IN COMMITTEE
Within the hotel the glowing Gold Hall, whose Lincrusta Walton panels
dated it, was nearly empty. Of the hundred small round tables only one
was occupied; a bald head and a large green hat were almost meeting
over the top of this table, but there was nothing on it except an
ashtray. A waiter wandered about amid the thick plushy silence and the
stagnant pools of electric light, meditating upon the curse which
had befallen the world of hotels. The red lips beneath the green
hat discernibly moved, but no faintest murmur therefrom reached the
entrance. The hot, still place seemed to be enchanted.
The sight of the hotel flower-stall recessed on the left reminded G.J.
of Christine's desire. Forty thousand skilled women had been put out
of work in England because luxury was scared by the sudden vista of
war, but the black-garbed girl, entrenched in her mahogany bower, was
still earning some sort of a livelihood. In a moment, wakened out of
her terrible boredom into an alert smile, she had sold to G.J. a bunch
of expensive chrysanthemums whose yellow petals were like long curly
locks. Thoughtless, he had meant to have the flowers delivered at
once to Christine's flat. It would not do; it would be indiscreet. And
somehow, in the absence of Braiding, it would be equally indiscreet to
have them delivered at his own flat.
"I shall be leaving the hotel in about an hour; I'll take them away
myself then," he said, and inquired for the headquarters of the
Lechford French Hospitals Committee.
"Committee?" repeated the girl vaguely. "I expect the Onyx Hall's what
you want." She pointed up a corridor, and gave change.
G.J. discovered the Onyx Hall, which had its own entrance from the
street, and which in other days had been a café lounge. The precious
pavement was now half hidden by wooden trestles, wooden cubicles,
and cheap chairs. Temporary flexes brought down electric light from
a stained glass dome to illuminate card-indexes and pigeon-holes and
piles of letters. Notices in French and Flemish were suspended from
the ornate onyx pilasters. Old countrywomen and children in rough
foreign clothes, smart officers in strange uniforms, privates
in shabby blue, gentlemen in morning coats and spats, and untidy
Englishwomen with eyes romantic, hard, or wistful, were mixed together
in the Onyx Hall, where there was no enchantment and little order,
save that good French seemed to be regularly spoken on one side of
the trestles and regularly assassinated on the other. G.J., mystified,
caught the grey eye of a youngish woman with a tired and fretful
expression.
"And you?" she inquired perfunctorily.
He demanded, with hesitation:
"Is this the Lechford Committee?"
"The what Committee?"
"The Lechford Committee headquarters." He thought she might be rather
an attractive little thing at, say, an evening party.
She gave him a sardonic look and answered, not rudely, but with large
tolerance:
"Can't you read?"
By means of gesture scarcely perceptible she directed his attention to
an immense linen sign stretched across the back of the big room, and
he saw that he was in the ant-heap of some Belgian Committee.
"So sorry to have troubled you!" he apologised. "I suppose you don't
happen to know where the Lechford Committee sits?"
"Never heard of it," said she with cheerful disdain. Then she smiled
and he smiled. "You know, the hotel simply hums with committees, but
this is the biggest by a long way. They can't let their rooms, so it
costs them nothing to lend them for patriotic purposes."
He liked the chit.
Presently, with a page-boy, he was ascending in a lift through
storey after storey of silent carpeted desert. Light alternated with
darkness, winking like a succession of days and nights as seen by
a god. The infant showed him into a private parlour furnished
and decorated in almost precisely the same taste as Christine's
sitting-room, where a number of men and women sat close together at a
long deal table, whose pale, classic simplicity clashed with the rest
of the apartment. A thin, dark, middle-aged man of austere visage
bowed to him from the head of the table. Somebody else indicated a
chair, which, with a hideous, noisy scraping over the bare floor,
he modestly insinuated between two occupied chairs. A third person
offered a typewritten sheet containing the agenda of the meeting. A
blonde girl was reading in earnest, timid tones the minutes of the
previous meeting. The affair had just begun. As soon as the minutes
had been passed the austere chairman turned and said evenly:
"I am sure I am expressing the feelings of the committee in welcoming
among us Mr. Hoape, who has so kindly consented to join us and give us
the benefit of his help and advice in our labours."
Sympathetic murmurs converged upon G.J. from the four sides of the
table, and G.J. nervously murmured a few incomprehensible words,
feeling both foolish and pleased. He had never sat on a committee;
and as his war-conscience troubled him more and more daily, he was
extremely anxious to start work which might placate it. Indeed, he
had seized upon the request to join the committee as a swimmer in
difficulties clasps the gunwale of a dinghy.
A man who kept his gaze steadily on the table cleared his throat and
said:
"The matter is not in order, Mr. Chairman, but I am sure I am
expressing the feelings of the committee in proposing a vote of
condolence to yourself on the terrible loss which you have sustained
in the death of your son at the Front."
"I beg to second that," said a lady quickly.
"Our chairman has given his only son--"
Tears came into her eyes; she seemed to appeal for help. There were
"Hear, hears," and more sympathetic murmurs.
The proposer, with his gaze still steadily fixed on the table, said:
"I beg to put the resolution to the meeting."
"Yes," said the chairman with calm self-control in the course of his
acknowledgment. "And if I had ten sons I would willingly give them
all--for the cause." And his firm, hard glance appeared to challenge
any member of the committee to assert that this profession of parental
and patriotic generosity of heart was not utterly sincere. However,
nobody had the air of doubting that if the chairman had had ten sons,
or as many sons as Solomon, he would have sacrificed them all with the
most admirable and eager heroism.
The agenda was opened. G.J. had little but newspaper knowledge of the
enterprises of the committee, and it would not have been proper to
waste the time of so numerous a company in enlightening him. The
common-sense custom evidently was that new members should "pick up the
threads as they went along." G.J. honestly tried to do so. But he was
preoccupied with the personalities of the committee. He soon saw that
the whole body was effectively divided into two classes--the chairmen
of the various sub-committees, and the rest. Few members were
interested in any particular subject. Those who were not interested
either stared at the walls or at the agenda paper, or laboriously drew
intricate and meaningless designs on the agenda paper, or folded
up the agenda paper into fantastic shapes until, when someone in
authority brought out the formula, "I think the view of the committee
will be--" a resolution was put and the issue settled by the
mechanical raising of hands on the fulcrum of the elbow. And at each
raising of hands everybody felt that something positive had indeed
been accomplished.
The new member was a little discouraged. He had the illusion that
the two hospitals run in France for French soldiers by the Lechford
Committee were an illusion, that they did not really exist, that the
committee was discussing an abstraction. Nevertheless, each problem
as it was presented--the drains (postponed), the repairs to the
motor-ambulances, the ordering of a new X-ray apparatus, the
dilatoriness of a French Minister in dealing with correspondence,
the cost per day per patient, the relations with the French civil
authorities and the French military authorities, the appointment of
a new matron who could keep the peace with the senior doctor, and the
great principle involved in deducting five francs fifty centimes for
excess luggage from a nurse's account for travelling expenses--each
problem helped to demonstrate that the hospitals did exist and that
men and women were toiling therein, and that French soldiers in grave
need were being magnificently cared for and even saved from death. And
it was plain, too, that none of these excellent things could have come
to pass or could continue to occur if the committee did not regularly
sit round the table and at short intervals perform the rite of raising
hands....
G.J.'s attention wandered. He could not keep his mind off the thought
that he should soon be seeing Christine again. Sitting at the
table with a mien of intelligent interest, he had a waking dream of
Christine. He saw her just as she was--ingenuous, and ignorant if you
like--except that she was pure. Her purity, though, had not cooled her
temperament, and thus she combined in herself the characteristics
of at least two different women, both of whom were necessary to his
happiness. And she was his wife, and they lived in a roomy house in
Hyde Park Gardens, and the war was over. And she adored him and he
was passionately fond of her. And she was always having children; she
enjoyed having children; she demanded children; she had a child every
year and there was never any trouble. And he never admired her more
poignantly than at the periods just before his children were born,
when she had the vast, exquisitely swelling figure of the French
Renaissance Virgin in marble that stood on a console in his
drawing-room at the Albany.... Such was G.J.'s dream as he assisted
in the control of the Lechford Hospitals. Emerging from it he looked
along the table. Quite half the members were dreaming too, and he
wondered what thoughts were moving secretly within them. But the
chairman was not dreaming. He never loosed his grasp of the matter in
hand. Nor did the earnest young blonde by the chairman's side who took
down in stenography the decisions of the committee.