(_An imaginary conversation._)
[In his lecture at the Royal Institution, to which Mr. Punch recently
referred, Mr. ALFRED NOYES said that "our art and literature were
increasingly Bolshevik, and if they looked at the columns of any
newspaper they would see the unusual spectacle of the political editor
desperately fighting that which the art and literary portions of the
paper upheld."]
SCENE.--_A Club-room near Fleet Street. The_ Political Editor _and the_
Literary Editor _of "The Daily Crisis" are discovered seated in adjoining
armchairs_.
_Political Editor._ Excuse me, but haven't I seen you occasionally in _The
Crisis_ office?
_Literary Editor._ Possibly. I look after its literary pages, you know.
_P.E._ Really? I run the political columns. Did you read my showing-up this
morning of the Bolshevik peril in the House of Lords?
_L.E._ I'm afraid I never read the political articles. Did you notice my
two-column boom of young Applecart's latest book of poems?
_P.E._ No time to read the literary columns, and modern poetry's as good as
Chinese to me. Who's Applecart?
_L.E._ My dear Sir, is it possible that you are unfamiliar with the author
of _I Will Destroy_? He's the hope of the future as far as English poetry
is concerned.
_P.E. (cheerfully)._ Never heard of him. What's he done?
_L.E. (impressively)._ He has overthrown all the rules, not only of art,
but of morality. He has created a new Way of Life.
_P.E._ Can't see that that's anything to shout about. What's his platform,
anyway?
_L.E._ Platform? To anyone who has tho slightest acquaintance with
Applecart the very idea of a platform is fantastic. He doesn't stand; he
soars.
_P.E._ Well, what are his _views_, then? Pretty tall, I suppose, if he's
such a high flier.
_L.E._ You may well say so. In the first place he discards all the old
artistic formulæ.
_P.E._ I know; you write a solid slab of purple prose, scissor it into a
jig-saw puzzle, serve it with a dazzle dressing and call it the New Poetry.
_L.E._ Have your joke, if you will. But, more important still, Applecart is
a rebel against humanity and all its fetishes, social, ethical and
political.
_P.E. (startled)._ A Bolshie, I suppose you mean?
_L.E._ The artist is proof against all these vulgar terms of abuse, culled
from the hustings. Call him a Pussyfoot as well; you cannot shake him from
his pinnacle.
_P.E._ Yes, but look here--he's just the sort of pernicious agitator we're
out against in _The Crisis_--at least in my department. My special article
this morning--three thickly-leaded columns--actually revealed the existence
of a most insidious plot to undermine the restraining influence of the
House of Lords by the spread of Bolshevik propaganda masquerading as
literature. You see, there's a certain section of the Lords, mainly new
creations who've only recently been released from various employments, who
now for the first time in their lives have leisure for reading; then
there's the spread of education among the sporting Peers. Well, these
people are ready to succumb to all sorts of poisonous doctrines, if they're
served up in what I presume to be the fashionable mode of the moment; and I
expect your precious Applecart is one of the Bolsh agents who are laying
the trap. You'll have to stop booming him, you know. He's not doing the
paper any good.
_L.E._ My dear Sir, literature takes no account of the fads and fancies of
party politics. And I gather from you that party politics have no use for
literature except from a propagandist view. Let us be content to go our own
ways in peace.
_P.E._ Yes, that's all very well for you and me, but what about the Chief?
How does he reconcile these absolutely conflicting standpoints? And what
does the public think of it all?
_L.E. (confidentially)._ Between you and me, the Chief knows his public.
And the public knows its papers. The last thing it wants from us is
consistency, which is always boring. Besides (_still more confidentially_),
the public doesn't take us quite so seriously as we like to pretend.
_P.E._ H'm, maybe you're right. As a matter of fact (_lowering his voice_)
I sometimes think I'm a bit of a Socialist myself.
_L.E._ Really? As for me (_conspiratorially_), I adore TENNYSON, and EZRA
POUND fills me with a secret wrath. Still, the public--
_P.E._ Ah, the public--! Have a drink?
[_They pledge each other. NOYES without. They disperse hurriedly._
* * * * *
"In view of the serious shortage of female help, the United Boards of
Trade of Western Ontaria have been discussing proposals to encourage
the immigration of young women from Great Britain."--_Morning Paper_.
And have apparently feminized the Province in advance.
* * * * *
"If the Archdeacon of Coventry is correct in stating, as he did in
Convocation, that the word 'tush' found in the Psalter means 'bosh,' it
must in this sense be what the classical dons call a 'hapslegomenon'."
--_Evening Standard_.
Which, again, must be what the classical undergraduates call a "slipsus
languæ."
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE IRREMOVABLES.