MY DEAR CHARLES,--Essential to that millennium which our restless
revolutionaries are after is your head on a charger and my head on a
charger; provided both heads are present it may be the same charger
for all they care. When you think of the importance which we of
the detested middle classes attach to our heads and the regrettable
violence we might exhibit towards whoever called at our houses to
collect them, then it seems to me you must confess to a sneaking
admiration for the bravery of the turbulent minority in attacking so
big a problem.
But when you get the inside details of their schemes you find that
discretion is not only the better part but the whole of their valour.
For arms you find incendiary speeches; for ammunition, viperish
propaganda, and for epoch-making action you have nothing. In that
"nothing" lies their main ingenuity and strong hope. If they can
prevail on the masses to do nothing, at the right moment, and to go
on doing nothing till there is nothing left, then, say they, they will
have civilisation under; and if our heads don't fall off of their own
accord then a thousand willing hands will be stretched forward to pull
them off.
You ask me how I know all this. Close the doors so that we cannot
be overheard, and I will tell you. I buy their continental
newspaper--"organ" they prefer to call it, being rather proud of the
noise--and there I read all that I want to know. It costs a halfpenny
a day, runs to six pages, is well printed and brightly composed and
contains no advertisements. There is generally a picture in thick
black lines in the centre of the first page. Blood being the easy
thing for the printer to "feature," the picture generally deals with
the cutting off of heads. If it refers to the past, you and I are
cutting off the worker's head, severing from a fine muscular body a
noble head with a halo to it. If it refers to the future, the worker
is having our heads off, severing from a fat and uncontrolled corpus a
most unpleasant excrescence in a very shiny top-hat.
To run a daily newspaper of that "make-up," without advertisements and
for subscribers of whom the larger number, like myself, omit to pay
their half-penny, is not easy business. In fact it is not business at
all. The question being raised as to where the money came from, the
producers tried to allay our suspicion by making a great show of an
appeal for help. The published results, which I give you in their
English equivalent, were much as follows:--
+------------------------------------------------------+
| £ s. d. |
| B. de M. 6 0 |
| Z. X. 5 0 |
| Idealist 5 0 |
| U. W. K. 5 0 |
| A Frenchman who is ashamed of France 4 6 |
| Young Communist 4 0 |
| Three young Communists 3 6 |
| "Great Britain" (collection) 3 3 |
| Disgusted 2 6 |
| Association of Women Fighters for Justice 2 3 |
| O. F. 1 0 |
| Down with Capital 9 |
| One Who will stick at Nothing 3 |
| ------------ |
| 2 3 0 |
| Previous lists 14 6 8-3/4 |
| ------------ |
| £16 9 8-3/4 |
+------------------------------------------------------+
The grand total of sixteen pounds, nine shillings and eight-pence
three-farthings shows a magnificent spirit, but wouldn't keep much
more than a couple of square inches of the front page alive for more
than one day. Reverting, then, to the more pressing question of the
removal of our heads, who is paying for the operation?
He is a heavy-built octopus sort of man of about forty-seven; a red
cheery complexion, rather more fat than muscle, long grey hair tending
to curl at the extremes, and followed about by a lady who acts as his
secretary, calls him "Master" and adores the ground he walks on. They
are married, but not, I should hasten to add, to each other; none of
your dull orthodox practices for them. About his profile there is
an undeniable something which makes his head a suggestive model for
sculpture. It is framed in a large, white, soft silk collar, which
falls gracefully over the lapels of the coat and is, I am told, of a
mode much worn among the _élite_ of the anarchist and atheist world.
I've a friend here in the law-and-order business who thought that,
having reported all the movements of this Master of the Black Arts,
he might find it worth while to make his acquaintance in the flesh.
Indirect enquiry elicited that the desire to get into touch was
reciprocated, the attentions of the police being insufficient to
satisfy his sense of importance. So the meeting was arranged, and I
was allowed to come along too.
We were received in great state in a special suite of the local hotel
de luxe. The Lady Secretary was there, overflowing with "Masters" and
"Sirs," and obsessed by the fear that her idol might not do himself
justice in our presence. A very touching instance of human devotion:
the fifth instance in his case, I believe.
This is the gentleman who finances the propaganda of destruction; we
asked him if that was not so, and he answered, "Why, of course." Had
we any fault to find with his protégé, the admirable halfpenny daily?
We had noticed that its news was punctual and exact. Then of what did
we complain?
"Of a certain exaggeration in the leading articles," said I, rubbing
the back of my neck and wondering how long it would be there to rub
and I to rub it.
"But what newspaper leaders are not exaggerated?" he asked.
"Your editors should not be paid to twist everything into an
irritant," I protested.
"Of which of your great English dailies is the editor not paid to
twist, as you put it?" he asked.
I knew that I had right on my side and he had not. But still somehow I
seemed to be in the wrong all the way.
So my friend took the matter in hand. He didn't argue. He just drew
his chair up to the Master's and asked him to tell us all about
himself, how he came by his great ideals, what was the future of the
world as he foresaw it and how he meant to arrange the universe when
at length he took over?
The Master, gently smiling his appreciation of this recognition of his
Ego, gave voice.
To the lady it was all, of course, above criticism: sublime, adorable.
To me the frankness of it and the impudence of it was, I confess,
amusing.
The world is out of joint; how good 'twill be
When Heaven is sacked and leaves the job to me!
An agreeable, if wrong-headed, crank, was my summary.
And this or something like it was my friend's:--"b. U.S.A. of Eng.
parents, 9.5.78; tinned meat business, Chicago; 6 months' h.l. for
frauds in connection with packing; went to Mexico, but left to avoid
prosecution for similar frauds on larger scale; prison in Belgium,
France and England in connection with illegal dealings in rifles
(? for Germany); apparently liable to more prison in U.S.A. for crime
unknown, if returns there; won't say where he gets his money from, but
doesn't seriously pretend it is his own."
And when I came to go back over the Master's two hours' chat about
himself, those are about the facts it all boiled down to.
Yours ever, HENRY.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
"£40.--Handsome Black Silk Golf Goat (large size)."--_Irish Paper_.
The very thing for the butting-green.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NIL DESPERANDUM.
_The Amateur Championship_. MR. POTT-HUNTER, WHO FAILED TO SURVIVE THE
FIRST ROUND.
_The East of France Championship_. MR. POTT-HUNTER IN FATAL
DIFFICULTIES IN THE SECOND ROUND.
_The Championship of Central Switzerland_. MR. POTT-HUNTER, DEFEATED
IN THE THIRD ROUND.
_The Sicilian Championship_. MR. POTT-HUNTER, WHO REACHED THE FOURTH
ROUND.
_The Championship of Mozambique_. MR. POTT-HUNTER, A FIFTH ROUND
VICTIM.
_The Spitzbergen Championship_. MR. POTT-HUNTER, ONE OF THE
SEMI-FINALISTS.
_The Championship of Upper Senegal_. MR. POTT-HUNTER, BEATEN IN THE
FINAL BY MR. HUNT-POTT.
_The Tierra del Fuego Championship_. THE WINNER, MR. POTT-HUNTER.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "NEVER YOU MIND IF 'E DID SAY YOU'D GOT A NECK LIKE A
CAMEL. 'TAIN'T NEARLY AS LONG AS ALL THAT."]
* * * * *