When young Lieutenant Warburton, temporarily commanding B Company of the
Lennox Highlanders, took over his trench, the captain he came to relieve
said to him:
"This part is not too unhealthy; they are only thirty yards off, but
they are tame Boches. All they ask is to be left alone."
"We will wake things up a bit," said Warburton to his men, when the
peaceable warrior had departed.
When wild beasts are too well fed, they become domesticated; but a few
well-directed rockets will make them savage again. In virtue of this
principle, Warburton, having provided himself with a star shell, instead
of sending it straight up fired it horizontally towards the German
trenches.
A distracted Saxon sentry cried, "Liquid-fire attack!" The Boche
machine-guns began to bark. Warburton, delighted, replied with
grenades. The enemy called the artillery to its assistance. A
telephone call, a hail of shrapnel, and immediate reprisals by the
British big guns.
The next day the German _communiqué_ said: "An attack by the British
under cover of liquid-fire at H—— was completely checked by the combined
fire of our infantry and artillery."
0275 Private Scott, H.J., who served his King and country under the
strenuous Warburton, disapproved heartily of his officer’s heroic
methods. Not that he was a coward, but the War had taken him by
surprise when he had just married a charming girl, and, as Captain
Gadsby of the Pink Hussars says, "a married man is only half a man."
Scott counted the days he spent in the trenches, and this one was the
first of ten, and his chief was reckless.
The god who guards lovers intervened the next day by the simple means of
a scrap of paper asking for a man from the regiment, mechanic by trade,
to look after a machine at P—— for disinfecting clothes. P—— was a
pretty little town at least eight miles from the front line, rather
deserted by the inhabitants on account of _marmites_, but all the same a
safe and comfortable retreat for a troglodyte of the trenches.
0275 Private Scott, mechanic by trade, put his name down. His
lieutenant abused him; his colonel recommended him; and his general
nominated him. An old London omnibus painted a military grey took him
away to his new life, far from Warburton and his perils.
The machine which Scott had to look after was in the yard of a college,
an old building covered with ivy; and Abbé Hoboken, the principal,
received him, when he arrived, as if he were a general.
"Are you a Catholic, my son?" he asked him in the English of the
college.
Luckily for Scott, he did not understand, and answered vaguely:
"Yes, sir."
This involuntary renunciation of the Scotch Presbyterian Church procured
him a room belonging to a mobilized Belgian professor and a bed with
sheets.
Now, at that very moment, Hauptmann Reineker, who commanded a German
battery of heavy artillery at Paschendaele, was in a very bad temper.
The evening post had brought him an ambiguous letter from his wife in
which she mentioned too often, and with an affectation of indifference,
a wounded officer of the Guards, whom she had been nursing for several
days.
During the night, he surveyed his gun-emplacements on the outskirts of a
wood, then he said suddenly:
"Wolfgang, have you any shells available?"
"Yes, sir."
"How many?"
"Three."
"Good! Wake up Theresa’s crew."
He then verified his calculations by his map.
The men, half awake, loaded the enormous gun. Heineker gave the order,
and, shaking up everyone and everything, the shell started forth,
hurtling through the night.
0275 Private Scott, then, who adored his wife and had accepted a post
without honour for her sake, was sleeping peacefully in the bedroom of a
mobilized Belgian professor: and Captain Reineker, whose wife no longer
loved him, and whom he mistrusted, was striding furiously up and down
amongst the frozen woods; and these two circumstances, widely apart from
one another, were developed independently in an indifferent world.
Now the calculations of Reineker, like most calculations, went wrong.
He was 400 yards out. His landmark was the church. From the church to
the college was 400 yards. A light wind increased the deviation by 20
yards, and from that moment the Reineker and the Scott situation began
to have points in common. At this particular point the chest of 0275
Private Scott received the full force of the .305 shell, and he was
blown into a thousand bits, which, amongst other things, put an end to
the Scott situation.
*CHAPTER IX*
"The ideal of the English Church has been to provide a resident
gentleman for every parish in the Kingdom, and there have been worse
ideals."—SHANE LESLIE.
Aurelle, arriving for tea at the Mess, found only the padre repairing a
magic lantern.
"Hullo, messiou," he said, "very glad to see you. I am getting my
lantern ready for a sporting sermon to the men of B Company when they
come out of the trenches."
"What, padre, you preach sermons now with a magic lantern?’
"My boy, I am trying to make the men come; there are too many who keep
away. I know very well that the regiment has a good many Presbyterians,
but if you could see the Irish regiments—not a man misses going to Mass.
Ah, messiou, the Catholic padres have more influence than we have. I ask
myself, why? I go every day to the trenches, and even if the men think
me an old fool they might at least recognize that I am a sportsman."
"The regiment is very fond of you, padre. But, if you don’t mind my
saying so, I think that Catholic priests have a special influence.
Confession has something to do with it, but their vow of celibacy more,
because, in a sort of way, it makes them different from other people.
Even the doctor tones down his best stories when Father Murphy dines
with us."
"But, my boy, I love O’Grady’s stories; I am an old soldier and a man of
the world. When I was shooting in Africa a negro queen made me a present
of three young negresses."
"Padre!"
"Oh, I let them go the same day, which annoyed them somewhat. But I
don’t see why, after that, I need play Mrs. Grundy in the Mess."
One of the orderlies brought some boiling water, and the padre asked
Aurelle to make the tea.
"When I was married—_not_ that way, messiou; it’s curious that no
Frenchman can make tea. Always warm the teapot first, my boy; you
cannot make good tea with a cold teapot."
"You were talking about your wedding, padre."
"Yes, I wanted to tell you how indignant all these Pharisees were, who
want me to behave like a prude with young people, when I merely wanted
to be reasonable. When I was going to be married, I naturally had to ask
one of my colleagues to perform the ceremony. After having settled the
important points, I said to him, ’In the Marriage Service of the Church
of England there is one passage which I consider absolutely indecent.
Yes, yes, I know quite well that it is what St. Paul said. Well,
probably in his time he had a perfect right to say such things, and they
were adapted to the manners and customs of the Corinthians, but they are
not meant for the ears of a young girl from Aberdeen in 1906. My fiancée
is innocent, and I will not have her shocked.’ The young man, a
worldly-minded little curate, went and complained to the bishop, who
sent for me and said haughtily, ’So it is _you_ who are taking upon
yourself to forbid the reading of the Epistle to the Corinthians? I
would have you know that I am not the man to put up with nonsense of
this sort.’ ’All right,’ I replied, ’I would have you know that I am
not the man to put up with an insult to my wife. If this fellow insists
on reading the passage I shall say nothing in the church, out of respect
for the sacred edifice, but I promise you that after the ceremony I
shall box his ears.’
"Well, messiou, the bishop looked at me carefully to see if I was in
earnest. Then he remembered my campaign in the Transvaal, the negro
Queen, and the dangers of a scandal, and he answered me with unction, ’I
do not see after all that the passage that shocks you is absolutely
essential to the marriage ceremony.’"
Dr. O’Grady here came in and asked for a cup of tea.
"Who made this tea?" he demanded. "You, Aurelle? How much tea did you
put in?"
"One spoonful for each cup."
"Now listen to an axiom—one spoonful for each cup and then one for the
pot. It is curious that no Frenchman knows how to make tea."
Aurelle changed the subject.
"The padre was telling me about his wedding."
"A padre ought not to be married," said the doctor. "You know what St.
Paul said, ’A married man seeks to please his wife and not God.’"
"You have put your foot in it now," said Aurelle. "Don’t talk to him
about St. Paul; he has just been strafing him badly."
"Excuse me," said the padre, "I only strafed a bishop."
"Padre," said the doctor, "judge not——"
"Oh, I know," said the padre, "the Master said that, but He did not know
any bishops." Then he returned to his old subject. "Tell me, O’Grady,
you are Irish; why have the Catholic chaplains more influence than we?"
"Padre," said the doctor, "listen to a parable. It is your turn. A man
had committed a murder. He was not suspected, but remorse made him
restless and miserable. One day, as he was passing an Anglican church,
it seemed to him that the secret would be easier to bear if he could
share it with someone else, so he entered and asked the vicar to hear
his confession.
"The vicar was a very well brought up young man, and had been at Eton
and Oxford. Enchanted with this rare piece of luck, he said eagerly,
’Most certainly, open your heart to me; you can talk to me as if I were
your father!’ The other began: ’I have killed a man.’ The vicar sprang
to his feet. ’And you come here to tell me that? Horrible murderer! I
am not sure that it is not my duty, as a citizen to take you to the
nearest police station. In any case it is my duty as a gentleman not to
keep you a moment longer under my roof.’
"And the man went away. A few miles farther on he saw a Roman Catholic
church. A last hope made him enter, and he knelt down behind some old
women who were waiting by the confessional. When his turn came he could
just distinguish the priest praying in the shadows, his head in his
hands. ’Father,’ he said, ’I am not a Catholic, but I should like to
confess to you.’ ’I am listening, my son.’ ’Father, I have committed
murder.’
"He awaited the effect of this terrible revelation. In the austere
silence of the church the voice of the priest said simply, ’How many
times, my son?’"
"Doctor," said the padre, "you know that I am Scotch. I can only take
in a story eight days after I hear it."
"That one will take you longer, padre," said the doctor.
*CHAPTER X*
S. W. Tarkington, an officer of fifty-three, honorary lieutenant and
quartermaster, was possessed of a vain but keen desire to win one more
ribbon before retiring. The laws of nature and eighteen years of good
conduct had given him the South African medal and the long service
ribbon. But with a little luck even an honorary lieutenant may pick up
a Military Cross if the bullets fall in the right place. That is why
Tarkington was always to be found in dangerous corners where he had no
business, and that is why, on the day Loos was taken, he wandered with
his rheumatic old joints over the soaking battlefield and carried in
eighteen wounded men on his back. But he met no general and no one knew
anything about it, except the wounded, who have no influence.
From there the regiment was sent to the north and went into the line in
the Ypres salient. There existed, no doubt, excellent sentimental and
military reasons for defending this piece of ground, but as a winter
residence it left much to be desired. Tarkington did not fear the
danger—shells were part of the day’s work—but his rheumatism feared the
water, and the rain falling incessantly on the greasy clay made a damp
and icy paste which no doctor would recommend for the oiling of old
joints. Tarkington, whose painfully swollen feet now made the shortest
march a Chinese torture, finally realized that he must apply to be sent
to hospital.
"It’s just my luck," he said to his confidant, the sergeant-major. "I
have the pain without the wound."
So he went off limping and swearing to find the colonel in his dug-out,
and told him of the state of his legs.
The colonel was in a bad temper that morning. A communication from the
headquarters of the division had pointed out to him that the proportion
of trench feet in his regiment had reached 3.6 per cent., whereas the
average of the corps was only 2.7. And would he take the necessary
precautions to reduce his percentage in the future?
The necessary precautions had been taken; he had sent for the doctor and
given him the communication.
"And see here, O’Grady. You may have bronchitis, sore throats and
gastric enteritis, but I do not want any more trench feet for three
days."
You may imagine how Tarkington was received when he came to exhibit his
paralysed feet.
"Now that’s the limit. _I_ send down an officer for trench feet? Read,
Tarkington, read, and do you imagine I am going to transform 3.5 into
3.6 to please _you_? Look up, my friend, General Routine Orders No.
324—’Trench Feet result from a contraction of the superficial arteries
with the consequence that the skin no longer being nourished dies and
mortifies.’ Therefore, all you have to do is to watch your arteries.
Tarkington, I am extremely sorry, old man, but that is all I can do for
you."
"Just my luck," said the old man to his friend the sergeant-major. "I
have thirty-seven years’ service; I have never been ill; and when, for
the first time in my life, I ask for sick leave, it happens on the very
same day that headquarters have strafed the colonel over that very
subject."
His feet became red, then blue, and had begun to turn black when the
colonel went away on leave. The command in his absence was taken over
by Major Parker, who, being the second son of a peer, paid small
attention to remarks from the brigade. He saw the distress of the
unfortunate Tarkington, and sent him to the field hospital, where they
decided to send him to England. It seemed that Tarkington was not the
kind to be acclimatized in the Flemish marshes.
He was taken to B—— and put on board the hospital ship _Saxonia_, with
the wounded, doctors and nurses. The port officials had ascertained to
their annoyance the day before that a number of floating mines were in
the Channel.
The authorities argued over the origin of these mines, which the N.T.O.
said were those of the Allies, while the M.L.O. thought they were the
enemy’s. But there was no argument about one detail: every boat that
had come into contact with one had been cut in two and sunk immediately.
The captain of the _Saxonia_ was convinced that the Channel was free
from mines. He risked it—and was blown up.
So Tarkington jumped into the sea. As a good soldier, his instinct was
to devote his last minutes to keeping calm, and he swam about quietly
with the gas mask that he had been advised never to lose hanging round
his neck.
A salvage boat picked him up, unconscious, and he was taken to a
hospital on the English coast. He recovered consciousness, but felt
very ill from his immersion in the water.
"Just like my cursed luck!" he groaned. "They stop me starting for a
month, and when at last I do get off, it is in the only ship that has
gone down for a year."
"They are all alike," said the colonel, on his return from leave.
"Here’s a blighter who grumbles at having his feet in water, and then
takes advantage of my absence to go and have a salt-water bath!"
Now, a few months before, King George, after his accident in France, had
crossed the Channel on board the _Saxonia_. The fate of the ship
naturally interested His Majesty, who came to see the survivors, and, as
Tarkington was the only officer, he had the inestimable privilege of
quite a long conversation with the King. The result of this was that a
few days afterwards a regiment "somewhere in France" received a
memorandum from general headquarters asking for a statement of the
services of Tarkington, S. W.
The memorandum being accompanied by certain verbal comments on the
subject of "a very distinguished personage" by an officer in a
red-banded gold-peaked cap, the colonel wrote nice things—which he had
never said to him—of Tarkington, S. W., and the sergeant-major gave
details of the brilliant conduct of the quartermaster at Loos.
The _London Gazette_ a fortnight later recapitulated these exploits in a
supplement to the list of awards and honours, and Tarkington, honorary
captain, M.C., meditating on his fate, found the world not such a bad
place after all.
*CHAPTER XI*
The first encounter that the brigade had with the village was not happy.
The village looked distrustfully on the brigade, with its bare knees and
its language like the rolling of a drum. The brigade found the village
short of _estaminets_ and pretty girls. The people of Hondezeele
bewailed the departure of a division of London Territorials, with their
soft voices and full pockets, and wherever Aurelle went they did nothing
but sing the praises of these sons of their adoption.
"Your Scotchmen, we know them. We cannot understand what they say—and
my little girls can speak English."
"Scotch—Promenade—no bon!" said the little girls.
"I had the general’s chauffeur here," went on the old woman, "a nice
boy, sir. Billy, they called him. He washed up for me, and pleasant
spoken, too, and good manners. An officers’ Mess? Certainly not. I can
make more selling fried potatoes and beer to the boys, and even eggs,
although they cost me threepence each."
"Fried potatoes, two painnies a plate, aigs and bacon, one franc,"
chorused the little girls.
Aurelle went on to the next house, where other old women mourned other
Billys, Harrys, Gingers, and Darkies.
One stout lady explained that noise gave her palpitations; another,
quite seventy-five, that it was not proper for a girl living alone.
At last he found a corpulent lady whom he overwhelmed with such eloquent
protestations that she could not get in a word. The next morning, he
sent her the orderlies with the plate and crockery, and at lunchtime
brought along Parker and O’Grady. The servants were waiting for them at
the door.
"Madame is a regular witch, sir. She’s a proper fury, that’s what she
is, sir."
"Madame" welcomed them with confused complaints.
"Ah! bien merci! Ah! bien merci! How I have regretted having agreed to
have you. I have not had a wink of sleep with my husband abusing me.
He nearly beat me, monsieur. Oh, don’t touch that! I forbid you to
enter my clean kitchen. Wipe your feet, and take those boxes off
there!"
"Put the boxes in the dining-room," ordered Aurelle, to conciliate her.
"Thank you! Put your dirty boxes in my dining-room, with my beautiful
table and my fine dresser! I should think so, indeed!"
"But, in heaven’s name, madame," said Aurelle, quietly, "where shall I
put them?"
He half opened a door at the end of the dining-room.
"Will you kindly leave that door alone! My lovely _salon_, where I do
not even go myself for fear of making it dirty! And, besides, I have
had enough of your Mess, I’m about tired of it."
A little later, Aurelle went into Madame Lemaire’s, the draper’s, to buy
some chocolate. She had relegated all her pre-war trade to a corner of
the shop, and now sold, like the rest of the village, Quaker Oats,
Woodbine cigarettes, and post-cards with the words: "From your Soldier
Boy."
While she was serving him, Aurelle espied behind the shop a charming,
bright little apartment, decorated with plates on the wall, and a clean
cloth, with green and white squares, on the table. He strolled
carelessly towards the door. Madame Lemaire looked suspiciously at him
and folded her arms across her enormous bust.
"Would you believe, madame, that there are in this village people so
unpatriotic as to refuse to take in officers, who do not know where to
eat their meals?"
"Is it possible?" said Madame Lemaire, blushing.
He told her who they were.
"Ah, the carpenter’s wife!" said Madame Lemaire, turning up her nose in
disgust. "I am not surprised. They come from Moevekerke, and the people
of Moevekerke are all bad."
"But it seems to me," insinuated Aurelle gently, "that you have a room
here that would just do."
* * * * *
A week later the village and the brigade were tasting the pure joys of
the honeymoon. In each house a Jack, a Ginger or a Darkey helped to wash
up, called the old lady Granny, and joked with the girls. The London
Territorials were quite forgotten. At night, in the barns, beribboned
bagpipes accompanied the monotonous dances.
Aurelle had lodged the padre at Madame Potiphar’s, a lively young widow
to whom the divisions, billeted in turn in the village, had handed on
this nickname, like a local password.
The virtue of the padre, which had protected him against the solid
charms of three young negresses, feared nothing from the manoeuvres of a
village Potiphar.
Parker and O’Grady shared a large room in the inn. They called the
publican and his wife Papa and Mamma. Lucie and Berthe, the daughters
of the house, taught them French. Lucie was six feet high; she was
pretty, slender, and fair. Berthe was more substantial and remarkably
good-natured. These two fine Flemish girls, honest without prudishness,
greedy of gain, lacking in culture but not in shrewdness, were the
admiration of Major Parker.
Although their father was in a fair way to making a fortune by selling
the Tommies English beer made in France, they never thought of asking
him for money for their clothes or of making a servant work in their
stead.
"One ought to be able to fight when one leaves such women at home," said
the major admiringly.
The father was the same sort. He described to Aurelle the death of his
son, a splendid boy, three times mentioned in despatches. He talked of
him with a pride and resignation truly admirable.
Aurelle advised the publican, if he had a few hundred francs to spare,
to put them in the War Loan.
"I have already put in fifty thousand francs," said the old man. "I
shall wait a little now."
The whole village was rich.
Colonel Bramble gave two sous one day to Madame Lemaire’s son, an urchin
of five or six.
"To buy some sweets with," Aurelle told him.
"Oh no, I don’t care for them."
"What will you do with your sous, then?"
"Put them in my money-box till I have got enough to get a deposit book
in the Savings Bank; then, when I am grown up, I shall buy some land."
That evening Aurelle repeated this to Lucie and Berthe, thinking it
would amuse them. He soon found out that no one was amused: jokes about
money were sacrilege. The publican related a little moral story to make
this clear.
"When I was small," he said, "I often used to go on messages into the
town for Monsieur le curé, and each time he gave me two sous, which I
took to my father. But after a time, Monsieur le curé made old Sophie,
his servant, send me on his commissions and she never gave me my two
sous. My father, who asked me for them, was very indignant. He
consulted my grandfather, and the whole family were called in one
evening to discuss the matter.
"My father said, ’The child cannot go and complain to Monsieur le curé,
because if it is he who has stopped the two sous he might be offended.’
’And if it is old Sophie who has diddled the child out of it she would
box his ears,’ said my mother. My grandfather, who was no fool, hit upon
the best way. He said to me, ’You will go and make your confession to
Monsieur le curé. You will tell him that you have sinned by getting
angry with old Sophie because she sent you to the town without giving
you anything.’
"It was a great success. ’What,’ said the curé. ’The old wretch! She
charged me for them every time. Release me from the secret of the
confessional and I will give her a good talking-to!’ I remembered that
her hand was heavy and I did not release him; but in future he always
sent me himself."
The schoolmistress from Lille, who possessed the only piano in the
village, explained to Aurelle that she had had to cut out of her lesson
the whole chapter on economy and thrift, substituting a lesson on
generosity. A little girl of eight then said to her, "I can never do
that, mademoiselle. My mother is mean, and I am sure I shall be meaner
than she."
Meanwhile the Highlanders were turning the King’s shillings into glasses
of beer, and were showering on these economical little girls embroidered
aprons, sugar-plums and post-cards, with "From Your Soldier Boy" on
them, price ninepence.
The plump and active mothers of these nice little Flemish girls sold the
aprons and post-cards.
"Ah, messiou," said Colonel Bramble, "before the War we used to talk
about frivolous France; now it is stern and prudent France."
"Yes," added the doctor, "the French are hard and severe on themselves.
I begin to understand the Boche who said, ’Man does not aspire to
happiness, only Englishmen.’ There is, among your peasants of the
north, an admirable voluntary asceticism."
"Did you ever see, messiou," said the padre, "in our country, before the
War, the Frenchman of the music-hall? The little fellow with the black
beard, who gesticulates and harangues? I believed it, messiou, and
never pictured these devout and industrious villagers."
"I like to see them on Sunday morning," said the major, "when the bell
for Mass starts ringing, and they all come out of their houses together,
old men, women and children, as if they were going to a theatre. Ah,
messiou, why didn’t you tell us all about this before the War?"
"The reason is," said Aurelle, "that we didn’t know it ourselves."
*CHAPTER XII*
Orion’s belt rose higher in the wintry sky; the roads were frozen hard.
The mail vans overflowed more and more every day with enormous
quantities of puddings and Christmas cards, and the festive season
recalled the joys of life to the division and the village.
The preparations for the Christmas dinner occupied Aurelle and the padre
for some time. The latter found a turkey worthy of the royal table at a
farm; Aurelle hunted from house to house for chestnuts; Parker attended
himself to the cooking, and mixed a salad of which he was very proud,
but the colonel examined it long and doubtfully. As for the doctor, he
was sent off with Aurelle to Bailleul to buy some champagne, and
insisted on sampling several different brands, which inspired him to
give vent to some strange doctrines on things in general on the way
home.
He obtained permission to invite his friends Berthe and Lucie to come in
at the end of dinner to drink a bumper of champagne in the Mess, and
when they entered in their Sunday dresses, the colonel played "Destiny
Waltz," speed 61. The orderlies had hung a great bunch of mistletoe
over the door, and the girls asked ingenuously if it was not the custom
in England to kiss under the mistletoe.
"Oh, certainly," said the doctor, and with his hands behind his back, he
pecked Berthe on the cheek which she turned towards him. Parker, equally
nervous, did the same to pretty Lucie, and Aurelle gave them both a good
hug in the French way.
"That’s fine, mademoiselle?" said the little doctor.
"Yes," said Lucie with a sigh. "We wish it was always Christmas."
"Oh, but why?" said the doctor.
"Think how dull it will be for us after the War," replied Berthe, "when
you are all gone! Before, one did not think of it—one saw no one—one
worked, one knew no better, but now, without the boys, the village will
be empty indeed. My sister and I will not stay here. We will go to
Paris or London."
"Oh, but that’s a pity," said the doctor.
"No, no," said Aurelle, "you will just get married. You will marry rich
farmers, you will be very busy with your beasts and your chickens and
you will forget all about us."
"It’s easy to say ’get married,’" observed Berthe, "but it takes two for
that. And if there are not enough young men for all the girls we shall
probably get left in the lurch."
"Every man will have several wives," said Aurelle. "You will be much
happier; with one husband between you two; you will only have half the
housework to do."
"I do not think I should like it," said Lucie, who was very refined.
But the padre, to whom the doctor had just treacherously translated
Aurelle’s cynical proposals, indignantly protested.
"_You_ ought not to criticize polygamy, padre," said the doctor.
"Re-read your Bible. What have you to say about old Laban, who, having
sold his two daughters to the same man, payable monthly for fourteen
years, gave the purchaser in addition two waiting-maids as a bonus."
"But," said the padre, "I am not responsible for the actions of a
doubtful patriarch. I have no sympathy with Laban."
"No more have I," said Aurelle. "This Dufayel of marriage has always
profoundly disgusted me, but more on account of his matrimonial methods
than for having gone in for the polygamy natural to his tribe. Moreover,
is the number of women to be apportioned to one man a question of
morals? It appears to me to be a question of arithmetic. If there are
nearly as many women as men, monogamy is the rule; if for some reason
the number of women is increased, polygamy is perhaps better for the
general welfare."
The two girls, who understood this conversation much less than the
"promenade" and the "na poo" of the Tommies, went up to the colonel, who
talked to them paternally in his gruff way and got the "Caruso" record
for them out of its pink cover.
"You have some weird ideas about animal psychology, Aurelle," said the
doctor. "If you have observed nature, you would have proved, on the
contrary, that the question of the numbers of mates is certainly not a
question of arithmetic. With gnats, ten females are born to one male.
Now gnats are not polygamous. Nine of those females die spinsters. It
is only the old maids who bite us, from which one sees that celibacy
engenders ferocity among insects as well as among women."
"I have known some charming old maids," said Aurelle.
"Indeed!" said the doctor. "But, however that may be, the number of
married pairs varies simply according to the way the species feed.
Rabbits, Turks, sheep, artists, and, generally speaking, all herbivorous
creatures are polygamous; while foxes, Englishmen, wolves, bankers, and,
generally speaking, all carnivorous animals are monogamists. That is
because of the difficulty which carnivorous animals find in rearing
their young until they are strong enough to kill for themselves. As for
polyandry, it occurs in wretched countries like Thibet, where several
men must unite forces to keep one wife and her progeny."
The howls of Caruso rendered all conversation impossible for a minute,
then Aurelle said to Lucie:
"The other girls in the village will perhaps find it difficult to get
husbands, it is true, but you and your sister need not worry; you are
the prettiest, and you will soon have the richest father. You will have
fine marriage portions."
"Yes, that’s true. Perhaps they will marry us for our money," said
Berthe, who was modest.
"I should not care to be married for my money," said Lucie.
"Oh, strange creature!" said the doctor, "you would like to be loved for
your face alone, that is to say, for the position in space of the
albuminoids and fatty molecules placed there by the working of some
Mendelian heredity, but you would dislike to be loved for your fortune,
to which you have contributed by your labour and your domestic virtues."
Berthe regarded the doctor nervously and reminded her sister that they
had some glasses to wash before going to bed: so they emptied their
bumpers and departed.
After a restful silence, Major Parker asked Aurelle to explain the
institution of the marriage _dot_, and, when he had grasped it,
indignantly replied:
"What? A man receives this splendid gift, a pretty woman, and he exacts
money before accepting her? But what you tell me is monstrous, Aurelle,
and dangerous. Instead of marrying beautiful and good women who would
have beautiful and good children, you marry ugly, quarrelsome creatures
provided with a cheque-book."
"’He who has found a good wife has found great happiness,’" quoted the
padre, "’but a quarrelsome woman is like a roof that lets in the rain.’"
"It is wrong to suppose the children of love-matches better made than
others," interrupted the doctor, becoming rather warlike, obviously
owing to champagne. "Oh, I know the old theory: every man chooses his
natural complement, and thus rears children which revert to the average
type of the race. Big men like little women, large noses like little
snub-noses, and very feminine men fall in love with Amazons.
"As a matter of fact, a nervous, short-sighted, intellectual man marries
a pedantic, nervous, short-sighted woman because their tastes are
similar. Good riders make acquaintance with girls who hunt, and marry
them for their sporting tastes.
"So, far from reverting to the average type, love-matches tend to
exaggerate the differences. And then is it desirable for selection to
operate? There are very few really brilliant men who have not had at
least one madman among their ancestors. The modern world has been
founded by three epileptics—Alexander, Julius Cæsar and Luther, without
mentioning Napoleon, who was not altogether well balanced.
"In a thousand men of genius, how many mad relations?" asked the
colonel.
"I can’t tell you, sir," said the doctor.
"You can talk nonsense to your heart’s content, doctor," said Major
Parker. "But as far as I am concerned, if I ever marry, I shall only
marry a very pretty woman. What’s the name of that charming cinema
actress we saw together at Hazebrouck, Aurelle?
"Napierkowska, sir."
"Oh yes. Well, if I knew her I would marry her at once. And I am sure
that she is if anything better and more intelligent than the average
woman."
"My friend Shaw," said the doctor, "says that to desire to be
perpetually in the society of a pretty woman, until the end of one’s
days, is as if, because one likes good wine, one wished always to have
one’s mouth full of it."
"Rather a flimsy argument," observed the major. "For surely that is
better than having it always full of bad wine."
"Anyhow," the doctor replied, "women who exhibit more surely than us the
underlying instincts of mankind are far from bearing out your theory; I
know very few who make a point of marrying a good-looking man."
"Well, do you know the story about Frazer?" said the major.
"Which Frazer?" said the colonel. "G.R. of the 60th?"
"No, no. A.K. of the 5th Gurkhas—the one who played polo for the
regiment in 1900, an awfully good-looking fellow, the finest chin in the
army."
"Oh, I know him," said the colonel, "the son of old Sir Thomas. His
father sold me a damned good pony, when I was a subaltern, and I only
paid 200 rupees for it. Well, what is his story?"
"At the beginning of 1915," said the major, "Frazer, who was crossing
London on his way home on leave, went to the theatre one evening alone.
Towards the end of the first act, he felt vaguely that some one was
staring at him. He looked up and saw a woman in a box looking at him.
But, owing to the darkness of the theatre, he could not distinguish her
features.
"In the interval, he tried to see her, but she had withdrawn to the back
of her box. During the next two acts she looked at him fixedly. Frazer,
decidedly intrigued, was waiting at the exit of the theatre, when a
magnificent footman approached him, saying, ’A lady wishes to speak to
you, sir,’ and led him to the door of a carriage which had stopped in a
side street.
"’You do not know me, Captain Frazer,’ said a very pretty voice, ’but I
know you; have you anything to do this evening or will you come to
supper with me?’ Frazer did what we should all have done."
"He ran away?" said the padre.
"He got into the carriage," said Parker. "He was asked to allow himself
to be blindfolded. When the bandage was taken off he found himself in a
charming room, alone with the fair unknown, who was _decolletèe_ and
wearing a mask, and who had the most beautiful shoulders in the world?"
"Is this by Dumas _père_ or R. L. Stevenson?" asked Aurelle.
"It is a story of what actually happened in January, 1915, and was told
me by a man who never lies," said Major Parker. "The house was in
silence. No servant appeared, but Frazer, delighted, was offered by the
unknown herself what you French call, I believe, _bon souper, bon gîte
et le reste_.
"At break of day, she bandaged his eyes again. He told her how much he
had enjoyed himself and asked her when he could see her again. ’Never,’
she replied, ’and I take it that I have your word of honour as a
gentleman and a soldier that you will never try to find me again. But
in one year from now, to the day, go back to the same theatre where we
met, and there will, perhaps, be a letter for you.’ Then she saw him
into the carriage again, and asked him to keep his eyes blindfolded for
ten minutes: when he took off the bandage, he was in Trafalgar Square.
"Frazer naturally moved heaven and earth to get leave in January, 1916,
and on the evening of the anniversary of his adventure appeared at the
box office of the theatre and asked for a stall. ’Have you by any
chance a letter for me?’ he said, giving his name. The clerk handed him
an envelope, and Frazer, eagerly opening it, read this short line: ’It
is a fine boy. Thank you.’"
"What is still more strange," said the doctor with sarcasm, "is that
another good-looking lad told me the same story some time before the
war, and that that time he was the hero of it."
"Then this lady must have several children," said the colonel.
*CHAPTER XIII*