The word "schedule" always bothers me; when I see it on an income-tax
paper I lose my head. In my confusion I sign my name lavishly. I
confess to profits from trades, professions, employments _and_
vocations; I reveal the presence of unsuspected gas-works, quarries,
salt-springs, alum mines, streams of water, ferries, cemeteries and
"other concerns of the like nature within the United Kingdom"; no
secret is made of my colonial and foreign possessions. Wherever I see
an inviting gap I slip in a few figures.... Then the assessor looks at
my paper and tells me what I ought to give him.
This year things went worse than ever. I got some noughts in the wrong
place; a whole lot of gaps headed "Claim for Relief in Respect of
Earned Income," which I had supplied with particular liberality, went
by the board, all because I hadn't noticed in the preambulation some
foolish date "before which any claim must be preferred." Those two
accidents practically doubled my little tax ... and then LLOYD GEORGE
went and doubled it again. It began to look as if it would be cheaper
to pay income on my income-tax instead of the other way round.
"Celia," I said, "we're ruined. Cancel any orders for potted salmon;
we shall have to live simply in future." And I told her just what the
tax-gatherer had asked for.
"But why do we have to pay so much?" she asked.
"Partly because of the KAISER, and partly because of me. History will
apportion the blame."
Celia seemed prepared to anticipate History.
"Don't forget," I went on hastily, "that the money will be well spent.
If I had to make a fool of myself, I would sooner have done it this
year than any other. It is a privilege to pay for a war like this."
Celia looked thoughtful.
"How much does the war cost England?" she asked.
"Oh, lots. I think it mentioned the exact figures in _The Times_ this
morning. They'll be only too glad of my little contribution."
She retired in search of _The Times_.
* * * * *
The stars denote Celia at work. I can imagine her with her head on
one side and the tip of her tongue just peering out to see how she is
getting on, the paper in front of her a mass of figures. The ink is
creeping up her pen; her forefinger is nervous and bids her hurry.
She has finished, and she comes into the room, trying to look grave. My
letter to the Assessor, "Sir and Friend,--By the beard (if any) of your
ancestor, I beseech you----" is abandoned, and I turn to her.
"Well?"
"I've worked it out," she said. "Do you know how long you'll be paying
for the war?"
"Oh, quite a long time."
"Eleven seconds."
It was a little disappointing.
"Eleven seconds," repeated Celia. "One--two--three--four----"
"That's too fast. Begin again."
"One----two----three----"
"That's better."
She counted eleven. It seemed much longer now. One----two----
three----four....
And all the time my brave army was fighting in Flanders, my navy was
sweeping the North Sea, my million recruits were growing into soldiers.
In Yorkshire my looms were busy, ARMSTRONG'S were turning out my guns,
Northampton was giving my gallant boys their boots. Did an aeroplane
shoot up into the sky, did a submarine dive into the deep, mine was the
supporting hand. Was I not a god among men?
"Ten," said Celia--"eleven. What are you thinking about?"