The other day I did a perfectly dreadful thing: I intruded, all
unconsciously but in the most blundering way, on a love scene. It was in
the National Gallery, long famous as the meeting-place of affinities, in
the big room where the pictures lent by the Duke of WESTMINSTER and the
Duke of BUCCLEUCH are now hanging, and before I knew it I found myself
standing between two young people whose eyes were fixed on each other.
Naturally I moved away at once, but later I returned and made so bold as to
study them a little, for it was clearly, if not yet a passion, a mutual
interest of such tender depths that no outsider could affect it.
The boy--for he was no more--was one of the most beautiful that I have ever
seen. His hair was perhaps a thought longer than we encourage to-day, but
one always sees odd people in the National Gallery, where artists--most
careless of men--are now constant visitors, drawn there by the many new
pictures, and especially, perhaps, the modern French examples from Sir HUGH
LANE'S collection. His hair was the more noticeable because he carried his
hat in his hand; his clothes were noticeable too, being a shade too
fanciful for London in winter--but then, who cares how people dress in
London? I am sure I don't; and especially so when they have such eyes as
this boy's, dark and rich, and such a curve to such lips.
There he stood, perfectly still, his steady gaze fixed on the lady
opposite, while she in her turn never wavered in her gaze upon him. But
whereas there was something bold in his homage there was a half-shy way
with her. He was facing her squarely, but she looked at him a little
sideways, and a little curiously, in demure dubiousness. One could see that
she was enormously intrigued, but her interest was not expressed by any
movement. In fact neither moved; they remained some twenty yards apart all
the time I observed them: each, I suppose, leaving it to the other--the boy
because he was so young, the girl because she was already woman, and woman
likes to force advances from man.
I never saw a prettier thing than the little lady, with her cool white
skin, and the faintest flush on her cheeks, and her eyes not less dark than
the boy's but lacking the sensitive depths of his.
The odd thing was that, although they were so engrossed each in the other,
both, I observed, looked also at me. It struck me as not the least strange
part of this charming drama that its hero and heroine, while completely
absorbed in their own sympathetic relationship, should be able to turn a
calm survey upon a stranger too. This gift made them the more memorable and
perhaps explains why, for all the rest of the day and at intervals in the
night and morning following, I thought of these young people, speculating
as to how they were getting on; and perhaps that is why, the next
afternoon, drawn by invisible wires, I found myself in the National Gallery
again.
Will you believe it?--they also were there. This is an absolute fact. There
they were, exactly as I had left them. And yet, not exactly, for I am
certain that there was a hint more of seriousness in the lady's glance and
a shade more troubled earnestness in his. But as regards actual distance,
they were still as far apart, although certainly nearer in spirit.
Curiosity as to names is a foible which should be, I am convinced,
discouraged; but on this occasion I could not resist the desire to know
more of such assiduous habitués. Drawing one of the attendants aside, I
asked him if he could tell who these romantic young things were. "To be
sure," he said. "The young gentleman is 'The Blue Boy,' by GAINSBOROUGH,
and the young lady is the Lady ELIZABETH MONTAGU, by REYNOLDS."
Only portraits after all, you say. But don't be too hasty. Go rather to the
National Gallery and see for yourself. Maybe you will then realise that
there is more there than paint....
Shallow people talk about accidents. But the wise know that accidents do
not happen. The wise know that the War broke out in order that Grosvenor
House, where "The Blue Boy" normally resides, and Montagu House, the home
of this little Buccleuch lady with skin like an anemone, might be needed
for War-work, so that when the pictures were sent to the National Gallery
for safer keeping these two might be placed opposite each other in the same
room. Chance? The only chance is destiny.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Munition Worker_. "I'VE BOUGHT A PIANO."
_Foreman_. "GOT ANYBODY AT HOME WHO CAN PLAY IT?"
_Munition Worker_. "NO, NOT AT PRESENT; BUT WE'VE A FRIEND COMING ROUND
THIS EVENING TO PUT US IN THE WAY OF IT."]
* * * * *
"Fish, or woman, for block work; must be exp. and accustomed to best
class trade."--_Daily Paper_.
Why not combine the two and get a mermaid?
* * * * *
"MAN WHO WILL KEEP EYE ON POTATOES. MR. DENNIS AS VEGETABLE AND FRUIT
DIRECTOR."--_The Daily Mirror_.
Mr. D. need not trouble; we prefer them without eyes.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A LEAN DAY.
_Luncheon Hostess_. "I DO HOPE YOU DON'T MIND, MRS. STOKER, BUT ON
WEDNESDAYS WE ONLY HAVE MEAT AT DINNER."
_Dinner Hostess_. "I DO HOPE YOU DON'T MIND, MRS. STOKER, BUT ON WEDNESDAYS
WE ONLY HAVE MEAT AT LUNCHEON."]
* * * * *
_MON SOLDAT ET MON CURÉ._
"Donne un peu, Maman, s'il te plaît," said Jeanne eagerly.
Maman handed over the newspaper from which she had just read aloud and
explained the passage so full of touching interest to them both, and
Jeanne, with help at the difficult places, read out:--
_"'CITATIONS À L'ORDRE DU JOUR._
_Jacques Martin, soldat au 170e d'infanterie, grenadier d'élite, au cours
des combats du 26 et du 27 novembre, 1916, a, par son mépris du danger et
par son ardeur, assuré la progression dans un boyau défendu pas à pas par
l'ennemi._
_Le soldat Jacques Martin est Monsieur l'abbé Martin, curé de ----.'_
"Oui, nous savons bien d'où il est curé!" cried Jeanne, in admiration and
awe. "C'est bien beau, hein, Maman?" Then suddenly she became silent and
thoughtful, remembering the subsequent fate of her friend and hero.
"Dire qu'il est maintenant prisonnier en Alle... en Bochie!" she said. They
had known long ago that he was mentioned in despatches, and they had been
on the look-out for the glorious details in print, but only this morning
had they heard of his capture.
How proud they were of their gentle curé and brave soldier! Jeanne had at
first been greatly perplexed by the strange dual personality, with its
incompatibilities, and many were the questions that had arisen in her
active little mind. "Le curé de Suzanne, c'est autre chose," she reflected,
for though technically a soldier was he not a _brancardier_ rescuing the
wounded? Her own practical conclusions, however, and the answers to her
questions smoothed away many difficulties, and perfect faith in her friend
did the rest.
Still she had never been able quite to merge the _religieux_ and the
_poilu_ into one picture; besides, she liked to play with the idea and
confront the one with the other. "Que va dire Monsieur le curé lorsque le
soldat tuera un homme?" And she had slipped into the habit of calling him
"Mon soldat et mon curé," suddenly inspired to adapt the title of Cousin
Juliette's absorbing book, _Mon Oncle et mon Curé_, and she refused to
abandon it when told that they were two separate persons. For that matter
so were the _soldat_ and the _curé_.
"Maman, nous allons tout de suite préparer son paquet de conforts," urged
Jeanne. And, thinking out what comforts had best be included in the parcel,
her mind went off now in one channel, now in another, as she pictured the
priest or the _piou-piou_. The latter presented no difficulty--for him good
things to eat were the first necessity--but the _curé_ would require
spiritual comforts.
"Des livres de messe," she said to herself; and thereupon the image of the
cold and hungry soldier arose before her, and "un poulet ou un bon
bifteck!" she added. Then, her eye lighting upon an advertisement in the
newspaper before her, "Maman, que veut dire por-ta-tif?" she asked. The
explanation received, she clapped her hands with joy; yes, surely a
_portable_ one was the very thing! "Maman, si nous envoyions à mon curé un
autel por-ta-tif?"
But Maman thought that, all things considered, it would be better to send
only food in the first parcel. So Jeanne reconciled herself to the idea,
although the _curé_ still remained a shadowy figure in the background with
his own especial need.
And prisoners were cold as well as hungry. What a pity something _hot_
could not be sent.
"Tiens! J'y suis!" cried Jeanne. "Ô Maman, j'ai une si bonne idee! Si nous
envoyions un bon repas bien chaud dans _l'auto-cuiseur!_" Perhaps it would
keep hot for a day or two. _How_ long did it take for a parcel to reach
_Bochie?_
But Maman decided this plan could not be risked; there was often delay, and
the moist food might turn sour.
A little chilled but nowise daunted, for she was sure the hay-box would
come in somehow, Jeanne remained for some time plunged deep in thought.
Then came light and her face grew radiant. Why not send the _auto-cuiseur_
filled with dry food? _Les Boches_ would surely give, or sell, some boiling
water and let him just start cooking on their stove. And he would be able
to use the cooker constantly, buying _des choses pas chères_ to cook; and
yes, why not slip into the package a copy of _Plats économiques_, the
little cookery book whose recipes they had found so satisfactory?
"Et mon curé?" But now the two figures merged more nearly than ever before
into one, and Jeanne felt that _his_ first need was one with that of the
soldier, and the _marmite_ would hold enough for both.
"Mais _oui_," she exclaimed, "c'est cela!... Écoute, Maman! Envoyons
l'auto-cuiseur _aux deux_... Ne vois-tu pas que mon soldat pourra alors
manger tous les jours un bon repas bien chaud, et que mon curé pourra en
donner aux autres affamés? C'est là tout juste l'affaire d'un curé.
L'auto-cuiseur est comme ça deux cadeaux en un, comme mon soldat et mon
curé sont deux hommes en un!"
* * * * *
"GERMANY IS STARVING.--THE REAL FACTS."--_Cassell's Magazine of
fiction._
Not exclusively fiction, we trust.
* * * * *
From the Appendix to the Report of the Royal Commission on the Public
Service in India:--
"The two last pensions depended entirely on the approval of Government,
so that a man might retire after 85 years' service on Rs. 5000 pension
only..."
And not before he had deserved it.
* * * * *
"Deptford Borough Council will recommend to the authorities that
considering the brief period of darkness in May, June, July, and August
resulting from the daylight saving scheme, it is desirable to dispense
with street lighting during these months except at dangerous street
crossings."--_Daily Express._
Apparently by a slight amendment of the Summertime Act Great Britain might
be transformed into the land of the Midnight Sun.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE GREATER NEED.