Once upon a time there was a sitting-room, in which, when everyone
had gone to bed, the furniture, after its habit, used to talk. All
furniture talks, although the only pieces with voices that we human
beings can hear are clocks and wicker-chairs. Everyone has heard a
little of the conversation of wicker-chairs, which usually turn upon
the last person to be seated in them; but other furniture is more
self-centered.
On the night with which we are now concerned the first remark was made
by the clock, who stated with a clarity only equalled by his brevity
that it was one. An hour later he would probably be twice as voluble.
It was normally the signal for an outburst of comment and confidence;
but let me first say that the house in which this sitting-room
was situated belonged to an elderly gentleman and his wife, each
conspicuous for peaceable kindliness. Neither would hurt a fly, but
since they had grandsons fighting for England, honour and the world,
it chanced that they were the incongruous possessors of quite a number
of war relics, which included an inkstand made of a steel shell-top,
copper shell-binding and cartridge-cases; a Turkish dud from Gallipoli
to serve as a door-stop; a pencil-case made of an Austrian cartridge
from the Carso; a cigarette-lighter made of English cartridge-cases;
and several shell-cases transformed into vases for flowers. One of
these at this moment contained some very beautiful late sweet peas,
and the old gentleman had made a pleasant little joke, after dinner,
about sweet peace blossoming in such a strange environment, and would
probably make it again the next time they had guests.
You may be sure that, with the arrival of these souvenirs from such
exciting parts, the conversation of the room became more interesting,
although it may be that some of the stay-at-homes began after a while
to feel a little out in the cold. What was an ordinary table to say
when in competition with a .75 shell-case from the Battle of the
Marne, or a mere Jubilee wedding-present against an inkstand composed
of articles of destruction from Vimy Ridge, which had an irritating
way of making the most of both its existences--reaping in two
fields--by remarking, after a thrilling story of bloodshed, "But
that's all behind me now. My new destiny is to prove the pen mightier
than the sword"? Even though the Jubilee wedding-present came from
Bond Street, and had once been picked up and set down again by QUEEN
ALEXANDRA, what availed that? The souvenir held the floor.
Gradually the other occupants of the room had come to let the
souvenirs uninterruptedly exchange war impressions and speculate as
to how long it would last--a problem as to which they were not more
exactly informed than many a human wiseacre. Under cover of this kind
of talk, which is apt to become noisy, the humdrum of the others, the
chairs and the table and the mantelpiece, and the pacific ornaments,
and the mirror, could chat in their own mild way; the wicker-chair,
for example, could wonder for the thousandth time how long it would
be before the young Captain sat in it once more; and the mirror could
remark that that would be a happy moment indeed when once again it
held the reflections of the Lieutenant and his _fiancée_, who was one
of the prettiest girls in the world.
"Do you think so?" the knob of the brass fender would inquire. "To
me she seemed too fat and her mouth was very wide."
"But that's a fault," the tongs would reply, "that you find with
every one."
To return to the night of which I want particularly to speak, no
sooner had the clock made his monosyllabic utterance than "I am
probably unique," the Vimy Ridge inkstand said.
"How?" the cigarette-lighter sharply inquired, uniqueness being one
of his own chief claims to distinction.
"Strange," said the inkstand, "the blacksmith who made me was not
blown to pieces. The usual thing is for the shell to be a live one,
and no sooner does the blacksmith handle it than he and the soldiers
who brought it and several onlookers go to glory. The papers are full
of such incidents. But in my case--no. I remember," the inkstand was
continuing--
"Oh, give us a rest," said the shell door-stop. "If you knew how tired
I was of hearing about the War, when there's nothing to do for ever
but stop in this stuffy room. And to me it's particularly galling,
because I never exploded at all. I failed. For all the good we are any
more, we--we warriors--we might as well be mouldy old fossils like
the home-grown things in this room, who know of war or excitement
absolutely nothing."
"That's where you're wrong," said a quiet voice.
"Who's speaking?" the shell asked.
"I am," said the door. "You're quite right about yourselves--you War
souvenirs. You've done. You can still brag a bit, but that's all.
You're out of it. Whereas I--I'm in it still. I can make people run
for their lives."
"How?" asked the inkstand.
"Because whenever I bang," said the door, "they think I'm an
air-raid."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Butler (the family having come down to the kitchen
during an air-raid)_. "'YSTERIA--WITHIN REASON--I DON'T OBJECT TO. BUT
WHAT I CAN'T STAND IS BRAVADO."]
* * * * *