that we did not know him in future. Mr. Bunting was so upset that he
declared the competition cancelled, and smoked the prize himself. He
said afterwards that what annoyed him most was the foolishness of Mr.
Binder's idea that his plagiarism would be undetected.
"He is," said Mr. Bunting, "like the silly ostrich that lays its eggs
in the sand in order to escape the vigilance of its pursuers."
One of our pencil-games was known as Inverted Conundrums, and played as
follows. One person gave the answer to a riddle, and mentioned one word
to be used in the question. The rest then had to write down what they
thought the question would be. The deafness of dear Violet Orpington
sometimes spoiled this game.
For instance, I had once given as an answer "bee-hive," and said that
one word in the question was "correct."
The first question I read out was from George Leghorn. He had written:
"If a cockney nurse wished to correct a child, what insect-home would
she name?" This was accepted.
The next question was from Violet Orpington: "If you had never corrected
a naughty boy before, where would you correct him?"
"But, Violet," I said, "the answer to that could not be 'bee-hive.'"
"Oh," she said, "you said 'hive,' did you? I thought you said something
else."
I have never been able to guess what it was she thought I had said; and
she refused to tell me.
Another of our pencil-games was Missing Rhymes. One of us would write a
deccasyllabic couplet--we always called it a quatrain, as being a
better-class word--and the rhyme in the second line would not be
actually given but merely indicated.
For example, I myself wrote the following little sonnet:
"I have an adoration for
One person only, namely _je_."
To any reader who is familiar with the French language, this may seem
almost too easy, but I doubt if anybody who knew no language but modern
Greek would guess it. For the benefit of the uninitiated I may add that
the French word _je_ is pronounced "mwor," thus supplying the missing
rhyme.
Millie Wyandotte disgraced herself with the following lyric:
"After her dance, Salome, curtseying, fell,
And shocked the Baptist with her scream of 'Bother!'"
She had no sooner read it out than Mr. Bunting rose in his place and
said gravely:
"I can only speak definitely for myself, but it is my firm belief that
all present, with the exception of Miss Wyandotte, have too much
refinement to be able to guess correctly the missing rhyme in this
case." Loud and prolonged applause.
George Leghorn was particularly happy at these pencil games, and to him
is due this very clever combination of the lyrical and the acrostical:
"My first a man is, and my next a trap;
My whole's forbidden, lest it cause trouble."
The answer to the acrostic is "mantrap"; the missing rhyme is "mishap."
The entire solution was given in something under half an hour by Popsie
Bantam. She was a very bright girl, and afterwards married a man in the
Guards (L.N.W.R.).
Mr. Bunting, a rather strong party-politician, one night submitted this
little triolet:
"When the Great War new weapons bade us forge,
Whom did the nation trust? 'Twas thou, Asquith!"
The missing rhyme was guessed immediately, in two places, as the
auctioneers say.
However, by our next quinquennial meeting Nettie Minorca had thought out
the following rejoinder:
"When history's hand corrects the current myth,
Whose name will she prefer? 'Tis thine, Lloyd George."
Yes, dear Nettie had a belated brilliance--the wit of the staircase,
only more so. We always said that Nettie could do wonderful things if
only she were given time.
She was given time ultimately, and is still doing it, but that was in a
totally different connection. She inserted an advertisement stating that
she was a thorough good cook. First-class references. Eight years in
present situation in Exeter, and leaving because the family was going
abroad. Wages asked, L36 per annum. No kitchen-maid required. No less
than twelve families were so anxious to receive the treasure that they
offered her return-fare between Exeter and London, and her expenses, to
secure a personal interview with her. She collected the boodle from all
twelve. And she was living in Bryanstone Square at the time. She is lost
to us now.
As dear old Percy Cochin, also one of the Soles, once said to me: "We
are here to-day, and gone at the end of our month."
Violet Orpington had an arresting appearance, and walked rather like a
policeman also. Her hair was a rich raw sienna, and any man would have
made love to her had she but carried an ear-trumpet. She is the
"retiring Violet" of verse seven.[A] Millie Wyandotte was malicious and
unintelligent; she looked well in white, but was too heavily built for
my taste. I may add, as evidence of my impartiality, that she laid a
table better than any woman I ever knew; in fact, she took first prize
in a laying competition. Nettie Minorca was "black but comely," and had
Spanish blood in her veins. She is the "gipsy" mentioned in verse
one-and-a-half. Popsie Bantam was _petite_. Her profile was admired, but
I always thought it a little beaky myself. I myself was the least
beautiful, but the most attractive. Allusions to me will be found in
verses 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 12-19, 24, 57-60, 74, 77, 87, 97, and 102-3468.
[Footnote A:
_Publisher_: But you don't give the verses.
_Author_: I know. It's a little idea I got from an excellent Sunday
newspaper.]
George Leghorn was an Albino, but his figure was very graceful. From the
specimen which I have already given, it will be easy to believe that his
wit was fluorescent, detergent, and vibratory. He afterwards became a
well-known personality on the turf. He gained a considerable fortune by
laying the odds; his family were all reputed to be good layers.
Dear old Peter Cochin was staunch and true. He reminds me of something
that my illustrious model says of another man. She says that he "would
risk telling me or anyone he loved, before confiding to an inner circle,
faults which both he and I think might be corrected." Grammar was no
doubt made for slaves--not for the brilliant and autobiographical. All
the same, a prize should be offered to anybody who can find the missing
"risk" in mentioning to another a point on which both are agreed.
She adds that she has had "a long experience of inner circles." There,
it must be admitted, she is ahead of me. But the only inner circle of
which I have had a long experience has been much improved since it was
electrified.
In congratulating Peter upon a new appointment, with three under him, I
asked when I first met him. His reply was particularly staunch, and I
quote from it:
"It was in May 28, 1913. The hour was 1.38.5 Greenwich Time, and I
shall never forget it. You were sixteen then, and the effect as you
came into the room was quintessential. Suddenly the sunlight
blazed, the electric light went on automatically till the fuses
gave way, the chimney caught fire, the roof fell in, the petrol
tank exploded, old R--y said that he should never care to speak to
his wife again, and the butler dropped the Veuve Clicquot. After
that the shooting party came in, but for some reason or other the
sentence was not carried out."
I have very few staunch friends, and many of them have had to be
discarded from weakness; but when they are staunch--well, they really
are. The only trouble with Peter Cochin was that he was too cautious. He
was given to under-statement. I do not think he gives a really full and
rich idea of the effect I habitually produced.
I sometimes think that I am almost too effective. Still, as I said
before, the Latin word "margo" does mean "the limit."
FIFTH EXTRACT
MISFIRES
My family had a curious dread that I should marry a groom. I never did.
To be quite honest, I never had the opportunity. But I did get engaged
to quite a lot of other things.
My first engagement was when I was very, very young. He was a humorous
man, and perhaps I was wrong in taking him so seriously. Still, he must
have adored me. When I accepted him his hair turned completely white--an
infallible test of the depth of emotion.
He was an excellent whip. It used to be a wonderful sight to see him
taking a pair of young horses down Ludgate Hill on a greasy day at noon,
with the whole road chock-a-block with traffic, lighting a pipe with a
wooden match with one hand, carrying on an animated conversation with
the other with a fare on the front seat, dropping white-hot satire on
the heads of drivers less efficient than himself, and always getting the
'bus through safely with about an inch to spare on each side.
On the other hand, he was almost entirely ignorant of Marcus Aurelius,
Henry James, Step-dancing, Titian, the Manners and Customs of Polite
Society, Factory-Girl Reclamation, Cardinal Newman, or the Art of
Self-advertisement. He said, with an entire absence of pretension, that
these things were not on his route.
When I announced our engagement the members of my family who were
present, about seventeen of them, all swooned, except dear papa, who
said in his highly-strung way that if I married anybody he would put the
R.S.P.C.A. on to me.
I said what I thought, and fled for consolation to Casey, my married
sister. But she also was discouraging.
"Marge," she said, "give it a miss. You have a rich nature, beautiful
hair, a knowledge of the world, nervous tension, some of the appearance
of education, and four pound fifteen put by in the Post Office. You must
look higher."
I have always detested scenes--which, perhaps, seems strange in a girl
as fond of the limelight as I was. I began to re-consider the question.
Accidentally, I discovered that he had a wife already. What with one
thing and another, I thought it best to write and give him up. He
immediately resigned his appointment with the London General, gave me a
long-priced certainty for the Oaks, and left for New York. When he
returned, two years later, his hair was pale green.
But if the engagement did not come off, the certainty for the Oaks did.
In consequence of this I left for Ramsgate by the "Marguerite" some days
later. Dressed? Well, you should have seen me.
It chanced that one of the passengers on the boat was Mr. Aaron Birsch.
He had been presented to me some weeks before by Mr. Bunting. I knew
that he was a turf commissioner, had speculated with success in cottage
property, and was commonly reported to be much richer than he looked.
Beyond that, I know very little of him. Apparently, however, he had made
it his business to know quite a good deal of me. Mr. Bunting was his
informant, and I had always been a quite special favourite of the
_doyen_ of the Soles.
Mr. Birsch came up to me at once. We chatted on various topics, and he
told me of something which was likely to be quite useful for Goodwood.
Then he said suddenly:
"Matter of fact, there was a bit of private business I wanted a word
with you about. This boat's too full of what I call riff-raff.
Mouth-organs. Bad taste. Can't hear yourself speak. But we get an hour
at Ramsgate, and if you'll take a snack with me there, I can tell you
what I've got to say."
More from curiosity than from anything else, I accepted. And I must say
that our luncheon conversation was rather remarkable.
BIRSCH: To come to the point, you're the very identical girl that I
want Alfred to marry.
MARGE (_innocently_): Alfred?
BIRSCH: Yes, my son.
MARGE: But I have never even seen him.
BIRSCH: And when you have you'll probably wish you hadn't. But
don't let that prejudice you. It's the inside of the head that
counts. That boy's got a perfect genius for cottage property and
real tact with it. Only last week he raised an old woman's rent a
shilling a week, and when he left she gave him a rosebud and said
she'd pray for him. It takes some doing--a thing like that. Now, I
want a public career for that boy, and if he marries you he can't
miss it. Do you know what Mr. Bunting said to me about you?
MARGE (_breathlessly_): But he's so flattering. I think he likes
me--I don't know why. I sometimes wonder----
BIRSCH (_just as if I'd never spoken_): Bunting said to me: "That
girl, Marge, will get into the newspapers. It may be in the Court
News, and it may be in the Police-court News. That will depend on
which she prefers. But she'll get there, and she'll stick there!"
That's what I want for Alfred. Everything's ready for him to start
firing, but he needs you to sight the gun.
MARGE: And if you can't get me, whom would you like?
BIRSCH: Well, Lady Artemis Morals has some gift for publicity. But
Alfred won't marry a title--say's he rather thinks of making a
title for himself. The boy's got ambition. The cash is forthcoming.
And you can do the rest.
MARGE: It is a flattering offer. You'll let me think over it?
He kindly consented, and we returned to the boat. However, on the way
back the sea became very rough and unpleasant; and I threw up the idea.
(By the way, you don't mind me writing the dialogue, as above, just as
if it were a piece out of a play? I've always brought the sense of the
theatre into real life.)
Poor Aaron Birsch! He was only one of the very many men who have been
extremely anxious that I should marry somebody else. Two years later
Alfred died of cerebral tumescence--a disease to which the ambitious are
peculiarly liable. That cat, Millie Wyandotte, happened to say to Birsch
that if I had married his son I should now have been a wealthy young
widow.
"Anybody who married Marge," said Birsch, "would not die at the end of
two years."
"I suppose not," said Millie. "He'd be more likely to commit suicide at
the end of one."
I never did like that girl.
But I must speak now of what was perhaps my most serious engagement.
Hugo Broke--his mother was one of the Stoneys--was intended from birth
for one of the services and selected domestic service. Here it was
thought that his height--he was seven foot one--would tell in his
favour. However, the Duchess of Exminster, in ordering that the new
footman should be dismissed, said that height was desirable, but that
this was prolixity.
However, it was not long before he found a congenial sphere for his
activities with the London branch of the Auto-extensor Co. of America.
The Auto-extensor Co. addresses itself to the abbreviated editions of
humanity. It is claimed for the Auto-extensor system that there is
absolutely no limit to the increase in height which may be obtained by
it, provided of course, that the system is followed exactly, that
nothing happens to prevent it, and that the rain keeps off.
Hugo walked into the Regent Street establishment of the Auto-extensor
people, and said:
"Good morning. I think I could be of some service to this company as an
advertisement."
"I am sure you could," said the manager. "If you will kindly wait a
moment while the boy fetches the step-ladder I will come up and arrange
terms."
In the result, the large window of the Regent Street establishment was
furnished as a club smoking-room or thereabouts. In the very centre, in
a chair of exaggerated comfort but doubtful taste, sat Hugo. He was
exquisitely attired. He read a newspaper and smoked cigarettes. By his
side, in a magnificent frame, was a printed notice, giving a rather
fanciful biography of the exhibit.
"This gentleman," the notice ran, "was once a dwarf. For years he
suffered in consequence agonies of humiliation, and then a friend called
his attention to the Auto-extensor System of increasing height. He did
not have much faith in it, but in desperation he gave it a trial--and it
made him what he now is. Look for yourselves. Facts speak louder than
words. All we ask you to do is to trust the evidence of your own eyes."
The window proved a great attraction. The crowd before it was most
numerous about four o'clock, because every day at that hour a dramatic
and exciting scene was witnessed. Putting down his newspaper, Hugo
struck a bell on a little table by his side. A page entered through the
excessively plush curtains at the back, and Hugo gave a brief and
haughty order. The boy somewhat overacted respectful acquiescence,
retired through the curtains, and reappeared again with tea and thin
bread and butter. Of these delicacies Hugo partook _coram populo_. This
carried conviction with it. One onlooker would say to another: "Shows
you he's real, don't it? At one time I thought it was only a dummy." And
for some time afterwards the assistant in the shop would be kept busy,
handing out the gratis explanatory booklet of the Auto-extensor Co.
It was in this window that I first saw Hugo. I arrived a little late
that afternoon, and missed the first act, where he puts down the
newspaper and rings the bell. But I saw the conclusion of the piece.
My eyes filled with tears. Here--here at last--I had met somebody whose
chilled-steel endurance of publicity equalled, and perhaps exceeded, my
own.
I entered the shop, procured the explanatory booklet, and asked at what
hour they closed. At that hour I met him as he left business, and my
first feelings were of disappointment. His clothes were not the
exquisite raiment that he had worn as an exhibit in the window. The
white spats, the sponge-bag trousers with the knife-edge crease, the
gold-rimmed eye-glass, the well-cut morning coat, the too assertive
waistcoat--all were the property of the Auto-extensor Co. and not to be
worn out of business hours. He now wore a shabby tweed suit and a cap.
But he was still a noticeable figure; a happy smile came into the faces
of little boys as he went past.
"Like your job?" I said shyly, as I took the seat next to him on the top
of the omnibus.
He replied rather gruffly that he supposed a bloke had to work for his
living, and all work was work, whatever way you looked at it. Further
questions elicited that the pay was satisfactory, but that he did not
regard the situation as permanent. The public would get tired of it and
some other form of advertisement would be found. He complained, too,
that he was supposed to keep up the appearance of a wealthy toff smoking
cigarettes continually for a period of seven hours, and the management
provided only one small packet of woodbines per diem for him to do it
on.
I produced my cigarette-case. It was one which Lord Baringstoke--always
a careless man--had lost. It had been presented to me by dear Mr.
Bunting. Hugo said he had not intended anything of that sort, but helped
himself.
A quarter of an hour later we had our first quarrel. I asked him if it
was cold up where he was. He said morosely that he had heard that joke
on his stature a few times before. I told him that if he lived long
enough--and I'd never seen anybody living much longer--he was likely to
hear it a few times again. He then said that either I could hop off the
'bus or he would, and he didn't care which. After that we both were
rather rude. He got me by the hair, and I had just landed a straight
left to the point when the conductor came up and said he would not have
it.
I became engaged to Hugo that night at 10.41. I remember the time
exactly, because Mrs. Pettifer had a rule that all her maids were to be
in the house by ten sharp, and I was rather keeping an eye on my watch
in consequence.
To tell the truth, we quarrelled very frequently. Different though we
were in many respects, we both had irritable, overstrung, tri-chord
natures, with hair-spring nerves connected direct to the high-explosive
language-mine.
On one occasion I went with him to a paper fancy-dress dance at the
rooms attached to the Hopley Arms. I went as "The Sunday Times," my
dress being composed of two copies of that excellent, though
inexpensive journal, tastefully arranged on a concrete foundation.
When Millie Wyandotte saw me, she called out: "Hello, Marge! Got into
the newspapers at last?" I shall be even with that girl one of these
days.
I declined to dance with Hugo at all. I said frankly that I preferred to
dance with somebody who could touch the top of my head without stooping.
I went off with Georgie Leghorn, and Hugo sat and sulked.
Later in the evening he came up to me and asked if he should get my
cloak.
I said irritably: "Of course not. Why should you?"
"Well," he said, "I don't know whether you're aware of it, but you've
got three split infinitives in your City article."
"Ah!" I replied. "The next time Millie Wyandotte telephones up to your
head, give her my love and tell her not to over-strain herself."
Things went from bad to worse, and after he had alluded to my backbone
as my Personal Column, any possibility of reconciliation seemed at an
end. I did not know then what a terribly determined person Hugo was.
Georgie Leghorn saw me home. I parted with him at the house, let myself
in by the area-gate, locking it after me, and so down the steps and into
the kitchen.
There I had just taken off my hair when I heard a shrill whistle in the
street outside. Hurriedly replacing my only beauty, I drew up the blind
and looked out. There, up above me on the pavement, was Hugo, stretching
away into the distance.
"Called for the reconciliation," he said. "Just open this area gate,
will you?"
"At this time of night?" I called, in a tense whisper. "Certainly not."
He stepped back, and in one leap jumped over the area-railings and down
on to the window-sill of the kitchen. The next moment he had flung the
window up, entered, and stood beside me.
"What do you think of that?" he said calmly.
"Hugo," I said, "I've known some bounders in my time, but not one who
could have done that."
We sat down and began discussing the Disestablishment of the Welsh
Church, when suddenly the area-gate was rattled and a stern voice
outside said "Police."
Instantly, Hugo concealed as much of himself as he could under the
kitchen table. There was no help for it. I had to let the policeman in,
or he would have roused the household.
"I'm just going to have a look in your kitchen," he said.
"No use," I replied. "The rabbit-pie was finished yesterday."
"Saucy puss, ain't you?" he said, as he entered.
"Well, you might be a sport and tell a girl what you're after."
"Cabman, driving past here a few minutes ago, saw a man jump the
area-railings and make a burglarious entry by the kitchen window."
"Is that all?" I said. "A man did enter that way a few minutes ago, but
it was not a burglar. It was Master Edward, Mrs. Pettifer's eldest son.
He'd lost his latch-key--he's always doing it--and that's how it
happened. He went straight upstairs to bed, or he'd confirm what I say."
"Went straight up to bed, did he? Did he take his legs off first? I
notice there's a pair of them sticking out from under the kitchen
table."
"Yes," I admitted, "I've told better lies in my time. Oh, Mr. Policeman,
don't be hard. I never wanted my young man to come larking about like
this. But--he's not a burglar. He's the exhibit from the Auto-extensor
Co.'s in Regent Street. You can pull out the rest of him and see if he
isn't."
"That's what I told the cabman," said the policeman. "I said to him:
'You juggins,' I said, 'do you think a burglar who wants to get into a
house waits till a cab's going past and then gives a acrobatic
exhibition to attract the driver's attention? That's some young fool
after one of the maids.' No, I don't want to see the rest of the young
man--not if he's like the sample. Get him unwound as soon as you can,
and send him about his business. If he's not out in two minutes, I
shall ring the front door, and you'll be in the cart. And don't act so
silly another time."
Hugo was out in 1 min. 35 sec. He stopped to chat with the policeman,
jumped the seven-foot railings into the square garden, and jumped back
again, just to show what he could do, and went off.
I gave a long, deep sigh. I always do that when an incident in my life
fails to reach the best autobiographical level. I neither knew nor cared
what the policeman thought. You see, I would never deserve a bad
reputation, but there's nothing else I wouldn't do to get one.
For eighty-four years--my memory for numbers is not absolutely accurate,
but we will say eighty-four--for eighty-four years I wrote him a letter
every morning and evening of every day, with the exception of Sundays,
bank holidays, and the days when I did not feel like it.