When I was young I was extremely handsome. I have documentary
evidence to prove as much. There is in existence a photograph of a
young gentleman standing with his back to a raging seascape, one hand
resting lightly on a volume of Shakespeare, which in turn is
supported by a rustic table. The young gentleman has wide innocent
eyes, a rosebud mouth and long golden curls (the sort poor dear old
Romney used to do so nicely). For the rest he is tastefully
upholstered in a short-panted velvet suit, a lace collar and white
silk socks. "_Little Lord Fauntleroy_," you murmur to yourself. No,
Sir (or Madam), it is ME--or was me, rather. When I was young no
girl thought herself properly married unless I was present at the
ceremony, got up like a prize rabbit and tethered to the far end of
her train. Nowadays I am not so handsome. True, you can urge a
horse past me without blindfolding it and all that, but nobody ever
mistakes me for Maxine Elliott.
Personally I was quite willing to be represented at the National
Portrait Gallery by a coloured copy of the presentment described
above, but my home authorities thought otherwise, and when last I was
in England on leave--shortly after the Battle of Agincourt--they
shooed me off to Valpré. "Go to Valpré," they said; "he is so
artistic." So to Valpré I went, and was admitted by a handmaid who
waved a white hand vaguely towards a selection of doors, murmuring,
"Wait there, please." I opened the nearest door at a venture and
entered.
In the waiting-room three other handmaids were at work on
photographs. One was painting dimples on a lady's cheek; one filling
in gaps in a Second-Lieutenant's moustache; one straightening the
salient of a stockbroker's waistcoat. Presently the first handmaid
reappeared and somewhat curtly (I was waiting in the wrong room, it
seemed) informed me that the Master was ready. So I went upstairs to
the operating theatre. After an impressive interval a curtain was
thrust aside and the Master entered. He was not in the least like
the artist of my first photograph, who had chirruped and done tricks
with an indiarubber monkey to make me prick my ears and appear
sagacious. This man had the mane of a poodle, a plush smoking-jacket
with rococo trimmings, satin cravat, rings and bangles like the lads
in _La Bohème_, and I knew myself to be in the presence of True Art,
and bowed my head.
At the sight of me he winced visibly; didn't seem to like my looks at
all. However he pulled himself together and advanced to reconnoitre.
He pushed me into a chair, manipulated some screws at the back, and I
found my head fast in a steel clamp. I pleaded for gas or cocaine,
but he took no notice and prowled off to the far end of the theatre
to observe if distance would lend any enchantment. Apparently it
would not. The more he saw of me the less he seemed to admire the
view.
Suddenly the fire of inspiration lit his eye and he came for me. I
struggled with the clamp, but it clave like a bull-terrier to a
mutton chop. In a moment he had me by the head and started to mould
it nearer to his heart's desire with plump powerful hands. He
crammed half my lower jaw into my breast pocket, pinned my ears back
so tightly that they wouldn't wag for weeks, pressed my nose down
with his thumb as though it were the button of an electric bell and
generally kneaded my features from the early Hibernian to the late
Græco-Roman. Then, before they could rebound to their normal
positions, he had sprung back, jerked the lanyard and fired the
camera.
Some weeks later the finished photographs arrived. The handmaids had
done their bit, and the result was a pleasing portraiture, an _objet
d'art_, an ornament to anybody's family album. The man Valpré was an
artist all right.
A few days ago the Skipper whistled me into the orderly room. His
table was littered with parade states, horse-registers and slips of
cardboard, all intermingled. The Skipper himself appeared to be
undergoing some heavy mental disturbance. His forehead was furrowed,
his toupet rumpled, and he sucked his fountain-pen, unconsciously
imbibing much dark nourishment.
"Identification cards," he explained, indicating the slips. "Got to
carry 'em now. Comply with Italian regulations. Been trying to
describe you. Napoo." He prodded the result towards me. I scanned
it and decided he had got it mixed with horse-registers. It read as
follows:--
Born . . . . . . . Yes.
Height . . . . . . 17 hands.
Hair . . . . . . . Bay.
Eyes . . . . . . . Two.
Nose . . . . . . . Undulating.
Moustache . . . . Hogged.
Complexion . . . . Natural.
Special Marks . .
The Skipper pointed to the blank space. "That's what I want to
know--special marks. Got any? Snip, blaze, white fetlock, anything?"
"Yessir," said I. "Strawberry patch on off gaskin."
He sucked thoughtfully at his fountain-pen. "Mmph," he said,
"shouldn't mention it if I were you. Don't want to have to undress
in the middle of the street every time you meet an Intelligence, do
you?" I agreed that I did not--not before June, anyhow. The Skipper
turned to the card again and frowned.
"Couldn't call it a speaking likeness exactly, this little
pen-picture of you, could one? If you only had a photograph of
yourself now."
"I have, Sir," said I brightly.
"Good Lord, man, why didn't you say so before? Here, take this and
paste the thing in. Now trot away."