Fourth Extract

“I wish I could persuade you to be less precise in your language. If you say what your opinion is, you should take care to be beautiful but unintelligible. Commit yourself to nothing. Words were given us to conceal our thoughts, and with a little practice and self-discipline will conceal them even from ourselves. A candid friend once complained to me that in my translation from the Greek it was sometimes impossible for him to know which of two differentlectionesI was translating. As a matter of fact, though I did not tell him this, I did not know either. Especially useful is this when one is confronted with a rude, challenging, direct question as to any point in religion or politics; I reply with a sonorous and, I hope, well-balanced sentence, from which the actual meaning has been carefully extracted, and so escape in the fog. It is indeed from one point of view a mercy thatmost people are too cowardly or too ashamed to say that they have failed to comprehend. Yet if they had my passion for truth it might be better. Truth is very precious to me—sometimes too precious to give away.“It is good of you to say that the fourteen pages of good advice did not bore you. Can it have been that you did not read them? No Dean—and perhaps no don—who has been in that portentous position as long as I have can fail to become a perennial stream of advice. It is the Nemesis of those who have all their lives been treated with more respect than they have deserved. I am the only exception with which I am acquainted. Child, why do you not make more use of your noble gifts for dancing, amateur theatricals, and general conversation? And yet I’m not grumbling. Only I mean to say, don’t you know? Of course, they all do it—the people in the great world to which you, and occasionally I, belong. Still, there it is, isn’t it? And you write me such soothing full-cream letters with only an occasional snag in them. So bless you, my child. I do trust that the report which comes to me that you are going with the Prince of Wales, Mrs. H. Ward, and a Mr. Arthur Roberts to shoot kangaroos in Australia is at least exaggerated. These marsupials, though their appearance is sufficiently eccentric to suggest the conscientious objector, will—I am credibly informed—fight desperately in defence of their young. If I may venture to suggest, try rabbits.“I am delighted to hear that you are not the author of the two articles attacking Society. The fact that they happen to be signed with the name of another well-known lady had made me think it possible that this might be the case. Society? It is a great mystery. I can hardly think of it without taking off my boots and prostrating myself orientally. To criticize it is a mistake; it is even, if I may for once use a harsh word, subversive. It is the only one we’ve got. Oh, hush! Only in whispers at the dead of night to the most trusted friend under the seal of secrecy can we think of criticizing it. But holding, as I do, perhaps the most important public position in the Continent of Europe, if not in the whole world—responsible, as I am, for what may be called the sustenance of the next generation—I do feel called upon to carry out any repairs and re-decoration of the social fabric that may be required. You with your universal influence which—until Einstein arrives—will be the only possible explanation of the vagaries in the orbit of Mercury, can do as much, or nearly as much. Do it. But never speak of it. Oh, hush! (Sorry—I forgot I’d mentioned that before.)“In reply to your inquiry, I never read ‘Robert Elsmere,’ but understand from a private source that it saved many young men from reading ‘David Grieve.’ Your second inquiry as to the lady-love of my first youth is violent—very violent. Suppose you mind your own business.”

“It is good of you to say that the fourteen pages of good advice did not bore you. Can it have been that you did not read them? No Dean—and perhaps no don—who has been in that portentous position as long as I have can fail to become a perennial stream of advice. It is the Nemesis of those who have all their lives been treated with more respect than they have deserved. I am the only exception with which I am acquainted. Child, why do you not make more use of your noble gifts for dancing, amateur theatricals, and general conversation? And yet I’m not grumbling. Only I mean to say, don’t you know? Of course, they all do it—the people in the great world to which you, and occasionally I, belong. Still, there it is, isn’t it? And you write me such soothing full-cream letters with only an occasional snag in them. So bless you, my child. I do trust that the report which comes to me that you are going with the Prince of Wales, Mrs. H. Ward, and a Mr. Arthur Roberts to shoot kangaroos in Australia is at least exaggerated. These marsupials, though their appearance is sufficiently eccentric to suggest the conscientious objector, will—I am credibly informed—fight desperately in defence of their young. If I may venture to suggest, try rabbits.

“I am delighted to hear that you are not the author of the two articles attacking Society. The fact that they happen to be signed with the name of another well-known lady had made me think it possible that this might be the case. Society? It is a great mystery. I can hardly think of it without taking off my boots and prostrating myself orientally. To criticize it is a mistake; it is even, if I may for once use a harsh word, subversive. It is the only one we’ve got. Oh, hush! Only in whispers at the dead of night to the most trusted friend under the seal of secrecy can we think of criticizing it. But holding, as I do, perhaps the most important public position in the Continent of Europe, if not in the whole world—responsible, as I am, for what may be called the sustenance of the next generation—I do feel called upon to carry out any repairs and re-decoration of the social fabric that may be required. You with your universal influence which—until Einstein arrives—will be the only possible explanation of the vagaries in the orbit of Mercury, can do as much, or nearly as much. Do it. But never speak of it. Oh, hush! (Sorry—I forgot I’d mentioned that before.)

“In reply to your inquiry, I never read ‘Robert Elsmere,’ but understand from a private source that it saved many young men from reading ‘David Grieve.’ Your second inquiry as to the lady-love of my first youth is violent—very violent. Suppose you mind your own business.”

I do not know why we were called the Soles. Enemies said it was because we were flat, fishy, and rather expensive.

Our set comprised the upper servants of some of the best houses in Mayfair. Looking back at it now, I can see that no similar body ever had such a tremendous influence. It may not have been entirely due to us that gravity varies inversely as the square of the distance, but at least we acquiesced. And what we did in home and foreign politics has scarcely yet been suspected.

The reason for our influence is sufficiently obvious. Our great leader, James Arthur Bunting, was perhaps the most perfect butler that the world has yet seen; his magnificent presence, plummy voice, exquisite tact, and wide knowledge made him beyond price. We had other butlers whom it would have been almost equally difficult to replace. We had chefs who with a chain of marvellous dinners bound their alleged employers to their chariot-wheels. Nominally, Parliament ruled the country, but we never had any doubt who ruled Parliament.

To take but one instance, the suddenvolte faceof Lord Baringstoke on the Home RuleQuestion. This created a great sensation at the time, and various explanations were suggested to account for it. Nobody guessed the truth. The fact is that Mr. Bunting tendered his resignation.

Lord Baringstoke was much distressed. An increase of salary was immediately suggested and waved aside.

“It is not that, m’lord,” said Bunting. “It is a question of principle. Your lordship’s expressed views as to Ireland are not, if I may say so, the views of my friends and of myself. And on that subject we feel deeply. Preoccupied with that difference, if I remained, I could no longer do justice to your lordship nor to myself. My wounded and bleeding heart——”

“Oh, never mind your bleeding heart, Bunting,” said Baringstoke. “Do I understand that this is your only reason for wanting to go?”

“That is so, m’lord.”

“Then, supposing that I reconsidered my views as to Ireland and found that they were in fact the opposite of what I had previously supposed, you would remain?”

“With very great pleasure.”

“Then in that case you had better wait a few days. I’m inclined to think that everything can be arranged.”

“Very good, m’lord.”

Less than a week later, Lord Baringstoke’s public recantation was the talk of London. In a speech of considerable eloquence heshowed how the merciless logic of facts had convinced his intellect, and his conscience had compelled him to abandon the position he had previously taken up. Fortunately, you can prove absolutely anything about Ireland. It is merely a question of what facts you will select and what you will suppress.

Mr. Bunting is, I believe, still with Lord Baringstoke. This was, perhaps, one of the principal triumphs of the Soles. There were many others. We had our own secret service, and I should here acknowledge with respect and admiration the Gallic ingenuity of two of the Soles, Monsieur Colbert and Monsieur Normand, in reconstructing fragmentary letters taken from the waste-paper baskets of the illustrious.

Naturally, we had to suffer from the jealousy and malice of those who had not been asked to join us, and a rumour even was spread abroad that we played bridge for sixpence a hundred. There was no truth in it. There have been, and still are, gambling clubs among the younger men-servants of the West-end, but we never gambled. Mr. Bunting would not have liked it at all. We were serious. We did try to live up to our ideals, and some of our members actually succeeded in living beyond their incomes. Our principal recreation was pencil-games, mostly of our own invention.

In this connection I have rather a sad incident to relate. On one occasion we had a competition to see which of us could writethe flattest and least pointed epigram in rhyme. The prize for men consisted of two out-size Havannah cigars, formerly the property of Lord Baringstoke, kindly presented by Mr. Bunting.

Percy Binder, first footman to the Earl of Dilwater, was extremely anxious to secure this prize. He took as the subject of his epigram the sudden death of a man on rising from prayer. This was in such lamentably bad taste that he did not win the prize, but otherwise it would have certainly been his. His four lines could not have been surpassed for clumsy and laboured imbecility. The last two ran:

“But when for aid he ceased to beg,The wily devil broke his leg.”

And then came a terrible discovery. Percy Binder had stolen these lines from the autobiography of my own G.E. She says, by the way, that their author was “the last of the wits.” But how can you be last in a race in which you never start? It is always safe to say what you think, but sometimes dangerous to give your reasons for thinking it.

That, however, is a digression. Percy Binder was given to understand 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 sillyostrich 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 forOne person only, namelyje.”

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 wordjeis 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 halfan 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, £36 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 interviewwith 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 waspetite. 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.

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, theroof 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.”

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 thedoyenof 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 probablywish 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?

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 probablywish 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 tothe 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-extensorSystem 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 partookcoram 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-steelendurance 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 onewhich 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 twocopies 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 hisbusiness. 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.

But it was not to be. He was not without success in the circus which he subsequently joined, but he was improvident. His income increased in arithmetical progression, and his expenditure in geometrical. This, as Dr. Micawber and Professor Malthus have shown us, must end in disaster. Looking at it from the noblest point of view—the autobiographical—I saw that a marriage with Hugo would inevitably cramp my style.

And so the great sacrifice was made. Our feelings were so intense as we said farewellthat my native reserve and reticence forbid me to describe them. But we parted one night in June, with a tear in the throat and a catch in the eye. As he strode from the park, I looked upward and saw in the brown crags above me some graceful animal silhouetted against an opal sky. I always have said that those Mappin Terraces were an improvement.

Being what I am, it may readily be supposed that I have received many tributes to the qualities that I possess. I have already exposed many of these to the public gaze, still have some left, and it seems to me a pity that my readers should miss any of the evidence. The first testimonial is from my sister Casey, and a melancholy interest is attached to it. It was the last one she wrote for me before I took the momentous step which will be described in my last chapter:

“Marge Askinforit has been in my service for eight years. I should not be parting with her but for the fact that I am compelled by reasons of health to leave England. Askinforit is clean, sober, honest, an early riser, an excellent plate-cleaner and valet, has perfect manners and high intelligence, takes a great pride in her work, and is most willing, obliging and industrious. She was with me as parlour-maid (first of two), and now seeks temporary employment in that capacity; but there is no branch of domestic service with which she is not thoroughly well acquainted, and when the occasion has arisen she has always been willing to undertake any duties, and has done so with unfailing success. She is tall, ofgood appearance, Church of England (or anything else that is required), and anybody who secures such a treasure will be exceptionally fortunate. I shall be pleased at any time to give any further information that may be desired.“(Mrs.)C. Morgenstein.”

“(Mrs.)C. Morgenstein.”

I do not say that dear Casey’s estimate had the arid accuracy of the pedant, but she had a rich and helpful imagination. In rare moments of depression and unhappiness I have found that by reading one of her testimonials I can always recover my tone. And they were effective for their purpose. By this time I was accepting no situations except with titled people; and some of the language that I heard used suggested to me that the reclamation of baronets during their dinner-hour might after all be my life’s work.

The next exhibit will be a letter from a famous author, a complete stranger to me, whose work I had long known and admired:

“Dear Madam, For a long time past it has been my privilege to express in the daily newspapers my keen and heartfelt appreciation of a certain departmental store. I thought that I knew my work. I believe even that it gave satisfaction. I could begin an article with fragments of moral philosophy, easily intelligible and certain of general acceptance, modulate with consummate skill into the key ofcrêpe de chine, and with a further natural and easy transition reach the grand theme of the glorious opportunitiesoffered by a philanthropical Oxford Street to a gasping and excited public. Or I would adopt with grace and facility the attitude of a prejudiced and hostile critic, show how cold facts and indisputable figures reversed my judgment, and end with a life-like picture of myself heading frantically in a No. 16 ’bus for the bargain basement, haunted by the terror that I might be too late. With what dignity—even majesty—did I not invest an ordinary transaction inlingerie, when I spoke of ‘the policy of this great House’! Yes, I believed I knew what there was to know of the supreme art of writing an advertisement.“But now the mists roll away and I see as it were remote peaks of delicate and implicating advertising the existence of which I had never suspected. It is to you I owe it. You have a theme that you probably find inexhaustible. Fired by your example I shall turn to my own subject (Government linen at the moment) with a happy consciousness that I shall do a far, far better thing than I have ever done before.“Your obedient servant,“Callisthenides.”

“But now the mists roll away and I see as it were remote peaks of delicate and implicating advertising the existence of which I had never suspected. It is to you I owe it. You have a theme that you probably find inexhaustible. Fired by your example I shall turn to my own subject (Government linen at the moment) with a happy consciousness that I shall do a far, far better thing than I have ever done before.

“Your obedient servant,

“Callisthenides.”

Of this letter I will only say that few have the courage and candour to acknowledge an inferiority and an indebtedness, and fewer still could have done it in the vicious and even succulent style of the above. It is a letter that I read often and value highly. The only trouble about it is that I sometimeswonder if it was not really intended for another lady whose name has one or two points of similarity with my own.

I cannot refrain from quoting also one of the many letters that I received from my dear old friend, Mr. J. A. Bunting:

“And now I must turn to your request for a statement of my opinion of you, to be published in case an autobiography should set in. It was I who introduced you to a certain circle. That circle, though to me an open sessimy, was no doubt particular, and I confess that I felt some hesitation. Through no fault of your own, you were at that time in a position which was hardly up to our level. But I admired your spirit and thought your manners, of which I can claim to be a good judge, had the correct cashy, though with rather too much tendency to back-chat. At any rate, I took the step, and I have never regretted it. You soon made your way to the front, and it is my firm belief that if you had been dropped into a den of raging lions you would have done the same thing. You are much missed. You have my full permission to make what use you please of this testimonial, which is quite unsolicited, and actuated solely by an appreciation of the goods supplied.“Society in London is very so-so at present, and we leave for Scotland at the end of the week. His lordship’s had one fit of his tantrums, but I had a look in my eye that ipsum factum soon put an end to it. I wishit was as easy to put a stop to his leaning to third-class company. Three ordinary M.P.’s at dinner last night and one R.A. I always did hate riff-raff, and should say it was in my blood.”

“Society in London is very so-so at present, and we leave for Scotland at the end of the week. His lordship’s had one fit of his tantrums, but I had a look in my eye that ipsum factum soon put an end to it. I wishit was as easy to put a stop to his leaning to third-class company. Three ordinary M.P.’s at dinner last night and one R.A. I always did hate riff-raff, and should say it was in my blood.”

Unfortunately, it is not everybody who will put into writing, with the simple manliness of Mr. Bunting, the very high opinion of me which they must inevitably have formed. Even George Leghorn has proved a disappointment. But in his case I am inclined to think there was a misunderstanding.

I asked him to send his opinion of me as I thought of making a book. He replied on a postcard: “Don’t approve of women in the profession, and you’d better cut it out. It’s hard enough for a man bookmaker to scrape a living, with everybody expecting the absurd prices quoted in the press.”

Many of the contemporary testimonials that I have received are so cautiously framed and so wanting in warmth that I decline to make any use of them. I have always hated cowardice. I have the courage of my opinions. Why cannot others have the same.

However, I have through my sister Chlorine succeeded in securing the opinions of some of the greatest in another century. I can only say that they confirm my belief in her powers as a medium, and in her wonderful system of wireless telephony.

The first person that I asked her to ring up was Napoleon. She had some difficulty in getting through. He spoke as follows:

“Yes, I am Napoleon. Oh, that’s you, Chlorine, is it?... Quite well, thank you, but find the heat rather oppressive.... You want my opinion of your sister Marge? She is wonderful—wonderful! Tell her from me that if I had but married her when I was a young man, I am confident that Wellington would have met his Waterloo.”

I think he would have liked to say more, but unfortunately the receiver fused. I think it showed such nice feeling in him that he spoke English. Poor Chlorine knows no French.

After the apparatus had been repaired, Chlorine got into communication with Sir Joshua Reynolds. She said that his voice had a fruity ceremoniousness, and I wish I could have heard it. But I have not Chlorine’s gift of mediumship. Sir Joshua said:

“The more I see of your sister Marge, the more I regret the time that I spent on Mrs. Siddons, who was also theatrical; my compliment that I should go down to posterity on the hem of her garment was not ill-turned, but she is more likely to go down to posterity as the subject of my art. Why, even Romney would have been good enough for her. Could I but have painted Marge, my fame had been indeed immortal. Who’s President?... Well, you surprise me.”

To prevent any possibility of incredulity, I may add that I wrote those words down at the time, added the date and address, andsigned them; so there can be no mistake.

But far more interesting is the important and exclusive communication which Chlorine next received. It was only after much persuasion that I got her to ring him up; she said it was contrary to etiquette. However, she at last put through a call to Sir Herbert Taylor, who kindly arranged the matter for us.

He—not Sir Herbert—showed the greatest readiness to converse. Chlorine says that he spoke in a quick staccato. He was certainly voluble, and this is what he said:

“What, what, what? Want my opinion of marriage, do you, Miss Forget-your-name? I had a long experience of it. Estimable woman, Charlotte, very estimable, and made a good mother, though she showed partiality. If I’d had my own way though—between ourselves, what, what?—I should have preferred Sarah. More lively, more entertaining. Holland would have been pleased. But it couldn’t be done. Monarchs are the servants of ministers now. Never admitted that doctrine myself. Kicked against it all my life. Ah, if North had been the strong man I was! But as to marriage....

“What, what? You said ‘Marge’—not ‘marriage’—your sister Marge? You should speak more clearly. Get nearer the receiver—age plays havoc with the hearing. Fine woman, Marge, and you can tell her I said so. Great spirit. Plenty of courage. Always admired courage. If I were a young manand back on earth again, I might do worse, what, what?”

And then I am sorry to say he changed the subject abruptly. He went on:

“What’s this about King Edward potatoes? Stuff and nonsense! I knew all about potatoes. Grew them at Windsor. Kew too. Wrote an article about them. Why can’t they name a potato after me? What?”

Here Chlorine interposed: “Do you wish for another three minutes, sir, or have you finished?”

I hoped he would say, “Don’t cut us off,” but, possibly from habits of economy, he did not. I have not given his name, for fear of being thought indiscreet, but possibly those who are deeply read in history may guess it.

It is the greatest tribute but one that I have ever received, and I think brings me very nearly up to the level of my Great Example. If I could only feel that for once I had done that, I could fold my little hands and be content.

But it is not quite the greatest tribute of all. The greatest is my own self-estimate of me myself. It demands and shall receive a chapter all to itself. Wipe your feet, take off your hat, assume a Sunday expression, and enter upon it reverently.

After all, the gift of seeing ourselves as others see us is not to be desired. In your case for certain it would cause you the most intense depression. Even in my own case I doubt if it would give me the same warm,pervading glow of satisfaction that obtain from a more Narcissan procedure.

By the way, ought one to say “self-estimate” or “self-esteem”? What a silly girl I am! I quite forgot.

More trouble. Determined to give an estimate of myself based on the best models, I turned to the pages of my Great Example, and ran into the following sentence:

“I do not propose to treat myself like Mr. Bernard Shaw in this account.”

Does this mean that she does not propose to treat herself as if she were Mr. Bernard Shaw? It might. Does it mean that she does not propose to treat herself as Mr. Bernard Shaw treats her? It is not impossible.

What one wants it to mean is: “I do not propose to treat myself as Mr. Bernard Shaw treats himself.” But if she had meant that, she would have said it.

I backed away cautiously, and, a few lines further on, fell over her statement that she has a conception of beauty “not merely in poetry, music, art and nature, but in human beings.” No doubt. And I have a conception of slovenly writing not merely in her autobiography, but in its seventeenth chapter.

I had not gone very much further in that same chapter before I was caught in the following thicket:

“I have got china, books, whips, knives, matchboxes, and clocks given me since I was a small child.”

If these things were given her since she was a small child, they might have been given her on the day she wrote—in which case it would not have been remarkable that she still possessed them. The nearest way out of the jungle would be to substitute “when” for “since.” But it is incredible that she should have thought of two ways of saying the same thing, let them run into one another, and sent “The Sunday Times” the mess resulting from the collision.

She must be right. Mr. Balfour said she was the best letter-writer he knew. With generous reciprocity she read Mr. Balfour’s books and realized without external help “what a beautiful style he wrote.”

And for goodness sake don’t ask me how you write a style. You do it in precisely the same way that you cook a saucepan—that is, by the omission of the word “in.”

Yet one more quotation from the last column of the last extract:

“If I had to confess and expose one opinion of myself which might differentiate me a little from other people, I should say it was my power of love coupled with my power of criticism.”

No, never mind. The power of love is not an opinion; and in ending a sentence it is just as well to remember how you began it. But I absolutely refuse to let my simple faith be shaken. She records the bones that she has broken, but John Addington Symonds told her that she retained “l’oreille juste.”Her husband said she wrote well, and he must know. Besides, am I to be convinced in my penultimate chapter that anything can be wrong with the model I have followed? Certainly not. It would be heartbreaking.

Besides, the explanation is quite simple. When she wrote that last instalment in “The Sunday Times,” the power of criticism had gone to have the valves ground in.

I will now ask your kind attention for my estimate of me, Marge Askinforit, by myself.

There is just one quality which I claim to have in an even greater degree than my prototype. She is unlike real life—no woman was ever like what any woman supposes herself to be—but I am far more unlike real life. I have more inconsistency, more self-contradiction, more anachronism, more impossibility. In fact, I sometimes feel as if some fool of a man were just making me up as he went along.

And the next article? Yes, my imagination.

I have imagination of a certain kind. It has nothing to do with invention or fancy. It is not a mental faculty at all. It is not physical. Neither is it paralysis, butterscotch, or three spades re-doubled. I should so much like to give some idea of it if I had any. Perhaps an instance will help.

I remember that I once said to the Dean of Belial that I thought the naming of a Highlandhotel “The Light Brigade” showed a high degree of imagination.

“Half a moment,” said the Dean. “I think I know that one. No—can’t get it. Why was the hotel called that?”

“Because of its terrific charges.”

“Yes,” he said wearily. “I’ve heard it. But”—more brightly—“can you tell me why a Highland regiment was called ‘The Black Watch’?”

“I can, Massa Johnson. Because there’s a ‘b’ in both.”

“Wrong again. It’s because there’s an ‘e’ in each.”

I gave him a half-nelson to the jaw and killed him, and the entire company then sung “Way down upon de Swannee Ribber,” with harmonium accompaniment, thus bringing the afternoon performance to a close. The front seats were half empty, but then it was late in the season, and looked like rain, and—

Certainly, I can stop if you like. But you do see what I mean, don’t you? The imagination is something that runs away with you. If I were to let mine get away with me, it would knock this old autobiography all to splinters.

But I do not appear to have the kind of imagination that makes me know what will hurt people’s feelings. If I love people I always tell them what their worst faults are, and repeat what everybody says about them behind their back. That ought to make people say: “Thank you, Marge, for yourkind words. They will help me to improve myself.” It has not happened yet. It is my miraculous power of criticism that causes the trouble. Whenever I let it off the lead it seems to bite somebody; a muzzle has been suggested.

The other day I said to Popsie Bantam: “You’re quite right to bob your hair, Popsie. When you have not got enough of anything, always try to persuade people that you want less. But your rouge-et-noir make-up is right off the map. If you could manage to get some of the colours in some of the right places, people would laugh less. And I can never quite decide whether it’s your clothes that are all wrong, or if it’s just your figure. I wish you’d tell me. Anyhow, you should try for a job at a photographer’s—you’re just the girl for a dark-room.”

Really, that’s all I said—just affectionate, lambent, helpful criticism, with a little Tarragon in it. Yet next day when I met her on the staircase she said she didn’t want to talk to me any more. So I heaved her over the balustrade and she had a forty-foot drop on to the marble below. I am too impulsive—I have always said so. Rather a pathetic touch was that she died just as the ambulance reached the hospital. I have lost quite a lot of nice friends in this way.

With the exception of a few teeny-weeny murders, I do not think I have done anything in my life that I regret. And even the murders—such as they were—were more thefault of my circumstances than of myself. If, as I have always wished, I had lived alone on a desert island, I should never have killed anybody at all. But when you go into the great world (basement entrance) and have a bad night, or the flies are troublesome, you do get a feeling of passionate economy; you realize that there are people you can do without, and you do without them. This is the whole truth about a little failing of which my detractors have made the most. Calumny and exaggeration have been carried to such an extent that more than once I have been accused of being habitually irritable.

My revered model wrote that she had always been a collector “of letters, old photographs of the family, famous people and odds and ends.” I have not gone quite as far as this.

I have collected odds, and almost every autumn I roam over the moors and fill a large basket with them, but I have never collected ends.

I do want to collect famous people, but for want of a little education I have not been able to do it. I simply do not know whether it is best to keep them in spirits of wine, or to have them stuffed in glass cases—like the canaries and the fish that you could not otherwise believe in. I have been told that really the best way is to press them between the leaves of some very heavy book, such as an autobiography, but I fancy they lose much of their natural brilliance when treated in this way.

Another difficulty is that the ordinary cyanide bottles that you buy at the naturalist’s, though excellent for moths, are not really large enough to hold a full-sized celebrity. At the risk of being called a sentimentalist, I may say that I do not think I could kill famous people by any method that was not both quick and painless. If anything like cruelty were involved in their destruction, I would sooner not collect them at all, but just make a study of them in their wild state.

I am only a poor little girl, and I can find nothing whatever on the subject in any reference book in the public reading-room. I need expert advice. There is quite a nice collection of famous—and infamous—people near Baker Street Station, but I am told these are only simulacra. That would not suit me at all. I am far too genuine, downright, and truthful to put up with anything less than the real thing.

There must be some way of doing it. I should like to have a stuffed M.P. in a glass case at each end of the mantelpiece in my little boudoir. They need not be of the rarest and most expensive kinds. A pretty Labour Member with his mouth open and a rustic background, and a Coalitionist lightly poised on the fence, would please me.

It would be so interesting to display one’s treasures when people came to tea.

“Never seen a real leader-writer?” I should say. “They’re plentiful locally, but mostly come out at night, and so many peoplemiss them. It is not of the least use to put treacle on the trees. The best way is to drive a taxi slowly down Fleet Street about one in the morning and look honest. That’s how I got the big leader-writer in the hall. Just press his top waistcoat button and he’ll prove that the lost election was a moral victory.

“In the next case? Oh, they’re just a couple of little Georgian poets. They look wild, but they’re quite tame really. Sprinkle an advance on account of royalties on the window-sill and they’ll come for it. It used to be pretty to watch those two, pouring adulatory articles over each other. They sing chopped prose, and it seemed almost a pity to kill them; but there are plenty more.

“And that very pretty creature is an actress; if you drop an interviewer into the left hand corner of the dressing-room you will hear her say: ‘I love a country life, and am never happier than when I am working in my little garden,’—insert here the photograph in the sun-bonnet—‘I don’t think the great public often realizes what a vast amount of——’”

But I am talking about collecting other people. I am wandering from my subject. I must collect myself.

At a very early age I caught the measles and a little later on the public eye. The latter I still hold. But I do not often lose anything except friends, and occasionally the last ’bus, and of course my situations. Mygreat model says it is a positive punishment to her to be in one position for long at a time, and I must be something like that—I rarely keep a place much longer than a month. On the other hand, I still have quite a number of metal discs that formed the wheels of a toy railway train which I had when I was quite a child. I should have had them all, but I used some to get chocolates out of the automatic machines.

I should have liked to have appended here a list of my accomplishments, but I must positively keep room for my last chapter. So to save space I will merely give a list of the accomplishments which I have not got, or have not got to perfection.

The E flat clarionet is not really my instrument, but I will give you three guesses what is.

I skate beautifully, but not so well as I dance. However, I am saving the I’s out of my autobiography for further practice.

Some people perhaps have better memories. But that’s no reason why they should write to the “Sunday Times” about it.

I cannot write Chinese as fluently as English, though I might conceivably write it more correctly.

I think I have mentioned everything in which I am not perfectly accomplished. Truth and modesty make me do it.

I would conclude this estimate of myself as follows. If I had to confess and expose one opinion of myself which would record what Ibelieve to be my differentiation from other people, it would be the opinion that I am a law unto myself and a judgment to everybody else.

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