*CHAPTER V*
It had been raining for four days. The heavy raindrops played a
monotonous tattoo on the curved roof of the tent. Outside in the field
the grass had disappeared under yellow mud, in which the men’s footsteps
sounded like the smacking of a giant’s lips.
"’And God looked upon the earth, and behold, it was corrupt,’" recited
the padre; "’and God said to Noah, Make thee an ark of gopher wood;
rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without
with pitch. The same day were all the fountains of the great deep
broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened,’" continued the
doctor.
"The Flood," he added, "was a real event, for its description is common
to all oriental mythology. No doubt the Euphrates had burst its banks;
that’s why the Ark was driven into the interior and came to rest on a
hill. Similar catastrophes often occur in Mesopotamia and in India, but
are rare in Belgium."
"The cyclone of 1876 killed 215,000 people in Bengal," said the colonel.
"Messiou, send round the port, please."
The colonel loved statistics, to the great misfortune of Aurelle, who,
quite incapable of remembering figures, was interrogated every day on
the number of inhabitants in a village, the strength of the Serbian
army, or the initial velocity of the French bullet. He foresaw with
terror that the colonel was going to ask him the average depth of rain
in feet and inches in Flanders, and he hastened to create a diversion.
"I found in Poperinghe," he said, showing the book he was reading, "this
very curious old volume. It is a description of England and Scotland by
the Frenchman, Etienne Perlin, Paris, 1558."
"Humph! What does this Mr. Perlin say?" asked the colonel, who had the
same respect for ancient things as he had for old soldiers.
Aurelle opened the book at hazard and translated:
"’After dinner, the cloth is withdrawn and the ladies retire. The table
is of beautiful glossy Indian wood, and stands of the same wood hold the
bottles. The name of each wine is engraved on a silver plate which
hangs by a little chain round the neck of the bottle. The guests each
choose the wine they like and drink it as seriously as if they were
doing penance, while proposing the health of eminent personages or the
fashionable beauties; this is what is known as a toast.’"
"I like ’fashionable beauties,’" said the doctor. "Perhaps Aurelle will
take to drinking port, now he can pour libations to Gaby Deslys or
Gladys Cooper."
"There are toasts for each day in the week," said the colonel, "Monday,
our men; Tuesday, ourselves; Wednesday, our swords; Thursday, sport;
Friday, our religion; Saturday, sweethearts and wives; Sunday, absent
friends and ships at sea."
Aurelle went on reading aloud:
"’These toasts are of barbaric origin, and I have been told that the
Highlanders of Scotland, a semi-savage folk who live in a state of
perpetual feud——’"
"Listen to that, padre," said the colonel. "Read it again, messiou, for
the padre, have been told that the Highlanders of Scotland——’"
"A semi-savage folk who live in a state of perpetual feud, have kept to
the original character of this custom. To drink the health of anyone is
to ask him to guard you while you drink and cannot defend yourself; and
the person to whom you drink replies, "I pledge you," which means in
their language, "I guarantee your safety." Then he draws his dagger,
places the point on the table and protects you until your glass is
empty.’"
"That’s why," said Major Parker, "the pewter pots that they give for
golf prizes have always got glass bottoms through which one can see the
dagger of the assassin."
"Send round the port, messiou, I want to drink the padre’s health in a
second glass to hear him reply, ’I pledge you,’ and to see him put the
point of his dagger on the table."
"I’ve only got a Swiss knife," said the padre.
"That’s good enough," said the colonel.
"This theory of the origin of toasts is very probable," said the doctor.
"We are always repeating ancestral signs which are quite useless now.
When a great actress wants to express hate she draws back her charming
lips and shows her canine teeth, an unconscious sign of cannibalism. We
shake hands with a friend to prevent him using it to strike us, and we
take off our hats because our ancestors used to humbly offer their
heads, to the bigwigs of those days, to be cut off."
At that moment there was a loud crack, and Colonel Bramble fell
backwards with a crash. One of the legs of his chair had broken. The
doctor and Parker helped him up, while Aurelle and the padre looked on
in fits of laughter.
"There’s a good example of an ancestral survival," said the major,
kindly intervening to save Aurelle, who was trying in vain to stop
laughing. "I imagine that one laughs at a fall because the death of a
man was one of the most amusing sights for our ancestors. It delivered
them from an adversary and diminished the number of those who shared the
food and the females."
"Now we know you, messiou," said the colonel.
"A French philosopher," said Aurelle, who had by this time recovered,
"has constructed quite a different theory of laughter: he is called
Bergson and——"
"I have heard of him," said the padre; "he’s a clergyman, isn’t he?"
"I have a theory about laughter," said the doctor, "which is much more
edifying than yours, major. I think it is simply produced by a feeling
of horror, immediately succeeded by a feeling of relief. A young monkey
who is devoted to the old father of the tribe sees him slip on a banana
skin, he fears an accident and his chest swells with fright, then he
discovers that it’s nothing and all his muscles pleasantly relax. That
was the first joke, and it explains the convulsive motions in laughing.
Aurelle is shaken physically because he is shaken morally by two strong
motives: his anxious affection and respect for the colonel——"
"Ugh," grunted the colonel.
"And the consoling certainty that he is not hurt."
"I wish you would talk about something else," said the colonel. "Read a
little more of the book, messiou."
Aurelle turned over some pages.
"’Other nations,’" he read, "’accuse the English of incivility because
they arrive and depart without touching their hats, and without that
flow of compliments which are common to the French and Italians. But
those who judge thus see things in a false light. The English idea is
that politeness does not consist in gestures or words which are often
hypocritical and deceptive, but in being courteously disposed to other
people. They have their faults like every nation, but, considering
everything, I am sure that the more one knows them the more one esteems
and likes them.’"
"I like old Mr. Perlin," said the colonel. "Do you agree with him,
messiou?"
"The whole of France now agrees with him, sir," said Aurelle warmly.
"You are biased, Aurelle," said Major Parker, "because you are getting
quite English yourself. You whistle in your bath, you drink whisky and
are beginning to like arguments; if you could only manage to eat
tomatoes and underdone cutlets for breakfast you would be perfect."
"If you don’t mind, major, I would rather remain French," said Aurelle.
"Besides, I never knew that whistling in one’s bath was an English
rite."
"So much so," said the doctor, "that I have arranged to have carved on
my tombstone: ’Here lies a British subject who never whistled in his
bath or tried to be an amateur detective.’"
*CHAPTER VI*
British conversation is like a game of cricket or a boxing match;
personal allusions are forbidden like hitting below the belt, and anyone
who loses his temper is disqualified.
Aurelle met at the Lennox Mess veterinaries and generals, tradesmen and
dukes. Excellent whisky was provided and the guests entertained in a
friendly way without boring them with too much attention.
"It rains a lot in your country," said a major in the Engineers who sat
next him one evening.
"So it does in England," said Aurelle.
"I intend," said the major, "when this damned war is over, to leave the
army and go and live in New Zealand."
"You have friends there?"
"Oh no, but the salmon fishing is very good."
"Bring your rod over here while we are resting, major, the pond is full
of enormous pike."
"I never fish for pike," said the major, "he is not a gentleman. When
he sees he is caught he gives up; the salmon fights to the end, even
without hope. A thirty-pound fellow will sometimes fight two hours;
that’s something like, isn’t it?"
"Admirable!" said Aurelle. "And what about trout?"
"The trout is a lady," said the major; "you must deceive her; but it is
not easy, because she is a judge of flies. And you," he added politely,
after a short silence, "what do you do in peace time?"
"I write a little," said Aurelle, "and I am trying for a degree."
"No, no; I mean what is your sport—fishing, hunting, golf, polo?"
"To tell the truth," acknowledged Aurelle, "I am not much good at sport.
I am not very strong and——"
"I’m sorry to hear that," said the major, but he turned to his other
neighbour and bothered no more about the Frenchman.
Aurelle was thrown back on the Veterinary Captain Clarke sitting on his
left, who had up to then been eating and drinking without saying a word.
"It rains a lot in your country," said Captain Clarke.
"So it does in England," said Aurelle.
"I intend," said Clarke, "when this damned war is over to go back to
Santa Lucia."
Aurelle asked if the captain’s family lived in the Antilles.
He was horrified.
"Oh, no! I belong to a Staffordshire family. I went out there quite by
chance; I was travelling for pleasure and my boat touched at Santa
Lucia; I found the heat very agreeable and I stayed there. I bought
some land very cheap and I grow cocoa."
"And it does not bore you?"
"No, the nearest white man is six miles off, and the coast of the island
is excellent for sailing. What more could I do at home? When I go to
England for three months’ holiday, I spend a week at my old home, then I
go off in a yacht alone. I have been all round your Brittany coast; it
is delightful because the currents are so difficult and your charts are
so good; but it is not warm enough. At Santa Lucia I can smoke
cigarettes in my pyjamas on my veranda."
He slowly swallowed his port and concluded:
"No, I don’t like Europe—too much work. But, out there, there is enough
food for everybody."
The colonel at the other end of the table was holding forth about India,
the white ponies of his regiment, the native servants with their
complicated names and varied duties, and the lax life in the Hills.
Parker described hunting on an elephant.
"You stand up on your animal firmly tied on by one leg, and when the
elephant gallops you fly into space: it’s really most exciting."
"I’ll take your word for it," said Aurelle.
"Yes, but if you try it," said the colonel solicitously to Aurelle,
"don’t forget to slide off by the tail as quickly as you can if the
elephant comes to marshy ground. His instinct, when the ground gives way
beneath him, is to seize you in his trunk and put you down in front of
him to have something solid to kneel on."
"I’ll remember, sir," said Aurelle.
"In the Malay States," said the major of Engineers, "the wild elephants
wander about the main roads. I often met them when I was on my
motor-bike; if your face or your clothes annoy them they pick you off
and smash your head by treading on it. But except for that they are
quite inoffensive."
A long discussion on the most vulnerable part of an elephant followed.
The padre showed his knowledge by explaining how the anatomy of the
Indian elephant differed from that of the African species.
"Padre," said Aurelle, "I always knew you were a sportsman; but have you
ever really done any big game shooting?"
"What! my dear fellow? Big game? I’ve killed pretty nearly everything a
hunter _can_ kill, from the elephant and rhinoceros to the lion and
tiger. I’ve never told you the story of my first lion?"
"Never, padre," said the doctor, "but you are going to now."
"Padre," said the colonel, "I should like to hear your stories, but I
make one condition: some one must start the gramophone for me. I want
my dear ’Mrs. Finzi-Magrini’ to-night."
"Oh no, sir, for pity’s sake! I’ll let you have a rag-time if you
absolutely must grind that damned machine."
"Not at all, doctor, you aren’t going to get off so easily. I insist on
’Finzi-Magrini.’ Come, Aurelle, like a good chap, and remember, speed
65, and don’t scratch my record. Padre, you may now begin the story of
your first lion."
"I was at Johannesburg and very much wanted to join a sporting club, as
a number of the members were friends of mine. But the rules did not
admit any candidate who had not at least killed a lion. So I set out
with a nigger loaded with several rifles, and that evening lay in wait
with him near a water-hole where a lion was accustomed to come and
drink.
"Half an hour before midnight I heard the crashing of branches and over
the top of a bush appeared the head of a lion. He had winded us and
looked our way. I aimed and fired. The head disappeared behind the
bush, but appeared again after a minute. A second shot, the same result.
The brute got frightened, hid his head and then put it up again. I
remained quite cool, I had sixteen shots to fire in my various rifles.
Third shot, same old game; fourth shot, ditto.
"I got unnerved and shot badly, so that after the fifteenth shot the
beast put up his head again. ’Miss that one, him eat us,’ said the
nigger. I took a long breath, aimed carefully and fired. The animal
fell. One second—two—ten—he did not reappear. I waited a little
longer, then I rushed out followed by my nigger, and guess, messiou,
what I found behind."
"The lion, padre."
"_Sixteen_ lions, my boy, and every one had a bullet in its eye! That’s
how I made my debut."
"By Jove, padre! Who says the Scotch have no imagination?"
"Now listen to a true story. It was in India that I first killed a
woman. Yes, yes, a woman! I had set out tiger-shooting when in passing
through a village, buried in the jungle, an old native stopped me.
’Sahib, sahib, a bear!’ And he pointed out a moving black shape up a
tree. I took aim quickly and fired. The mass fell heavily with a
crashing of branches, and I discovered an old woman, whom I had
demolished while she was picking fruit. Another old nigger, the husband,
overwhelmed me with abuse. They went and fetched the native policeman.
I had to buy off the family; it cost a terrible lot, at least two
pounds.
"The story soon got about for twenty miles round, and for several weeks
I could not go through a village without two or three old men rushing at
me and crying, ’Sahib, sahib, a bear up the tree!’ I need hardly tell
you that they had just made their wives climb up."
Then Parker described a crocodile hunt, and Captain Clarke gave some
details about sharks in Bermuda, which are not dangerous as long as
people take the precaution of jumping into the water in company. The
colonel, meanwhile, played "The March of the Lost Brigade" in slow time.
The New Zealand major put some eucalyptus leaves in the fire so that the
smell might remind him of the Bush. Aurelle, rather dazed, fuddled with
the Indian sun and the scent of wild animals, at last realized that this
world is a great park laid out by a gardener god for the gentlemen of
the United Kingdoms.
*CHAPTER VII*
Puisque le mauvais temps vous condamne à la chambre,
Puisque vous méprisez désormais les romans,
Puisque pour mon bonheur vous n’avez pas d’amant,
Et puisque ce mois d’août s’obstine impunément
A jouer les décembre.
Je griffonne pour vous ces vers sans queue ni tête,
Sans rime, ou peu s’en faut, en tout cas sans raison,
Que j’intitulerai dans mes oeuvres complètes:
"Discours pour une amie qui garde la maison
Par un jour de tempête."
Je ne sais là-dessus si nous sentons de même,
Mais quand je suis ainsi rêveur et paresseux,
Quand il pleut dans mon coeur comme il pleut dans——
"Aurelle," said the doctor, "this time you _are_ writing verses; deny it
if you can. You are taken red-handed."
"M-ph!" grunted the colonel scornfully, but with indulgence.
"I own to it, doctor, but what then? Is it contrary to King’s
Regulations?"
"No," said the doctor, "but I’m surprised. I have always been convinced
that the French cannot be a nation of poets. Poetry is rhymed
foolishness. Now you are not a fool, and you have no sense of rhythm."
"You do not know our poets," said Aurelle, annoyed. "Have you read
Musset, Hugo, Baudelaire?"
"I know Hugo," said the colonel. "When I commanded the troops in
Guernsey I was shown his house. I also tried to read his book, ’The
Toilers of the Sea,’ but it was too boring."
The arrival of Major Parker, pushing in front of him two boyish-looking
captains, put an end to this conference.
"Here are young Gibbons and Warburton. You must give them a cup of tea
before sending them back to their companies. I found them sitting on
the side of the Zillebeke Road, no doubt waiting for a taxi. These
London people will expect anything."
Gibbons was returning from leave, and Warburton, a dark Welshman very
like a Frenchman, who had been wounded two months before in Artois, was
rejoining the Lennox after sick leave.
"Aurelle, give me a cup of tea like a good fellow," said Major Parker.
"Oh, the milk first, I beseech you! And ask for a whisky and soda to
wake up Captain Gibbons, will you? He looks as if he had just come out
of his wigwam and had not dug up his war hatchet yet."
"It’s such a horrible change," said Gibbons. "Yesterday morning I was
still in my garden in a real English valley, with hedges and trees.
Everything was clean and fresh and cared-for and happy. My pretty
sisters-in-law were playing tennis. We were all dressed in white, and
here I am suddenly transported into this dreadful mangled wood among you
band of assassins. When _do_ you think this damned war will be over? I
am such a peaceable man! I prefer church bells to guns and the piano to
a Hotchkiss. My one ambition is to live in the country with my plump
little wife and a lot of plump little children." And, raising his
glass, he concluded, "I drink to the end of these follies, and to hell
with the Boches who brought us here!"
But keen Warburton cut in immediately.
"I like the War. It is only War that gives us a normal existence. What
do you do in peace-time? You stay at home; you don’t know what to do
with your time; you argue with your parents, and your wife—if you have
one. Everyone thinks you are an insufferable egotist—and so you are.
The War comes; you only go home every five or six months. You are a
hero, and, what women appreciate much more, you are a change. You know
stories that have never been published. You’ve seen strange men and
terrible things. Your father, instead of telling his friends that you
are embittering the end of his life, introduces you to them as an
oracle. These old men consult you on foreign politics. If you are
married, your wife is prettier than ever; if you are not, all the girls
lay siege to you.
"You like the country? Well, you live in a wood here. You love your
wife? But who was it said that it is easier to die for the woman one
loves than to live with her? For myself I prefer a Hotchkiss to the
piano, and the chatter of my men to that of the old ladies who come to
tea at my home. No, Gibbons, War is a wonderful epoch," and, holding up
his glass, he said, "I drink to the gentle Hun who procures these
pleasures for us."
Then he described his time at the Duchess’ hospital.
"I thought I was with the Queen of the Fairies. We got everything we
wanted without asking for it. When our fiancées were coming to see us,
we were propped up with cushions to match the colour of our eyes. A
fortnight before I could get up, they brought twelve brightly coloured
dressing-gowns for me to choose which one I would wear the first time I
was allowed out of bed. I chose a red and green one, which was hung up
near me, and I was in such a hurry to put it on that I got well three
days quicker. There was a Scotch captain with such a beautiful wife
that all the patients’ temperatures went up when she came to see him.
They ended by making a special door for her near her husband’s bed, so
that she need not walk down the whole ward. Oh, I hope I shall be
wounded soon! Doctor, promise to send me to the Duchess’ hospital!"
But Gibbons, with eyes still full of tender memories of home, would not
be consoled. The padre, who was wise and kind, made him describe the
last revue at the Palace, and complacently discussed the legs and
shoulders of a "sweet little thing." The colonel got out his best
records and played "Mrs. Finzi-Magrini" and "Destiny Waltz" to his
guests. Gibbons sat with his head in his hands during the waltz. The
colonel was going to chaff him mildly about his melancholy thoughts, but
the little captain got up at the end of the tune and said:
"I had better be off before dark."
"Silly ass," said Parker, after a pause.
The colonel and the padre agreed. Aurelle alone protested.
"Aurelle, my friend," said Dr. O’Grady, "if you want to be thought
anything of amongst Englishmen, you must make yourself see their point
of view. They don’t care for melancholy people, and have a contempt for
sentiment. This applies to love as well as to patriotism and religion.
If you want the colonel to despise you, stick a flag in your tunic. If
you want the padre to treat you with contempt, give him a letter to
censor full of pious rubbish; if you want to make Parker sick, weep over
a photograph. They spend their youth hardening their skins and their
hearts. They fear neither physical blows nor the blows of fate. They
look upon exaggeration as the worst of vices, and coldness as a sign of
aristocracy. When they are very miserable, they smile. When they are
very happy, they say nothing at all. And _au fond_ John Bull is
terribly sentimental, which explains everything."
"All that is perfectly true, Aurelle," said Parker, "but you must not
say it. The doctor is a confounded Irishman who cannot hold his
tongue."
Upon which, the doctor and Major Parker began a discussion on the Irish
question in their usual amusingly sarcastic manner. The colonel looked
in his box of records for "When Irish eyes are smiling," then wisely and
courteously interrupted them.
"And so, Aurelle," concluded Major Parker, "you see us poor Englishmen
searching hard for the solution of a problem when there isn’t one. You
may think that the Irish want certain definite reforms, and that they
will be happy and contented the day they get them; but not at all. What
amuses them is discussion itself, plotting in theory. They play with
the idea of Home Rule; if we gave it them, the game would be finished
and they would invent another, probably a more dangerous one."
"Go to Ireland after the War, messiou," said the colonel, "it’s an
extraordinary country. Every one is mad. You can commit the worst
crimes—it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters."
"The worst crimes?" said Aurelle, "Oh, I say, sir!"
"Oh yes, anything you like—the most unheard-of things. You can go out
hunting in brown breeches, fish in your neighbour’s salmon river—nothing
will happen; no one will take the smallest notice of you."
"I do believe," said Aurelle, "that I am beginning to understand the
Irish question."
"I will finish your education," said the doctor. "A year before the War
a Liberal M.P. who was visiting Ireland said to an old peasant, ’Well,
my friend, we are soon going to give you Home Rule!’ ’God save us, your
honour,’ said the man, ’do not do that.’ ’What?’ said the astonished
Member. ’You don’t want Home Rule now?’ ’Your honour,’ said the man,
’I’ll tell you. You are a good Christian, your honour? It’s to heaven
you want to go? So do I, but we do not want to go there to-night.’"
*CHAPTER VIII*