We, the enthusiasts of the Relief Force who sailed from England with
the fine phrases of the Evening Press ringing in our ears have arrived
at Murmansk, only to be disappointed and disillusioned. It is not that
the expedition looks less attractive than it did, or that our leaders
fail to inspire us with confidence. It is because the gilt has
disappeared from the sartorial gingerbread of our adventure.
Why did we leap forward to volunteer before we were wanted and
continue to leap till, for very boredom, they sent us embarcation
orders and a free warrant? Was it simply to escape an English Spring?
Was it not rather that we might win our furs--might wear the romantic
outfit which we were led to believe was _de rigueur_ in the most
exclusive circle, namely, the Arctic? What was the first remark of our
female relatives when we showed them the War Office telegram? Was it
not, "Of course you must be photographed in your furs and things?"
No wonder, after the monotony of khaki, if we looked forward to the
glory and distinction of fur-lined caps and coats, Shackleton boots,
huge snow-goggles and enormous gloves turning hands to savage paws.
And now what spectacle greets us at Murmansk, with everybody's camera
cleared for action? What is the example set by those to whom we
naturally look for light and leading? Behold the General and his Staff
coming on board in the snow-reflected sunshine flashing with the gold
and scarlet trimmings of Whitehall. And what of the old residents, our
comrades? They are playing football in shorts and sweaters.
The genial R.T.O. cheered us up a little and kept the more resolute
of our Arctic heroes in countenance by sporting a magnificent and
irresistible fur head-dress; but an R.T.O. can do what would be
regarded as nerve in you and me; and, moreover, here is the A.P.M.
in the familiar flat cap, encircled with the traditional colour of
authority.
Even the nice little Laplander and his lady, driving in to do
shopping, drawn on a sleigh by a nicely-matched trio of reindeer, was
sitting on more furs than he or Mrs. L. were wearing; while even the
naked team seemed to feel the heat oppressive.
I suppose we have come too late in the year for the romance of skins
and ski, and must condescend to the familiar gum-boot until the
mosquito season opens and a man may design some becoming effect in
muslin.
Of course there is still plenty of snow to be photographed against in
the full splendour of a Hyperborean disguise; but is it worth while to
unpack one's valise for that? And anyhow would not the atmosphere of
the picture be marred, the pose of the explorer be rendered unnatural
by his consciousness of insincerity and his fear of imminent
suffocation?
So the Photographic Press of England must bear their loss as best they
may.
* * * * *
"Dear Sir,--Mr. Gould has authorised this committee to hereby
and of this date relinquish the title of world's open champion
at tennis. He feels it is inexpedient for him to defend his
title."--_Field_.
It is understood that he is afraid that the strain might make him
split another infinitive.
* * * * *
"Mr. Siddons Kemble, a young Bensonian actor, who plays the
part of 'A Poet' in 'Cyrano,' is the great-great-grandson of
the actress Sarah Siddons and her equally famous brothers,
John Phillip Kemble, Charles Kemble and Henry Stephen
Kemble."--_Evening News_.
There must have been a remarkable amount of close intermarriage in the
KEMBLE family.
* * * * *