It has been said that the man who for his daily shave resorts habitually
to a barber has already become a subject for a drastic moral operation.
That may or may not be so, but having chambers in Ryder Street and
Alphonse residing within the precincts of St. James's, I would rather
have been carved morally into mincemeat than have robbed such an artist
of his self-expression.
That is how I felt about it in 1914 and in many preceding years, during
which, under the magic spell of Alphonse, the razor fell upon my cheek
like thistledown. Even to be lathered by him was an alluring form of
hypnosis. Alphonse was a Hokusai of barbers, but he was also a true son
of France; and there were Alsace and Lorraine and the arrogance of 1870
still to be accounted for. So Alphonse went, and in his place reigned
Ferdinand.
Ferdinand, what there was of him, was a good fellow. He was an old
fire-eater. He had lost a leg in Algeria and an eye somewhere else, and
he could not comprehend why such trivial matters should disqualify a man
for killing pigs. He was, as I have said, a good fellow, but his methods
of using a razor were mediaeval. However we were not long for one
another, and, as the R.N.V.R. tolerate such things, I grew a beard, an
equable, regulation torpedo beard.
Omitting several super-emotional lifetimes, let us speak of a certain
day not very remote when I stood, bereft of all sea power, at the top of
St. James's Street, considering what was the very best worst thing to
do to a body which was bored with the reaction that follows four years'
strife upon the narrow seas. I fingered my beard meditatively. Yes,
after all there was Alphonse. I had almost forgotten him. I turned my
steps towards his exclusive retreat. I entered in, and behold! there as
of yore, clothed in his samite raiment, stood the incomparable Alphonse.
He had returned. Yet in appearance he was not quite the Alphonse of old.
There was something less resilient about him, something more enduring
had crept into his personality; his elasticity had somehow turned to
bronze. He was slightly grey. Nevertheless he greeted me with a Gallic
warmth that gave refreshment to my jaded spirit.
"But M'sieu would be shaved.... Yes, a beard was permissible in time of
War, but in Peace--pouf! it was barbaric."
I allowed myself to be robed and tucked comfortably into the chair.
Alphonse busied himself with the instruments of his profession.
"Five years ago it was another world, M'sieu," he said, churning a
wooden bowl to mountains of lather. "It is never again the same. The
Marne ... Verdun ... Soissons. If M'sieu permits I would like to tell
him of those years."
I nodded and he advanced upon me with the brush. He spoke of the retreat
to Paris and the strategy of JOFFRE which so nearly overthrew three
Prussian armies. He brandished his razor and swept the Boches back over
the Marne, he swept them through Senlis, he swept them across the Aisne.
His intensity was inspiring. The smouldering fires of bygone battles
leapt into his eyes. But it was not the mesmeric shave of 1914. He
apologised humbly and applied small pieces of plaster.
The next morning we fought a swaying battle in front of Rheims, and for
some few following mornings we skirmished about painlessly in the same
vicinity. Then came a sanguinary excursion to Flanders which nearly put
me into blue overalls.
A few weeks of trench warfare gave me some respite and allowed my worst
wounds to heal.
Then came the epic of Verdun. At least it was to have come, but at the
last moment I lost my nerve.
To hear the story of that heroic defence from the lips of one who was
concerned so intimately with it is one of my greatest desires. But I am
a coward. I cannot face the extravaganza that Alphonse would improvise,
neither dare I approach him for a mere haircut and so confess to having
deserted his other form of artistry.
Yesterday I purchased a safety-razor and a packet of new blades.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mary (stricken with remorse as minnow approaches her
hook)._ "OH! OH! OH! I DON'T WANT TO CATCH IT; ITS MUMMY WOULD MISS IT
SO."]
* * * * *