generals whose hearts and souls had been steeped from birth in the
sanguinary ways of war. Of her journey home with the Prince you all
know; and what her white-haired father said when she arrived you've
heard hundreds of times. There has been a lot of argument as to the
exact form the Prince's gratitude took. Some say he unwrapped her
plaidie and went away with it; others write that he cut a lock of his
braw red hair and gave it to her with his usual merry smile; but the
authentic version of that moving scene is that of the burnt scone.
Maggie had baked a scone and handed it to him; then, after he had bitten
it, he handed it back.
"Nay, lassie, nay," he is said to have remarked. "My purse is empty but
my heart is full. Take this scone imprinted by my royal teeth, and
treasure it."
Then with a debonair bow and a ready laugh, a mocking shout and
whimsical wink, he went out into dreary Galway--a homeless wanderer.
Of Maggie's death very little is known. Some say she died of hay-fever;
others say it was nasal catarrh; but only her old mother, with a woman's
unerring instinct, guessed the truth: in reality she died of a broken
heart and a burnt scone.
THE EDUCATION OF RUPERT PLINGE
[Illustration: RUPERT PLINGE, AGED 9 MONTHS AND 4 YEARS, RESPECTIVELY]
Under the blue-grey shadow of the Didcot Bowles bungalow, with beech
trees and pussy willows fringing the banks of the river Sippe which
runs, or ran before it was dammed, down past old Caesar Earwhacker's
bicycle shed, three miles from the village of Sagrada, Conn., to the
West and eight miles from Roosefelt under the hill to the North leaving
the South free for a Black Rising and the East for the Civil War;--there
in the seventeenth cottage, with green shutters, below the bridge--with
the pine cones occasionally tap-tapping against the pantry window--owing
to a strange combination of circumstances Rupert Plinge's elder sister
first saw the light of day. Rupert himself being born ten months later
at Guffle Hoe.
Had he been born on the lower reaches of the Yukon and baptised by a
remittance man in a Wesleyan Chapel, he would probably not have
suffered so acutely from the cold as he did at Guffle Hoe, nor could he
have been more persistently victimised and handicapped in after life by
bronchial asthma and pyorrhoea of the gums.
Though coldness for a baby was unpleasant in 1870 it was infinitely more
tiresome in 1592 and perfectly devastating in 1306. But Guffle Hoe--try
to reflect if possible the troglodytic fun of being born within earshot
and eyeshot of people such as Granville Boo, General Udby, Ex-President
Sumplethock, Senator Mills-Tweeper and Harriet Beecher Stowe; and places
such as Mount Knitting, Mudlake West, Pigeon Park and Appleblossom
Villa. These influential factors combined were undoubtedly the
foundations of the enormous mathematical ability which became apparent
long before the boy attained the age of three, but unfortunately for the
level development of his mentality, the repulsive plainness of Senator
Mills-Tweeper coupled with the innate idiocy of General Udby, completely
overshadowed the girlish charm of Harriet Beecher Stowe. Had Rupert
been consulted would he have liked playing the game at all--holding the
cards in the wrong hand as he did from the very start without the
slightest conception of what the game really was and why they were
playing it? But it is quite obvious now to anyone looking back over the
years that had the cards of his life been shuffled by his Auntie Gracie
before her elopement to the Klondyke with Ex-Senator Fortescue, the
ultimate stakes would have been immeasurably dissimilar. At this time
the harsh political spirit of Guffle Hoe was morally if not physically
and perhaps mentally inflamed by the appearance of several tramp
steamers in the mouth of the Sippe, a new hay-cart at Oozeworthy Farm,
and the flashing of the electrifying news across the newly erected
telegraph wires that Peter Rotepillar and Henry Plugg had, apart from
their dramatic refusal to enter themselves as candidates for the
Presidency, declined to take any further interest in politics at all and
had set up a flourishing bee nursery in Bokewood, Mass. This was on a
Friday. Rupert was two months old and naturally sensitive--living and
sometimes breathing in such a political atmosphere--to the far-reaching
effects of such a shattering blow to the constituency. Of all this that
was being performed to complicate his education he became suddenly
conscious of an innate sense of the roundness of the whole universe. He
began to find himself continually oppressed by the protuberant nearness
and corresponding magnitude of his mother's face, which grafted itself
upon his infant psychology by looming with maddening regularity over his
cot and consciousness. The peculiar rotundity of this good woman's
countenance seemed to illustrate to the rising sun of his genius the
ethics of that science at which--had he but lived seventy years
later--he might have become so famous:--Geography.
On September 9th, 1871, he developed croup, which in due course promoted
him to one of the first steps of artistic education--Colour.
For several days he hung between life and death, turning an exquisite
shade of purple and black as each new coughing fit seized him. This not
unusual phenomenon impressed its vivid seal upon the plastic wax of his
unfledged memories with extraordinary precision. In after life, for a
long while, he was quite unable to gaze at an ordinary muscat grape or a
coal-scuttle without either biting his comforter right through or being
extremely sick. Naturally this disability coupled with the physical
weakness and sense of impotence that he invariably experienced when in
the company of his older companions occasioned him much unhappiness; in
fact, many of the intense sorrows of his childhood were caused by the
thoughtless mockery of his sister Leah Clara, aged nineteen months.
To the uninitiated spectator it would appear when gazing casually at
young Rupert Plinge that the psychologically educational environment
surrounding him was deeply impregnated with the spirit of political
reformation which, though neither Elizabethan in tone nor strictly
Cromwellian in atmosphere, was strongly suggestive to the lay mind of
the Second Empire. The subconscious force of this abstract influence
went far toward moulding the delicate shoots of his rapidly developing
mentality into a brilliant knowledge of weights and measures, decimals,
and the native population of Borneo.
Whether Rupert was enjoying his rubber comforter on the cool green
grass, or on the slightly painful gravel, or on the fiercely hot
asphalt, summer was to him a season of unsurpassed sensuality, flooding
his character with rich productive thought and a passionate adoration
for his great-aunt Maud, who was wont to beguile the long sun-stained
hours by lying amid cushions among the foliage, humming "The
Star-Spangled Banner," while she removed with the point of her
nail-scissors caramels and other adhesive morsels from the gutta-percha
plate of her new false teeth which lay in her lap.
With an amazing clarity of perception which, though generally supposed
to be inherited from his great-uncle Miles, for fifty-four years
Unitarian minister in the Red Lamp district of Honolulu, would
undoubtedly in the searching light of twentieth century vision be mainly
attributed to prenatal influences and astronomical premonitions, he
realised that the atmosphere was exceedingly chilly in the winter.
Later biographists have exposed with somewhat malicious emphasis the one
weak point in an otherwise magnificently constructed intelligence--to
wit, the peculiar inability to recognise the inner psychology and
spiritual determination of his great-grandfather--Bobbie Plinge--who as
all the world knows met a tragic death at the hands of Great Brown
Spratt, the last but _one_ of the Mohicans, some fifteen years before
the birth of Rupert himself. This deficiency in one of the greatest of
all American characters was in a measure remedied by his excessive
appreciation of his grandfather O'Callaghan Soddle's luxurious house in
Boob Street, later on when the abode of stupendous intellect had been
completely gutted by fire and soaked in water. The boy Rupert, then aged
two years and a fortnight, exercised a fiercely dominant influence upon
the ground charts, plans, etc., for the new palatial residence which was
soon to rear its mighty pillars and porticos not so very far from the
ivy-grown cottage which in the past had on several occasions sheltered
the wistful personality of Harriet Beecher Stowe.
The inherent passion for beauty thus crystallized in the mellowing
virility of the boy's finely wrought temperament went far toward
satisfying his deep-rooted and well-nigh insatiable yearning for city
splendour.
In the strange juxtaposition to his unequalled comprehension of national
political problems was a surprising streak of frank insouciance and
happy-hearted boyishness, which frequently expressed itself in the open
defiance of authority in the shape of his great-aunt Maud, his slightly
dropsical mother (nee Sheila Soddle) and his two resident cousins,
Alexander Chaffinch and Dorothy Bonk, who at moments were entirely
unable even to bend the finely tempered steel of his inflexible will,
therefore on the one occasion when his decisive plans were unexpectedly
frustrated an impression was photographed with extraordinary bas-relief
upon his mind of the omnipotence of his quite infirm Grandfather
Soddle--and of power as a concrete argument. The incident being the
removal of a half-sucked tin soldier from his hand by the subtle device
of striking his knuckles sharply with the fire tongs. Then and always
the boy insisted that this method of reprimand justified his apparent
submission; the emptiness of his hand and the smarting of his knuckles
indubitably marking probably the only occasion in his life when all his
strategical points abruptly turned inward. Contrary to the suppositions
of impartial psychologists, far from breeding the slightest resentment
against old Mr. Soddle, this occurrence inspired an active dislike to
great-aunt Maud who had indulged in her ever-irritating laugh at his
expense. He expressed his natural anger by filling her handkerchief-case
with bacon fat, and other boyish revenges of a like nature.
A child whose soaring entity had been nourished and over tended in such
an exotic forcing house of accumulated endeavour and democratic
emancipation must indubitably have been the first to realise that the
austerity of his massive intellect was within measurable distance of
completing that predestined cycle of universal knowledge and aspiring
ultimately to the glorious pinnacle of political achievement.
Rupert Plinge's fourth birthday had scarce dawned across the hills of
time when the long drawn out shadow of earthly obscurity completely
enveloped the brightest flower of nineteenth century America. The almost
morbid cultivation of his superluminary brain reached its devastating
climax while committing to memory the anatomy of the common grub in
order to demonstrate to the Eastern constituency the fundamental
principles of fiscal autonomy. Lying in his cot, his large pale eyes
fixed grimly on a visionary goal, he realised with an intuitive pang
that the hour of dismissal was at hand. Calling his mother to him he
asked his last illuminating question, his mind groping still in search
of truth's flaming beacon:
"Mother, why am I dying?"
Mrs. Plinge leant over him and whispered impressively, "You are dying of
dropsy caused by over-education!" And turning on her heel she went
slowly out of the room.
Delirium entered the darkening nursery. Rupert, clasping his hot-water
bottle raptly, murmured dreamily as he merged into the Great Unknown,
the crystallisation of the subconscious influence which had permeated
his whole career--
"Dropsy, Dropsy,
Topsy, Topsy--
Harriet Beecher Stowe."
ANNA PODD
[Illustration: ANNA PODD
_From a very old Russian oleograph_]
Though of humble origin, though poor and unblessed with any of life's
luxuries, Anna Podd made her way in the world with unfaltering
determination. The tragedy of her life was perhaps her ambition, but who
could blame her for wishing to better herself? She had nothing--nothing
but her beauty. What a woman's beauty can do for herself and her country
is amply portrayed in the kaleidoscopic pageant of Anna Podd's life. The
only existing picture of her (here reproduced) was discovered in Moscow
after Ivan Buminoff's well-remembered siege, lasting seventeen years.
Poor Anna! Destiny seemed ruthlessly determined to lead her so far and
no further. A Tsar loved her, which is more than falls to the lot of
some women, yet fate's unrelenting finger was forever placed upon the
pulse of her career.
Of her parents nothing is known. We first hear of her in a low cabaret
in St. Petersburg West. All night, so Serge Tadski tells us in "Russian
Realism," it was her sordid duty to flaunt that exquisite loveliness
which Heaven had bestowed upon her before the devouring eyes of every
sort and description of Russian man. She was wont to sway rhythmically
and sinuously to the crazy band which played for her; now and then, with
pain in her heart and a merry laugh on her lips, she would leap onto the
tables and snap her fingers indiscriminately.
Often it was her duty to drink off glass after glass of champagne; but
she never became inebriated.[25] Her purpose in life was too set--she
meant to break away. In Nicholas Klick's "Life of Anna Podd" he states
that she met the Tsar at a ball, whence she was hired professionally.
This statement is entirely untrue; and I am more than surprised that
such a talented man as Klick should have made such a grievous error.
It has been absolutely impossible to unearth the true story of her
meeting with the Tsar.
It was after their meeting that the real progress of her career
commenced. Her Royal master established her in the palace as
serving-maid to the ailing Tsarina, a generous but somewhat tactless act
on his part. Somehow or other, history whispers, Anna fell foul of the
Tsarina--they simply hated one another. Occasionally the Tsarina would
throw hot water over Anna for sheer spite. Poor Anna, her beauty was
alike her joy and her terror. The Tsarina, Klick informs us, was
somewhat plain, and knew it--hence her distaste for the dazzling Anna.
One day, the Tsarina died--no one knew why. Anna, guileless and innocent
enough, was at once suspected by all as having poisoned her, except the
Tsar, who, to avert further suspicion, promptly created her Duchess of
Poddoff. This mark of royal esteem had the effect of quieting the people
for a while at least. Life went on much as usual at the Royal Palace.
Anna was kept in close seclusion for safety's sake. The Tsar loved her
with a steady, burning devotion which caused him to have all his
children by the Tsarina rechristened "Anna," indiscriminately of sex.
One day a messenger arrived in blue and yellow uniform[26] to bid the
Tsar gird himself for war. When the luckless Anna heard the news, she
was with her women (all ladies of title): some say she swooned; others
aver that she merely sat down rather suddenly. Fate had indeed dealt her
a smashing blow. Once her Imperial lover left her side she would at once
be taken prisoner and flung God knows where. This she knew
instinctively, intuitively. Klick describes for us her dramatic scene
with the Tsar.
"He was just retiring to bed," he writes, "preparatory to making an
early start the next morning, when the door burst open, and Anna,
tear-stained and sobbing, threw herself into the room and, hurling
herself to the bed, flung herself at his feet, which, owing to his
immensity of stature, were protruding slightly over the end of the
mattress. 'Take me with you!' she cried repeatedly. 'No, no, no!'
replied the Tsar, equally repeatedly. At length, worn out by her
pleading, the poor woman fell asleep. It was dawn when the Tsar,
stepping over her recumbent form, bade her a silent good-bye and went
out to face unknown horror. Half an hour later Anna was flung into a
dungeon, preceding her long and tiring journey to Siberia."
Thus Klick describes for us the pulsating horror of perhaps one of the
most pitiful nights in Russian history.
In those days the journey to Siberia was infinitely more wearisome than
it is now. Poor Anna! She was conveyed so far in a litter, and so far in
a sleigh, and when the prancing dogs grew tired she had perforce to
walk. Heaven indeed have pity on those unfortunate women from whom the
eye of an Emperor has been removed.
For thirty long years Anna slaved in Siberia. She drew water from the
well, swept the floor of the crazy dwelling wherein she lived, lit the
fire, and polished the samovar when necessary. In her heart the bird of
hope occasionally fluttered a draggled wing: would he send for
her--would he? If only the war were ended! But no! Rumours came of
fierce fighting near Itchbanhar, where the troops of General Codski were
quartered. It was, of course, the winter following the fearful siege of
Mootch. According to Brattlevitch in Volume II. of "War and Why," the
General had arranged three battalions in a "frat" or large semi-circle,
in the comparative shelter of a "boz" or low-lying hill, in order to
cover the stealthy advance of several minor divisions who were thus able
to execute a miraculous "yombott" or flank movement, so as to gain the
temporary vantage ground of an adjacent "bluggard" or coppice. All this,
of course, though having nothing material to do with the life of Anna
Podd, goes to show the reader what a serious crisis Russia was going
through at the time.
It was fifteen years after peace was declared that the Tsar sent a
messenger to Siberia commanding Anna's immediate release and return, and
also conferring upon her the time-honoured title of Podski. Anna was
hysterical with joy, and filled herself a flask of vodka against the
journey home. Poor Anna--she was destined never to see St. Petersburg
again.
It was while they were changing sleighs at a wayside inn that she was
attacked by a "mipwip" or white wolf,[27] which consumed quite a lot of
the hapless woman before anyone noticed.
Brattlevitch tells us that the Tsar was utterly dazed by this cruel
bereavement. He had Anna's remains embalmed with great pomp and buried
in a public park, where they were subsequently dug up by frenzied
anarchists.[28] He also conferred upon her in death the deeds and title
of Poddioskovitch, thus proving how a poor cabaret girl rose to be one
of the greatest ladies in the land.
SOPHIE, UNCROWNED QUEEN OF HENRY VIII
[Illustration: SOPHIE]
Contemporary history tell us little of Sophie, later chronicles tell us
still less, while the present-day historians know nothing whatever about
her. It is only owing to concentrated research and indomitable patience
that we have succeeded in unearthing a few facts which will serve to
distinguish her from that noble band of unknown heroines who have lived,
paid the price, and died, unnoted and unsung!
She was born at Esher. The name of her parents it has been impossible to
discover, and as to what part of Esher she first inhabited we are also
hopelessly undecided.
As a child some say she was merry and playful, while others describe her
as solemn and morose. The reproduction on page 170 is from an old print
discovered by some ardent antiquaries hanging upside down in a disused
wharf at Wapping.
It was obviously achieved when she was somewhere between the ages of
twenty and forty. The unknown artist has caught the fleeting look of
ineffable sadness, as though she entertained some inward premonition of
her destiny and her spirit was rebelling dumbly against what was
inevitable.
Esher in those days was but a tiny hamlet--a few houses clustered here,
and a few more clustered there. London, then a graceful city set upon a
hill, could be seen on a clear day from the northernmost point of Esher.
On anything but a clear day it was, of course, impossible to see it at
all. Esher is now, and always has been, remarkable for its foliage. In
those days, when the spring touched the earth with its joyous wand, all
the trees round and about the village blossomed forth into a mass of
green. The river wound its way through verdant meadows and pastures. In
winter-time--providing that the frost was very strong--it would become
covered in ice, thus forming a charming contrast to early spring and
late autumn, when the rain was wont to transform it into a swirling
torrent, which often, so historians tell us, rose so high that it
overflowed its banks and caused much alarm to the inhabitants of Esher
proper. We do not use the expression "Esher proper" from any prudish
reason, but merely because Little Esher, a mile down the road, might in
the reader's mind become a factor to promote muddle if we did not take
care to indicate clearly its close proximity.
Esher, owing to its remarkable superabundance of trees, was in
summertime famous for its delightful variety of birds: magpies,
jackdaws, thrushes and wagtails, in addition to the usual sparrows and
tom-tits, were seen frequently; occasionally a lark or a starling would
charm the villagers with its song.
The soil of Esher, contrary to the usual supposition, was not as fertile
as one could have wished. Often, unless planted at exactly the right
time, fruit and vegetables would refuse to grow at all. The main road
through Esher proper, passing later through Little Esher, was much used
by those desiring to reach Portsmouth or Swanage or any of the Hampshire
resorts. Of course, travellers wishing to visit Cromer or Southend or
even Felixstowe would naturally leave London by another route entirely.
Dick Turpin was frequently seen tearing through Esher, with his face
muffled, and a large hat and a long cloak, riding a horse, at
night--there was no mistaking him.
According to Sophie's diary, written by her every day with unfailing
regularity for thirty-five years, she always just missed seeing Dick
Turpin. This was apparently a source of great grief to her; often she
would pause by the roadside and weep gently at the thought of him. Poor
Sophie! One was to ride along that very road who was destined to mean
much more to her than bold Dick Turpin. But we anticipate.
It was perhaps early autumn that saw Esher at its best--how brown
everything was, and yet, in some cases, how yellow! As a hunting centre
it was very little used, though occasionally a stag or wild boar would,
like Dick Turpin, pass through it.
One evening, when the trees were soughing in the wind and the sun had
sunk to rest, Sophie went out with her basket. It was too late to buy
anything, but she felt the need of air; not that the basket was
necessary in order to obtain this, but somehow she felt she couldn't
bear to be without it, such a habit had it become. The darkness was
rapidly drawing in. Sophie paused and spoke to a frog she saw in a
puddle; it didn't answer, so she passed on.
Suddenly she heard from the direction of London the sound of hoofs!
"Dick Turpin!" her heart cried, and she at once commenced to climb an
elm the better to see him pass; but it was not Dick Turpin--it was a
shorter man with a beard. On seeing the intrepid girl, he reined in his
roan chestnut-spotted filly. "Hi!" he cried. Sophie slowly climbed down.
"Who are you?" she asked, after she had dusted the bark from her fichu.
"Henry the Eighth!" cried the man with a ready laugh, and, leaping off
his charger, took her in his arms. "Oh, sire!" she said, and would have
swooned but that his strength upheld her. History tells us little about
that interview. Suffice to say that later on Sophie walked gravely back
to Esher proper, alas! without her basket, but carrying proudly in her
hand a brooch cunningly wrought into the shape of a raspberry.
It is known as an authentic fact that Sophie never saw her Royal lover
again. He rode away that night, perhaps to Woking, perhaps to Virginia
Water--who knows?
Sophie lived on in Esher until the age of thirty-nine, when she was
taken to London and flung into the Tower, where she remained a closely
guarded prisoner for a year. Every one loved her and used to visit her
in her cell. She was exceedingly industrious, and managed to get through
quite a lot of tatting during her captivity.