Duty under a somewhat threadbare disguise of pleasure has the upper
hand just now, in this energetic city, and we spend a large number of
our afternoons each week seated in half-guinea and guinea stalls, and
watch delightful entertainments at theatres or listen to concerts at
private houses, got up for the benefit of some most deserving charity,
and for the really opulent there are seats at three or five guineas.
These entertainments are as delightful as they are long, and we have
an opportunity two or three times a week of seeing the greater part of
our prominent actors and actresses, and hearing the most accomplished
singers and players on all or more than all of the musical instruments
known to Nebuchadnezzar pour forth a practically endless stream of
melody. Certainly it is a great pleasure to hear these delightful
things, but, as I have said, it is really duty that prompts us to live
for pleasure, for the pleasure, by incessant wear, is getting a little
thin. We should not dream of spending so much on seats in theatres if
we were not contributing to a cause. Often tea of the most elaborate
and substantial style is thrown in, and thus our bodies as well as our
minds are sumptuously catered for. Soon, I suppose, when we have once
freed our minds from the nightmare of Zeppelins, we shall have these
entertainments in the evening with dinner thrown in. The only little
drawback connected with them is concerned with the matter of tickets.
Naturally you do not want to go alone, and in consequence, when you are
asked to take tickets you take two guinea ones if you are rich, and if
not two half-guinea ones. There is no question of refusing. You have
got to. But it is not so easy as you would imagine to get somebody to
go with you to these perpetual feasts of histrionic and vocal talent,
for everyone else has already taken two tickets, and is eagerly
hunting for a companion at these entertainments on behalf of funds for
Serbians, Russians, French, Italians, Red Cross, eggs for hospitals,
smokes for sailors, soup kitchens, disabled horses, bandages, kit-bags,
mine-sweepers, cough lozenges, for aeroplanists, woollen mufflers, and
all the multifarious needs of those who are or have been taking a hand
in the fight. Indeed, sometimes I think those entertainments are a
little overdone, for a responsible admiral told me the other day that
if any more woollen mufflers were sent to the fleet it would assuredly
sink, which would be a very disastrous consequence of too ardent a
spirit of charity. But till the fleet sinks under the woollies that
are poured into it, and the kitchens are so flooded with soup as to be
untenable, I suppose we shall continue to take two stalls and wildly
hunt about for someone to occupy the second, between the hours of two
and seven-thirty. But whether there is a theatrical entertainment or
not on any particular day, it is sure to be a flag day. You need not
buy two flags, though you have been obliged to take two stalls--until
you have lost the first one. But it is as essential as breathing to buy
one flag, if you propose to go out of doors at all, and on the whole
it is wiser to buy your decoration from the first seller that you see.
It is your ransom; the payment of this amiable blackmail ensures your
unmolested passage through the streets. True, for a time, you can play
a very pretty game which consists in crossing the street when you see
a flag-seller imminent, and proceeding along the opposite pavement.
Soon another flag-seller will be imminent there also, upon the approach
of whom you cross back again to your original pavement. But sooner or
later you are bound to be caught: a van or an omnibus obstructs the
clear view of the other side of the street, and after being heavily
splashed with mud from the roadway, you regain the pavement only to
find there is another flag-seller who has been in ambush behind the
'bus that has splashed you. If you are urgently in need of exercise
you can step back again before encountering the privateer, but you
know that sooner or later you will have to buy a flag, and on the
whole it is wiser to buy it at once, and take your exercise with an
untroubled mind, and a small garish decoration in your buttonhole. The
flag-sellers for the most part, are elegant young females, who appear
to enjoy this unbridled licence to their pillaging propensities, and
as long as they enjoy it, I suppose flag-days will go on. But it would
be simpler and fairer to add a penny to the income-tax, and divide
it in just proportions between these harpy charities. Or, if that is
too involuntary a method of providing funds for admirable objects, I
should suggest that every seller of flags, should, in return for the
privilege of helping in such good causes, start her own collection-box
with the donation of one sovereign from herself. Then the beleaguered
foot-passenger would feel that he was giving to one who had the cause
for which she worked really at heart.
* * * * *
Just as patriotism has become a feature in the streets, so the same
motif has made its appearance in the realms of art, and at these
entertainments of which I have spoken, there has sprung up a new form
of dramatic and topical representation. Sometimes it takes the form
of a skit, and the light side of committees is humorously put before
us, but more often the author, with a deadlier and more serious aim,
shows us in symbolical form the Sublimity of Patriotism. Somehow these
elevating dramas make me blush. I am not ashamed of being patriotic,
but I cannot bear to see patriotism set to slow music in front of the
footlights, and in the presence of those blue-coated men with crutches
or arms in slings. The general audience feel it too, and as the curtain
goes up for the patriotic sketch, an uncomfortable fidgety silence
invariably settles down on the house. The manner of the drama is
usually somewhat in the following style:
Britannia, in scarlet with a gold crown, is seated in the centre of
the stage, and on each side of her is a row of typical female figures,
whom she addresses collectively as "Sisters" or "Children." In a few
rhyming lines she gives vent to some noble sentiments about the war,
and calls on each in turn to express her opinion. As these assembled
females represent Faith, Hope, Belgium, Mother, Wife, Sweetheart,
Serbia, Child, Justice, Mercy, Russia, Victory and Peace, a very
pleasant variety of sentiments is expressed. Faith brandishes a sword
with an ingenious arrangement by which electric lights spring out along
the blade, and expresses complete confidence in the righteousness of
the cause for which she unsheathed it. Hope looks forward to a bright
dawn, and fixes her eyes dreamily on the Royal Box. Belgium, giving way
to very proper emotion when she mentions Namur (rhyming to "poor"),
sinks back on her chair, and Britannia, dismounting from her throne,
lays a hand on her shoulder and kisses her hair. She then gives Belgium
into the care of Faith, and dashing away a tear, resumes her throne,
and asks Mother what she has to say. Mother and Wife then stand hand
in hand and assure Britannia that they have sent their son and husband
to the war because it was their duty to send him and his to go. Mother
knows the righteousness of the cause. Faith crosses, presses the
electric light, and with illuminated sword in hand, kisses Mother.
Mother kisses Faith. Wife knows it too, and looks forward to the
bright dawn of which Hope has spoken (Hope crosses and embraces Wife:
momentary Tableau, accompanied on the orchestra by "Land of Hope and
Glory." Britannia rises and bows to the audience).
When the applause has subsided, they resume, and Britannia calls on
Sweetheart. Sweetheart trips out into the front of the stage, and goes
through a little pantomime alone, but it is at once apparent that
in her imagination there is a male figure there. There are little
embracings: she promises the unseen figure not to cry any more, but to
write to him (B.E.F.) every day.