Tussaud’s during the war--Chameleon crowds--The psychology
of courage--Men of St. Dunstan’s--Poignant memories--Our
watchman’s soliloquy.
Under the stress of war many strange things revealed themselves at
Tussaud’s--things by no means easy to define, subtle, illusive,
immaterial, difficult to comprehend and hard to describe.
At the outbreak of hostilities the attendance suffered a severe
check. This disquieting effect was in the main, I believe, due to the
great wrench suffered by the public mind through the country’s sudden
transition from the normal condition of peace to a strenuous state of
war. But as each month passed the flow of visitors steadily increased in
volume, until it far exceeded that of pre-war days.
By the time the manhood of the Empire had, in a great measure, doffed its
sombre everyday suit and donned khaki, khaki became the dominant colour
of the throng that filled the Exhibition rooms.
With this change in attire there came a marked alteration in its
demeanour. Usually sedate and reserved, it now betrayed--in startling
contradiction to all reasonable expectations--a cherry, devil-me-care
character which, curious to relate, resolved itself into a tone
unmistakably flippant; a mental attitude to which we soon realised we
must give our careful consideration.
He would indeed have been a poor psychologist who had taken this outward
showing as a true indication of the feelings of our brave fellows;
for it was obviously but the assumption of that demeanour so strongly
characteristic of the British disposition, that of facing an ugly job in
a cheerful spirit.
It was the ready answer to the pessimist, “If it’s got to be done, what’s
the use of being miserable about it?”--a philosophical bearing that
perhaps found its deepest expression in their “Cheerio!” and insouciant
wave of the hand bidding farewell to wife, mother, and child ere turning
to face the grim realities and dread uncertainty of war.
To keep pace with the stirring and ever-fluctuating events of the
day, large maps of the battle areas were specially produced for the
Exhibition, and lectures were given before them, explaining our
varying fortunes in the great conflict. It was in the giving of these
lectures that we were soon able to take a fairly correct measure of the
disposition of our visitors.
They were, first of all, delivered on somewhat academic lines, with,
perhaps, too pronounced an idea of imparting instruction rather than that
of affording entertainment. It was soon found that if the attention of
our visitors was to be held, it was necessary to adopt a more optimistic
and lively, if not an almost bantering, tone if the dissertation were to
receive any real mark of appreciation on the part of those who cared to
listen.
As the struggle proceeded Tussaud’s began to assume the position of
a _pointe de réunion_ of a very remarkable character, and this quite
irrespective of class or nationality.
We opened our doors as early as eight o’clock in the morning, and even
then found that not a few had been waiting for admission for some
considerable time. This forced upon us the conviction that the Exhibition
had risen in favour as something of a place of refuge by those who had
involuntarily found themselves abroad early in the morning and had borne
its existence in mind.
Be this as it may, throughout all hours of the day Tussaud’s proved a
centre of attraction to many champions of their country’s cause. Here
they were to be seen, whether on their final leave before going out to
the front, or homeward bound to enjoy a brief respite from the turmoil of
the conflict, and awaiting a train to carry them to their families.
During the autumn of 1914 and far into the following year there
congregated within our walls numerous hapless and pathetic beings,
strangers to us by their foreign tongue, who, having come from nowhere
in particular and having nowhere in particular to go, aimlessly wandered
into the Exhibition.
We can only presume that they came to help pass away many a sad and
anxious hour, or maybe to take measure of the semblance of those who were
at that very moment foremost in striving to stem the tide of the cruel
incursion that had driven them to take refuge in a foreign land.
Then as time wore on there came a touch of relieving colour that showed
itself here and there amid the prevailing khaki; at first a mere fleck
that gradually became more pronounced as the war advanced. This was
the hospital blue of our valiant soldiers who had not passed unscathed
through the ordeal of fire, as cheery a gathering as ever set foot within
the place, a cheeriness readily responded to by their fellow visitors
through the medium of sympathy and admiration.
One sad sight there was, however, which touched the hearts of the
people so deeply that no display of cheerfulness on the part of the
sufferers--and they, too, were invariably light-hearted--could quite
evoke a sense of mirth.
St. Dunstan’s Hostel for Blinded Soldiers and Sailors in Regent’s Park is
not very far from Madame Tussaud’s, and many of its inmates visited the
Exhibition, and, for the matter of that, still find a pleasure in coming
in couples or small parties to spend an hour or so among the models and
the relics.
In spite of the distressing fact that they have been deprived of the
gift of sight, they stand in front of the models and pause while the
biographies are read out to them from the Catalogue by some more
fortunate companion. Then they almost invariably nod to express their
comprehension of the subject before them, and seem to see and understand
through the faculty of their imagination much that would otherwise have
been made manifest to them through the function of their eyes.
During the past few years our attendance has totalled to a figure
reaching several millions; but the number visiting the place hardly
constitutes so remarkable a fact as the many diverse nationalities and
tribes they represented, or their coming from so many far-distant and
remote parts of the world.
The landing of a fresh contingent at any one of our ports, or the arrival
in London of any body of men attached to our Allied Forces, brought
distinct and unfamiliar types of humanity to our doors.
“I had often heard of the place, but never thought I should have had an
opportunity of seeing it,” was a remark that often fell upon the ears of
our attendants; and we know, for many reasons, that most of them had made
up their minds to visit the place long before they had set foot upon our
shores.
Of the many telling experiences of the last few momentous years, the one
that will be retained longest in our memory will most assuredly be the
touching sight of the war-stained and weary men who, during the earlier
days of the war, literally stumbled through our turnstiles into the
building.
Dazed for want of sleep, begrimed and besmeared with the very mud of the
trenches, they flung themselves upon the nearest ottoman or couch, or in
some out-of-the-way place upon the floor, to snatch a few hours’ sleep in
comparative comfort.
One evening, when strolling round the rooms some time after the place
had been closed, I found myself looking at the watchmen, who were busily
engaged sweeping the floors. The chief among them, an old and valued
servant, possessing a disposition that generally enabled him to look upon
the bright side of things--although he was so often constrained to view
them only during the sombre hours of the night--caught me gazing at him.
With a face I thought unusually grave he bade me “Good-evening,” and
ruefully remarked, “It seems to me, sir, some of this dirt has come a
long way.” Then, pondering for a while, with his eyes fixed upon the
floor, he resumed, “Yes, sir, some of it from the very trenches.” And I
somehow believed the old fellow was right.