Dundas, much scandalized. "You've never heard of the Victorian Order?"
"When King Edward played bridge," said the general, "and his partner left it to him at the right moment, the King used to declare with great satisfaction, 'No trumps, and you're an M.V.O.!'"
"The idea that a word from the sovereign's lips or the contact of his person is sufficient to cure his subjects, is a very ancient and beautiful one," said the colonel. "Before he started distributing ribbons, the King used to cure scrofula. That excellent custom, however, came to an end with William of Orange, who used to say to the patient while he was operating, 'God give you better health and more sense!'"
"The King's taboo has also disappeared," said the doctor.
"I can assure you," said Aurelle, "that his taboo is still effective. On the platform before he arrived there were three A.P.M.'s bustling about and chasing away the few spectators. As the train came into the station one of them ran up to me and said, 'Are you the interpreter on duty? Well, there's a seedy-looking chap over there, who seems up to no good. Go and tell him from me that if he doesn't clear out immediately I'll have him arrested.' I did so. 'Arrest me!' said the man. 'Why, I'm the special commissaire de police entrusted with the King's safety.'"
* * * * *
"Well, Messiou," inquired the general, "have you brought me back any new records from Paris for my gramophone?"
Aurelle unstrapped his kit and proceeded, not without some anxiety, to unpack "Le Prelude a l'Apres-midi d'un Faune."
"I don't know whether you'll like it, sir; it's modern French music."
"I'm sure it's very fine, Messiou," said the general confidently. And in the interest of international courtesy he immediately assumed the beatific expression he usually kept for Caruso.
After the first few notes, an air of bewilderment appeared upon his kindly face. He looked at Aurelle, whom he was surprised to find quite unmoved; at Colonel Parker, who was hard at work; at the doctor, who was inclining his head and listening devoutly; and, resigning himself to his fate, he waited for the end of the acidulated and discordant noises.
"Well, Messiou," he said when it was over, "it's very nice of you not to have forgotten us—but——"
"Yes," put in Colonel Parker, looking up, "but I'm damned if it's music!"
"What?" shouted the doctor, scandalized. "A masterpiece like that? Not music?"
"Come, come," said the general soothingly, "maybe it wasn't written for the gramophone. But, doctor, I should like you to explain."
"Have you seen the Russian Ballet, sir? The faun, lying on a rock, is watching for the nymphs and playing in a monotonous key on his flute. At last they appear, half dressed; he pursues them, but they fly away, and one of them drops a sash, which is all he gets."
"This is very interesting," said the general, much excited. "Wind up the gramophone, Messiou, and give us the disc over again; I want to see the half-dressed nymphs. Make a sign to me at the right moment."
Once again the instrument filled the rustic dug-out with the wistful grace of the Prelude. Aurelle murmured in a low voice:
"Ce nymphes, je les veux perpetuer, si clair Leur incarnat leger qu'il voltige dans l'air Assoupi de sommeils touffus...."
"Bravo, Messiou!" said the general, when the last notes rang out. "I like it better already than I did the first time. I'm sure I'll get used to it in the end."
"I shan't," said Colonel Parker. "I shall always prefer 'God Save the King.'"
"Yes," replied the doctor; "but your children will hum 'Pelleas,' and your grandchildren will say, 'Do you know that old tune that used to be the rage in grandfather's time?' What you never can get used to, colonel, is finding yourself in the presence of a somewhat more complex work of art than the childish productions to which you are accustomed. Nature is not simple; she takes the theme of a fox-trot and makes a funeral march out of it; and it is just these incongruities that are the essence of all poetry. I appeal to you for an opinion, Aurelle, as a citizen of the country which has produced Debussy and Mallarme."
"Have you ever heard the excellent saying of Renoir, the old French painter: 'Don't ask me,' he said, 'whether painting ought to be subjective or objective; I confess I don't care a rap.'"
"Ah, Messiou," sighed the general, "the confounded fellow was quite right too!"
PRIVATE BROMMIT'S CONVERSION
"Paris vaut bien une messe."—Henri IV.
Aurelle was wakened every morning by Colonel Parker's orderly, a tough, thick-set, astute old soldier, who expounded the unwritten laws of the army for the benefit of the young Frenchman as he dexterously folded his clothes.
"You know, sir," he said, "'as 'ow the British Tommy 'as to go to church in peace-time every blessed Sunday. When the time for p'rade comes along, the orficer on dooty gives the order to fall in accordin' to religions, an' the Church of England men, an' the Presbyterians an' the Cath'lics is marched up to their services, rifles an' all.
"The orficer takes charge of one of the detachments, an' in the others the senior N.C.O. for each religion marches at the head. Wotever dodge you try on, there's no gettin' out of it.
"When once you've gone an' accepted the King's shillin', it stands to reason you've got to put up with lots o' things, but Church P'rade's the very limit. Don't you take me for a 'eathen, sir; I'm much more of a believer than 'eaps of others. I don't mind singin' 'ymns, an' when the preacher can talk a bit, I don't objeck to sermons. But what used to get on my nerves was the cleanin' up Sunday mornin's. You've only seen us in khaki; you don't know our peace-time church togs. Some blasted togs they were too, an' no mistake—all glitterin' with blinkin' red an' gold, an' covered with white beltin'. An' the inspection before you start wasn't no joke, I can tell you. Many's the weeks' pay I've 'ad stopped, all on account of Sunday mornin's. I'm a pretty good soldier on active service, sir—why, you seen me at Loos, didn't you?—but what I can't stick is all them barricks an' fatigues an' cleanin' ups.
"F'r a long time I used to say to myself, 'Brommit, my boy, you're a blasted idiot—I can understand a young rookie with only two or three years' service not managin' to get out of Church P'rade, but a soldier of fifteen years' standin' ought to know the tricks of the trade by this time. If you can't manage to stop quietly in bed on Sunday mornin's, you ain't worth yer service stripes,' I says.
"But the more I thought about it the more 'opeless it seemed. Our colonel was old W. J. Reid—Slippery Bill we used to call 'im, 'cos 'e was as slippery as a soapy plank! 'E was an old monkey-face, an' no mistake.
"One day I was called up to the orderly-room to sign somethin' or other, an' I sees a poster on the wall: 'Classification according to religions'—neat little chart it was: 'Church of England, so many—Presbyterians, so many—Catholics, so many.' You bet I didn't pay much attention to the numbers. Wot caught my eye was a column sayin', 'Wesleyans, None.' An' all of a sudden I saw my game.
"'Wesleyans, None.' So there wasn't even a bloomin' Wesleyan N.C.O. to take what Wesleyans there might be to chapel! Probably there wasn't even one bloomin' Wesleyan minister in the little Irish town where we was billeted. I saw myself at last stayin' in bed every blessed Sunday mornin'. At the very worst, if that there little religion 'ad a chapel, I'd be sent there on my own, and a detachment of one can always be trusted to find its way about. Wesleyan—that was the winner.
"Still, I 'ad one anxiety to 'old me back: I didn't for the life of me know what that there fancy religion might be. I'm not exackly a pious bloke, but I'm a good Christian, an' I didn't want to make a damned idiot o' myself. Besides, it would probably be a serious matter, I thought, to change your religion in the army. P'r'aps I'd 'ave to see old Bill 'imself about it, an' Bill wasn't exactly one of them fellers you can take in with some 'arf-baked tale.
"It was no good trying to get to know anythink in barricks. I'd only 'ave attracted notice at an awkward moment. But I knew a girl in the town as knew people 'oo knowed, so I asked 'er to make inquiries.
"She gave me an A1 character. An' blowed if I 'adn't been an' found quite a decent religion; it suited me down to the ground. O' course you know 'oo Wesley was, sir? 'E was a feller as thought that bishops an' chaplains in 'is time didn't act accordin' to Scripture. 'E preached the return to poverty an' 'umbleness an' love of one's neighbour. You bet the Church of England couldn't swallow that! On the 'ole it was an 'onest kind of religion, an' a decent chap like me might very well 'ave gone in for it without its appearin' too out o' the way.
"Well, when I'd got myself well primed up about old Wesley, I felt as 'ow a little interview with Bill wasn't such a terrible thing after all. So I goes to see the sergeant-major, and tells 'im I wants to speak to the colonel.
"'Wot about?' 'e asks.
"'Strickly privit,' I says.
"'E'd 'ave liked to 'ave got my story out o' me then an' there, 'e would, but I knew my only chance was to take Bill off 'is guard, so I kep' the secret of my plan of attack.
"'Well, Brommit,' says the old man quite pleasant like, 'have you got any complaint to make?'
"'No complaints, sir,' says I; 'everything's O.K. But I've asked leave to speak to you, 'cos I wanted to tell you, sir, as 'ow I intend to change my religion.'
"I saw I'd got old Bill set for once, an' no mistake.
"'Change your religion?' 'e says. 'Stuff and nonsense! Have you ever heard of such a thing, sergeant-major? What's your religion at present?'
"'Church of England, sir; but I wish to be put down in future as Wesleyan.'
"'Well, I'm——! Who on earth put that notion into your head, my man? Has the padre offended you, or what?'
"'Oh no, sir, not at all; on the contrary, Mr. Morrison's always been very kind to me. No, it ain't that at all, sir; but I don't believe in the Church of England no more, that's all.'
"'You don't believe any more...? What don't you believe? What do you know about beliefs and dogmas?'
"'Why, sir, lots o' things,' I says. 'F'r instance, there's the bishops; I don't 'old with their way of livin', sir.'
"'By Jove, sergeant-major, do you hear this damned idiot? He doesn't hold with the bishops' way of living! May I ask, Brommit, where you have had occasion to observe the ways of bishops?'
"'Well, sir, Wesley was a splendid fellow ...' An' off I starts to spit out everythink my girl 'ad managed to get 'old of, without lettin' 'im put in a word. You bet 'e'd 'ad enough of it after five minutes. 'E'd 'ave liked to shut me up, but 'e couldn't do that without grantin' me wot I was askin' for. There was no flies on my conversion, I can tell you; I 'ad real live scruples; I'd been thinkin' too much. You can't punish a chap becos 'e thinks too much.
"The old man knew 'is job as well as I knew mine. 'E saw at once 'e only 'ad one thing to do.
"'All right,' 'e said. 'After all, it's your own affair, my man. Sergeant-major, put him down as a Wesleyan. Brommit, you will come back to my room on Friday evening, and meanwhile I will arrange matters with the Wesleyan minister so that you can attend the services. You know where he lives, of course?'
"'No, sir, I don't know 'im.'
"'That's rather strange. Well, never mind, I'll find him. Come back on Friday, Brommit.'
"Slippery old Bill! 'E knew a thing or two, 'e did! Next Friday evenin', when I went up to 'im, 'e says:
"'Ah! I've settled everything,' says 'e. 'I've seen the Wesleyan minister, the Rev. Mr. Short. A charming man, Mr. Short. It's settled with him that you're to go to chapel on Sunday mornings at nine and on Sunday evenings at six. Yes, there are two services; Wesleyans are very strict. Of course if by any chance you miss a service, Mr. Short is sure to let me know, and I would take the necessary steps. But there's no need to think of that, is there? A man who takes the trouble to change his religion at the age of thirty is hardly likely to miss a service. So that's all right, Brommit.'
"Oh, damn cute 'e was, was Slippery Bill! Next Sunday off I goes to the Reverend Short's chapel. Tall, lean chap 'e was, with a real wicked face. 'E gave us an awful sermon all about 'ow we were to reform our lives, an' about all the things we was to renounce in this world, an' about the 'orrible fire as was awaitin' us in the next if we didn't follow 'is advice. After the service Mr. Short comes up to me an' asks me to stay on after the others. Blowed if 'e didn't keep me till twelve o'clock jawin' me about the dooties my noo faith brought me an' about wot I read an' 'oo I talked to. By the time I got away from 'im I was 'arf stunned; an' I 'ad to go again in the evenin'!
"Every blinkin' Sunday the same thing 'appened. I used to spend the 'ole week swearin' and sendin' Short an' Wesley to the 'ottest place in the world. Once I tried on not goin' to chapel; but the miserable old 'ound split on me to the colonel, an' I 'ad a week's pay stopped. Then that there blessed Congregation invented Friday evenin' lectures; and the converted soldier, sent by kind permission of the colonel, was the finest ornament they 'ad.