(The author cannot lay claim to any great technical knowledge of chess, but he fancies that he understands the spirit of the game. He feels that, after the many poems on the Boat Race, a few bracing lines on the Inter-University Chess Match would be a welcome change.)
This is the ballad of Edward Bray,Captain of Catherine's, Cambridge Blue—Oh, no one ever had just his wayOf huffing a bishop with KB2!
The day breaks fine, and the evenings bringsA worthy foe in the Oxford man—A great finesser with pawns and things,But quick in the loose when the game began.
The board was set, and the rivals tossedBut Fortune (alas!) was Oxford's friend."Tail," cried Edward, and Edward lost;So Oxford played from the fireplace end.
We hold our breath, for the game's begun—Oh, who so gallant as Edward Bray!He's taken a bishop from KQ1,And ruffed it—just in the Cambridge way!
Then Oxford castles his QB knight(He follows the old, old Oxford groove;Though never a gambit saw the lightThat's able to cope with Edward's move).
The game went on, and the game was fast,Oh, Oxford huffed and his King was crowned;The exchange was lost, and a pawn was passed,And under the table a knight was found!
Then Oxford chuckled; but Edward swore,A horrible, horrible oath swore he;And landed him one on the QB4,And followed it up with an RQ3.
Time was called; with an air of prideUp to his feet rose Edward Bray."Marker, what of the score?" he cried."What of the battle I've won this day?"
The score was counted; and Bray had wonBy two in honours, and four by tricks,And half of a bishop that came undone,And all of a bishop on KQ6.
* * * * * *
Then here's to Chess: and a cheer againFor the man who fought on an April dayWith never a thought of sordid gain!England's proud of you, Edward Bray!
There were twelve tables numbered A, B, C, up to—well, twelve of them, and I started at E, because my name is Ernest. Our host arranged us and, of course, he may have had quite another scheme in his mind. If so, it was an extraordinary coincidence that my partner's name was Ethel. She herself swore it was Millicent, but I doubt if one can trust a woman in these matters. She looked just like an Ethel. I had never seen her before, I shall never see her again, but she will always be Ethel to me.
There is only one rule at progressive bridge, and that is, if you lose you go to the next table, and if you win you stay where you are. In any case you get a fresh partner each time. That being so, it seemed hardly worth while to ask Ethel what she discarded from. As it happened, though, she began it.
"I discard from strength," she said.
"So do I," I agreed gladly. We already had a lot in common. "Great strength returns the penny," I added.
"What's that?"
"Moderate strength rings the bell. It's a sort of formula I say to myself, and brings luck. May I play to hearts?"
Ethel discarded a small heart on the first round of clubs, and a small club on the first round of hearts. After which, systematically and together, we discarded from great weakness. What with the revoke and other things they scored hundreds and thousands that game.
"You know, where providence goes wrong," I said, "is in over-estimating our skill. Providence thinks too highly of us. It thinks that if it gives us a knave and two tens between us we can get a grand slam."
"Yes; and I think—I think, perhaps, that just the least little bit it underrates Dorothy's abilities."
"Indeed?" I said. Dorothy was the person who had just taken two hundred and ninety-eight off us.
"Yes. You see Dorothy has played before, and I don't think providence knew."
"It rather looks like that."
"Mind," said Ethel graciously, "I don't blame providence for not knowing."
Dorothy laughed, and cut for me. I dealt myself three aces, and went no trumps. To my surprise Dorothy's partner doubled, and led the ace of hearts.
"One moment," I said, and I took it up, and looked at the back of it. Then I looked at the back of my own ace of hearts. Then I looked at the front of it again, and swore very softly, and played it.
"I'm very sorry," I apologised at the end of the game. "I had a wolf in sheep's clothing, an ass in a lion's skin. You saw me play the three of hearts. Well, do you know—it's very sad—he actually pretended to be the ace. Hid his head behind one card, and his feet behind another, and only—well, I thought it was the ace."
At the end of the round Ethel and I moved on.
"Good-bye," I said to Dorothy, "I like watching you play. If you wait here I shall be round again soon."
My next partner was called Aggie. Ethel addressed her as Mary, but she was much too lively for Mary. I had never seen her before, I shall never see her again, but she will always be Aggie to me.
She began at once:
"I discard from weakness, partner. I like hearts led, I never go spades on my own, I live on tapioca and toadstools, and the consequence was——"
"It's the same with me," I said, "except about tapioca. I don't like tapioca. In fact I always—er—discard from tapioca. Otherwise we agree. It's your deal. Now," I said to Ethel, "we shall see what providence thinks of our comparative merits."
Providence made no mistake. In the whole round my partner and I scored once only.Chicanein spades. I moved on to G. I should never see Ethel again.
"I always play the Canadian discard," said Violet, "and I like spades led."
I need hardly say that Aggie, whom Ethel called Mary, spoke of Violet as Diana. But she looked much more like Violet, and she will always be Violet to me. I had never seen her before though, and I shall never see her again.
"So do I," I said. "Do you know Canada at all? I always wish I had been there."
"I go a good deal to Switzerland," said Violet. "Are you fond of bridge?"
"No, never; that is, I mean, 'Very.' Shall we cut?"
The "Canadian discard" hardly does itself justice under that name. It is no mere discard, but embraces all the finer points of bridge. It leads through weakness, and blocks your partner's long suits, and trumps his tricks; and, though I couldn't discover any recognised system about it, revokes now and then. I, too, from tact or sympathy, or some such motive, played the Canadian discard for all I was worth. We got to H without any difficulty....
J, K and L may be passed by, for nothing happened there. For some reason "I" was left out, or, rather, run into J. I cannot understand the point of this. To every man his table, and I feel convinced that I should have done remarkably well at "I." I had been looking forward to it all the evening. I don't much care about betting, but I am prepared to wager a hundred pounds that I should have got a grand slam at "I."
It was somewhere down in the X's that I met Maud. I had been round I don't know how many times, and was feeling quite giddy. Alice, Elizabeth, Iris, Mabel—they were all forgotten when I came to play with Maud. Hepzibah (on my right) called her Millicent or something like that, but I knew really that her name must be Maud. I had never seen her before, I shall never see her again, but she will always be Maud to me.
"I discard from hearts," I said. "I like my weakest suit led, I have revoked three times this evening, at table G on the right-hand side of the fireplace I played the 'Canadian discard,' and I shall never play it again, at K as you go round the lamp I had four aces and my partner went spades, I've had rotten luck all through, and I'm enjoying myself very much. Shall we be very cautious, or would you like to play a dashing game?"
"Oh, let's dash," said Maud.
I dealt, and went no trumps on two aces. To my great surprise Hepzibah's partner doubled and led the ace of clubs.
"One moment," I said, and I took it up and looked at the back of it. Then I looked at the back of my own ace of clubs. Then I looked at the front of it, and swore very softly, and played it.
"I'm very sorry," I began at the end of the game, "but——"
"Haven't we met before?" said Maud, with a smile.
I looked at her hard. "By Jove! Ethel!" I cried.
"My name's Millicent," said Maud, "and seeing that we met for the first time a few hours ago——"
"Yes, you were my first partner, 'Ethel.'"
"I'm sorry. Who is Ethel?"
"I beg your pardon," I apologised. "But I always call my first partner at progressive bridge Ethel. It's a sort of hobby with me."
"I see," said Maud—I mean Ethel. Well, I suppose I must call her Millicent now. Though I had never seen her before, and shall never see her again, she will always be Millicent to me.
I. AT A PAGEANT
Our episode is the tenth and last and (I may add unofficially) the most important. The period of it is 1750. In order to lead up to it properly it has been found necessary to start the first episode at 53 B.C. This gives the audience time to get hungry for us. "At last!" they say, when we come on, "thisisthe end, Maria."
The Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.) says that they don't say that at all. They say, "Why, Henry, it's 1750! I had no idea. How the time flies when you are enjoying yourself. Wemuststay to the end; a few minutes won't make any difference now, and it's only cold mutton."
I must explain that it is the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.)—anddoremember the "N.B.," because she is very particular about it—who in this episode condescends to dance a minuet with me: that stately old measure (if you don't trip over the sand-hill opposite Block D.) which so delighted our forefathers. It is a very sad thing, but though the whole pageant, as I have explained, hinges upon us, yet our names and description do not appear upon the programme. We are put down briefly, and I think libellously, as "Revellers." However, we learnt that we were really people of some position—right in the smart set, by all accounts; so I decided to be Lord Tunbridge Wells, and my partner the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.). That is just like her—to be a whole county, when I am only a watering-place.
We are supposed to do the "revelling" as soon as we come in. As I lead my partner down the steps I say to her, "Our revel, I think?" and she replies, "Shall we revel, or shall we sit it out?" After a little discussion we decide to revel, partly because there is nowhere to sit down, and partly because the prompter has his eye on us. Now I don't know what your idea of revelling is, but mine would include at the very least a small ginger ale and a slice of seed-cake. I mean, I don't think that would be overdoing it at all. But do you suppose we are allowed this—or indeed anything? Not likely. And yet it is just a little touch of that sort which gives verisimilitude to a whole pageant.
Before we have really got through our revelling the band strikes up, and suddenly we are all in our places for the minuet. Now, although you have paid your two guineas like a man, and are sitting in the very front row, you mustn't think we have taken all this trouble of learning the minuet simply to amuse you. Not at all. We are doing it for the sake of King George the Second, no less; a command performance. And so, when we are all in a line, just ready to start, and I whisper to my partner, "I say, I'm awfully sorry, but I've forgotten the minuet. Let's do the Lancers instead," she whispers back, "Quick! George is looking at me. Is my patch on straight?" "No," I say. "Now, don't forget you have to smile all the time. Hallo, we're off."
I am not going to describe the dance to you, because it is too difficult. But I may say briefly that there's a whole lot of things you do with your feet, and another whole lot with your hands; that you have to sway your body about in an easy and graceful manner; that you must keep one eye on the ground to see that you don't fall over the sandhills, and another eye on your partner to see that she is doing it all right, and the two of you a joint eye on everybody else to see that the affair is going symmetrically. Andthen—then comes the final instruction: "Don't look anxious. Smile, and seem to be enjoying yourself."
So far I have resisted the inclination to smile. The fact is that when I cast aside my usual habiliments and take upon me the personality of another I like to do the thing thoroughly—to enter into the spirit of the part. Now I will put the case before you, and you shall say whether I am not right.
Here we have, as I conceive the situation, a sprig of the nobility, Tunbridge Wells. He is a modest young man, who spends most of his time at his lovely Kentish seat, flanked by fine old forest trees—preferring the quiet of the country to the noise and bustle of London.
One day, however, he ventures up to town, and looking in at his customary coffee-house is hailed by an acquaintance. Tunbridge Wells, I may mention, is beautifully attired in a long blue coat, white satin waistcoat, fancy breeches, with quaint designs painted on them, silk stockings, and shoes which are too small for him.
"What are you doing to-night?" says his friend. "Come down to Chelsea with me. There's a grand Venetianfêteon, and old George will be there."
"Right," says Tunbridge Wells.
When they get to the gardens his friend takes him aside.
"I say," he begins anxiously, "I hope you won't mind, but the fact is that I've promised you shall dance in a minuet to-night. Old George particularly wants to see one."
"But I simply couldn't," says Tunbridge Wells, in alarm. "Can't you get somebody else?"
"Oh, but you must. I've got you a jolly partner—the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.). You know the minuet, of course?"
"Well, I've learnt it; but I've very nearly forgotten it again. And my shoes are beastly uncomfortable. Before the King too! It's a bit steep, you know."
"Well then, you will. Good man."
"No, no," cries Tunbridge Wells hastily, and leads his friend aside under the trees. "I say," he begins mysteriously, "don't say anything, but—well, it's rather awkward ... I may as well tell you ... these—er—these things are a bit tight. They look all right like this, you know, but when you bend down—well, I mean I have to be jolly careful."
"I was just thinking how pretty they were. A beautiful thing, that," he adds, pointing to a crescent moon in blue on Tunbridge Wells' left knee.
"Don't touch," says Wells in alarm, "it comes off like anything. I lost a dragon-fly only yesterday. Well, you see how it is, old man. But for them I should have loved it. Only ... I say, don't be a fool.... Your servant, Duchess. I was just saying ... yes, I am devoted to it.... Yes.... Yes. Let's see, itisthe left foot, isn't it? (Confound that idiot!)"
Now then, do you wonder that the poor fellow looks anxious, or that I feel it my duty as a good actor to look anxious too?
I have promised not to describe the whole minuet to you, but I must mention one figure in it of which I am particularly fond. In this you rejoin your partner after a long absence, and you have once more her supporting hand to hold you up. For some hours previously you have been alone in the wild and undulating open, tripping over molehills and falling down ha-has; and it is very pleasant (especially when your shoes fit you too soon) to get back to her and pour all your troubles into her sympathetic ear. It's a figure in which you stand on one foot each for a considerable time, and paw the air with the others. You preserve your balance better if you converse easily and naturally.
"I nearly came a frightful purler just now; did you see?"
"H'sh, not so loud. Have you found mother yet? She's here to-day."
"One of my patches fell off. I hope nobody heard it."
"You've got a different wig to-day. Why?"
"It's greyer. I had such a very anxious moment yesterday. You know that last bow at the end where you go down and stay under water for about five minutes? Well, I really thought—however, they didn't."
"I don't like you in this one. It doesn't suit you at all."
"So I thought at first. But if you gaze at it very earnestly for three hours, and then look up at the ceiling, you——"
"Why, thereismother. Hold up."
"I fancy we have rather a good action in this figure. Do you think she's noticing it? I hope she knows that wecouldstand on one leg without moving the other one at all. I mean I don't want her to think—— Hallo, here we are. Good-bye. See you again in the next figure but one." And the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.) trips off.
I put in the "N.B." because she is very particular about it; and I say "trips" because I know the ground.
II. AT A DANCE
"Then you really are coming?" said Queen Elizabeth, as she gave me my third cup of tea.
"Yes, I really am," I sighed.
"What as?"
"I don't know at all—something with a cold. I leave it to you, partner, only don't go a black suit."
"What about Richelieu?"
"I should never be able to pronounce that," I confessed. "Besides, I always think that these great scientists—I should say, philos—that is, of course, that these generals—er, which room is the encyclopædia in?"
"You might go as one of the kings of England. Which is your favourite king?"
"William and Mary. Now thatwouldbe an original costume. I should have——"
"Don't be ridiculous. Why not Henry VIII.?"
"Do you think I should get a lot of partners as Henry VIII.? Anyhow, I don't think it's a very becoming figure."
"But you don't wear fancy dress simply because it's becoming."
"Well, that is rather the point to settle. Are we going to enhance my natural beauty, or would you like it—er—toned down a little? Of course, Icouldgo as the dog-faced man, only——"
"Very well then, if you don't like Henry, what about Edward I.?"
"But why do you want to thrust royalty on me? I'd much sooner go as Perkin Warbeck. I should wear a brown perkin—jerkin."
"Jack is going as Sir Walter Raleigh."
"Then I shall certainly touch him for a cigarette," I said, as I got up to go.
* * * * * * *
It was a week later that I met Elizabeth in Bond Street.
"Well?" she said, "have you got your things?"
"I haven't," I confessed.
"I forget who you said you were going as?"
"Somebody who had black hair," I said. "I have been thinking it over and I have come to the conclusion that I should have knocked them rather if I had had black hair—instead of curly eyes and blue hair. Can you think of anybody for me?"
Queen Elizabeth regarded me as sternly as she might have regarded—— Well, I'm not very good at history.
"Do you mean to say," she said at last, "that that is as far as you have got? Somebody who had black hair?"
"Hang it," I protested, "it's something to have been measured for the wig."
"Haveyou been measured for your wig?"
"Well—er—no—that is to say, not exactly what you might call measured. But—well, the fact is I was just going along now, only—I say, where do I get a wig?"
"You've done nothing," said Elizabeth—"absolutely nothing."
"I say, don't say that," I began nervously; "I've done an awful lot, really. I've practically got the costume. I'm going as Harold the Boy Earl, or Jessica's Last—— Hallo, there's my bus; I've got a cold, I mustn't keep it waiting. Good-bye." And I fled.
* * * * * * *
"I am going," I said, "as Julius Cæsar. He was practically bald. Think how cool that will be."
"Do you mean to say," cried Elizabeth, "that you have altered again?"
"Don't be rough with me or I shall cry. I've got an awful cold."
"Then you've no business to go as Julius Cæsar."
"I say, now you're trying to unsettle me. And I was going to-morrow to order the clothes."
"What! You haven't——"
"I was really going this afternoon, only—only it's early closing day. Besides, I wanted to see if my cold would get better. Because if it didn't—— Look here, I'll be frank with you. I am going as Charlemagne."
"Oh!"
"Charlemagne in half-mourning, because Pepin the Short had just died. Something quiet in grey, with a stripe, I thought. Only half-mourning because he only got half the throne. By-the-way I suppose all these people wore pumps and white kid gloves all right? Yes, I thought so. I wonder if Charlemagne really had black hair. Anyhow, they can't prove he didn't, seeing when he lived. He flourished about 770, you know. As a matter of fact 770 wasn't actually his most flourishing year, because the Radicals were in power then, and land went down so. Now 771—yes. Or else as Raymond Blathwayt."
"Anyhow," I added indignantly a minute later, "I swear I'm going somehow."
* * * * * * *
"Hallo," I said cheerfully, as I ran into her Majesty in Piccadilly, "I've just been ordering—that is to say, I've been going——I mean I'm just going to—— Let's see, it's next week, isn't it?"
For a moment Elizabeth was speechless—not at all my idea of the character.
"Now then," she said at last, "I am going to take you in hand. Will you trust yourself entirely to me?"
"To the death, your Majesty. I'm sickening for something, as it is."
"How tall are you?"
"Oh, more than that," I said quickly. "Gent's large medium, I am."
"Then, I'll order a costume for you and have it sent round. There's no need for you to be anything historical; you might be a butcher."
"Quite—blue is my colour. In fact, I can do you the best end of the neck at tenpence, madam, if you'll wait a moment while I sharpen the knife. Let's see; you like it cut on the cross, I think? Bother, they've forgotten the strop."
"Well, it may not be a butcher," said Elizabeth; "it depends what they've got."
* * * * * * *
That was a week ago. This morning I was really ill at last; had hardly any breakfast; simply couldn't look a poached egg in the yolk. A day on the sofa in a darkened room and bed at seven o'clock was my programme. And then my eye caught a great box of clothes, and I remembered that the dance was to-night. I opened the box. Perhaps dressed soberly as a black-haired butcher I could look in for an hour or two ... and——
Help!
A yellow waistcoat, pink breeches, and—no, it's not an eider-down, it's a coat.
A yellow—— Pink br——
I am going as Joseph.
I am going as Swan & Edgar.
I am going as the Sick Duke, by Orchardson.
I am going—yes, that's it, I am going back to bed.
I. THE COMPLETE KITCHEN
I wat in the drawing-room after dinner with my knees together and my hands in my lap, and waited for the game to be explained to me.
"There's a pencil for you," said somebody.
"Thank you very much," I said, and put it carefully away. Evidently I had won a forfeit already. It wasn't a very good pencil though.
"Now, has everybody got pencils?" asked somebody else. "The game is called 'Furnishing a Kitchen.' It's quite easy. Will somebody think of a letter?" She turned to me. "Perhaps you'd better."
"Certainly," I said, and I immediately thought very hard of N. These thought-reading games are called different things, but they are all the same really, and I don't believe in any of them.
"Well?" said everybody.
"What? ... Yes, I have. Go on.... Oh, I beg your pardon," I said in confusion. I thought you—— N. is the letter."
"N or M?"
I smiled knowingly to myself.
"My godfather and my godmother," I went on cautiously——
"It was N," interrupted somebody. "Now then, you've got five minutes in which to write down everything you can beginning with N. Go." And they all started to write like anything.
I took my pencil out and began to think. I know it sounds an easy game to you now, as you sit at your desk surrounded by dictionaries; but when you are squeezed on to the edge of a sofa, given a very blunt pencil and a thin piece of paper, and challenged to write in five minutes (on your knees) all the words you can think of beginning with a certain letter—well, it is another matter altogether. I thought of no end of things which started with K, or even L; I thought of "rhinoceros," which is a very long word and starts with R; but as for——
I looked at my watch and groaned. One minute gone.
"Imustkeep calm," I said, and in a bold hand I wroteNapoleon. Then, after a moment's thought, I addedNitro-glycerine, andNats.
"This is splendid," I told myself. "Notting Hill,NobodyandNoon. That makes six."
At six I stuck for two minutes. I did worse than that in fact; for I suddenly remembered that gnats were spelt with a G. However, I decided to leave them, in case nobody else remembered. And on the fourth minute I addedNon-sequitur.
"Time!" said somebody.
"Just a moment," said everybody. They wrote down another word or two (which isn't fair) and then began to add up. "I've got thirty," said one.
"Thirty-two."
"Twenty-five."
"Good heavens," I said, "I've only got seven."
There was a shout of laughter.
"Then you'd better begin," said somebody. "Read them out."
I coughed doubtfully, and began;
"Napoleon."
There was another shout of laughter.
"I am afraid we can't allow that."
"Why ever not?" I asked in amazement.
"Well, you'd hardly find him in a kitchen, would you?"
I took out a handkerchief and wiped my brow. "I don't want to find him in a kitchen," I said nervously. "Why should I? As a matter of fact, he's dead. I don't see what the kitchen's got to do with it. Kitchens begin with a K."
"But the game is called 'Furnishing a Kitchen.' You have to make a list of things beginning with N which you would find in a kitchen. You understood that, didn't you?"
"Y-y-yes," I said. "Oh y-y-y-yes. Of course."
"So Napoleon——"
I pulled myself together with a great effort.
"You don't understand," I said with dignity. "The cook's name was Napoleon."
"Cooks aren't called Napoleon," said everybody.
"This one was. Carrie Napoleon. Her mistress was just as surprised at first as you were, but Carrie assured her that——"
"No, I'm afraid we can't allow it."
"I'm sorry," I said; "I'm wrong about that. Her name was Carrie Smith. But her young man was a soldier, and she had bought a 'Life of Napoleon' for a birthday present for him. It stood on the dresser—it did, really—waiting for her next Sunday out."
"Oh! Oh, well, I suppose that is possible. Go on."
"Gnats," I went on nervously and hastily. "Of course I know that——"
"Gnats are spelt with a G," they shrieked.
"These weren't. They had lost the G when they were quite young, and consequently couldn't bite at all, and cook said that——"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"I'm sorry," I said resignedly. "I had about forty of them—on the dresser. If you won't allow any of them, it pulls me down a lot. Er—then we have Nitro-glycerine."
There was another howl of derision.
"Not at all," I said haughtily. "Cook had chapped hands very badly, and she went to the chemist's one evening for a little glycerine. The chemist was out, and his assistant—a very nervous young fellow—gave her nitro-glycerine by mistake. It stood on the dresser, it did, really."
"Well," said everybody very reluctantly, "I suppose——"
I went on hastily:
"That's two. ThenNobody. Of course, you might easily find nobody in the kitchen. In fact you would pretty often, I should say. Three. The next isNoon. It could be noon in the kitchen as well as anywhere else. Don't be narrow-minded about that."
"All right. Go on."
"Non-sequitur," I said doubtfully.
"What on earth——"
"It's a little difficult to explain, but the idea is this. At most restaurants you can get a second help of anything for half-price, and that is technically called a 'follow.' Now, if they didn't give you a follow, that would be aNon-sequitur.... You do see that, don't you?"
There was a deadly silence.
"Five," I said cheerfully. "The last isNotting Hill. I must confess," I said magnanimously, "that I am a bit doubtful whether you would actually find Notting Hill in a kitchen."
"Youdon'tsay so!"
"Yes. My feeling is that you would be more likely to find the kitchen in Notting Hill. On the other hand, it is just possible that, as Calais was found engraven on Mary's heart, so, supposing the cook died—— Oh, very well. Then it remains at five."
Of course you think that, as I only had five, I came out last. But you are wrong. There is a pleasing rule in this game that, if you have any word in your list which somebody else has, you cannot count it. And as all the others had the obvious things—such as a nutmeg-grater or a neck of mutton or a nomelette—my five won easily. And you will note that, if only I had been allowed to count my gnats, it would have been forty-five.
II. GETTING THE NEEDLE
He was a pale, enthusiastic young man of the name of Simms; and he held forth to us at great length about his latest hobby.
"Now I'll just show you a little experiment," he wound up; "one that I have never known to fail. First of all, I want you to hide a needle somewhere, while I am out of the room. You must stick it where it can be seen—on a chair—or on the floor if you like. Then I shall come back and find it."
"Oh, Mr Simms!" we all said.
"Now, which one of you has the strongest will?"
We pushed Jack forward. Jack is at any rate a big man.
"Very well. I shall want you to take my hand when I come in, and look steadily at the needle, concentrate all your thoughts on it. I, on the other hand, shall make my mind a perfect blank. Then your thoughts will gradually pass into my brain, and I shall feel myself as it were dragged in the direction of the needle."
"And I shall feel myself, as it were, dragged after you?" said Jack.
"Yes; you mustn't put any strain on my arm at all. Let me go just where I like, only will me to go in the right direction. Now then."
He took out his handkerchief, put it hastily back, and said: "First, I shall want to borrow a handkerchief or something."
Well, we blindfolded him, and led him out of the room. Then Muriel got a needle, which, after some discussion, was stuck into the back of the Chesterfield. Simms returned, and took Jack's left hand.
They stood there together, Jack frowning earnestly at the needle, and Simms swaying uncertainly at the knees. Suddenly his knees went in altogether, and he made a little zig-zag dash across the room, as though he were taking cover. Jack lumbered after him, instinctively bending his head too. They were brought up by the piano, which Simms struck with great force. We all laughed, and Jack apologised.
"You told me to let you go where you liked, you know," he said.
"Yes, yes," said Simms rather peevishly, "but you should have willed me not to hit the piano."
As he spoke he tripped over a small stool, and, flinging out an arm to save himself, swept two photograph frames off an occasional table.
"By Jove!" said Jack, "that's jolly good. I saw you were going to do that, and I willed that the flower vase should be spared. I'm getting on."
"I think you had better start from the door again," I suggested. "Then you can get a clear run."
They took up their original positions.
"You must think hard, please," said Simms again. "My mind is a perfect blank, and yet I can feel nothing coming."
Jack made terrible faces at the needle. Then, without warning, Simms flopped on to the floor at full length, pulling Jack after him.
"You mustn't mind if I do that," he said, getting up slowly.
"No," said Jack, dusting himself.
"I felt irresistibly compelled to go down," said Simms.
"So did I," said Jack.
"The needle is very often hidden in the floor, you see. You are sure you are looking at it?"
They were in a corner with their backs to it; and Jack, after trying in vain to get it over his right shoulder or his left, bent down and focussed it between his legs. This must have connected the current; for Simms turned right round and marched up to the needle.
"There!" he said triumphantly, taking off the bandage.
We all clapped, while Jack poured himself out a whisky. Simms turned to him.
"You have a very strong will indeed," he said, "one of the strongest I have met. Now, would one of the ladies like to try?"
"Oh, I'm sure I couldn't," said all the ladies.
"I should like to do it again," said Simms modestly. "Perhaps you, sir?"
"All right, I'll try," I said.
When Simms was outside I told them my idea.
"I'll hold the needle in my other hand," I said, "and then I can always look at it easily, and it will always be in a different place, which ought to muddle him."
We fetched him in, and he took my left hand....
"No, it's no good," he said at last, "I don't seem to get it. Let me try the other hand...."
I had no time to warn him. He clasped the other hand firmly; and, from the shriek that followed, it seemed that he got it. There ensued the "perfect blank" that he had insisted on all the evening. Then he pulled off the bandage, and showed a very angry face.
Well, we explained how accidental it was, and begged him to try again. He refused rather sulkily.
Suddenly Jack said: "I believe I could do it blindfold. Miss Muriel, will you look at the needle and see if you can will me?"
Simms bucked up a bit, and seemed keen on the idea. So Jack was blindfolded, the needle hid, and Muriel took his hand.
"Now, is your mind a perfect blank?" said Simms to Jack.
"It always is," said Jack.
"Very well, then. You ought soon to feel in a dreamy state, as though you were in another world. Miss Muriel,youmust think only of the needle."
Jack held her hand tight, and looked most idiotically peaceful. After three minutes Simms spoke again.
"Well?" he said eagerly.
"I've got the dreamy, other-world state perfectly," said Jack, and then he gave at the knees just for the look of the thing.
"This is silly," said Muriel, trying to get her hand away.
Jack staggered violently, and gripped her hand again.
"Please, Miss Muriel," implored Simms. "I feel sure he is just going to do it."
Jack staggered again, sawed the air with his disengaged hand, and then turned right round and marched for the door, dragging Muriel behind him. The door slammed after them....
* * * * * * * *
There is a little trick of sitting on a chair and picking a pin out of it with the teeth. I started Simms—who was all eagerness to follow the pair, and find out the mysterious force that was drawing them—upon this trick, for Jack is one of my best friends. When Jack and Muriel came back from the billiard-room, and announced that they were engaged, Simms was on his back on the floor with the chair on the top of him—explaining, for the fourth time, that if the thing had not overbalanced at the critical moment he would have secured the object. There is much to be said for this view.
THE BUTTER
"You mustn't think I am afraid of my housekeeper. Not at all. I frequently meet her on the stairs, and give her some such order as "I think—if you don't mind—I might have breakfast just alittlelater—er, yes, about eight o'clock, yes, thank you." Or I ring the bell and say, "I—I—want-my-boots." We both recognise that it is mine to command and hers to obey. But in the matter of the butter I have let things slide, until the position is rapidly becoming an untenable one. Yet I doubt if a man of imagination and feeling could have acted otherwise, given the initial error. However, you shall hear.
There are two sorts of butter, salt and fresh. Now, nobody is so fond of butter as I am; but butter (as I have often told everybody) isn't butter at all unless it is salt. The other kind is merely an inferior vaseline—the sort of thing you put on the axles of locomotives. Imagine, then, my disgust, when I took my first breakfast in these rooms eleven months ago, to find that the housekeeper had provided me with a large lump of vaseline!
I hate waste in small things. Take care of the little extravagances, I say, and the big ones will take care of themselves. My first thought on viewing this pat of butter was, "It is difficult, but I will eat it." My second, "But I must tell the housekeeper to get salt butter next time."
An ordinary-minded person would have stopped there. I went one further. My third thought was this: "Housekeepers are forgetful creatures. If I tell her now, she will never remember. Obviously I had better wait until this pound is just finished and she is about to get in some more. Then will be the time to speak." So I waited; and it was here that I made my mistake. For it turned out that it was I who was the forgetful creature. And on the fifteenth day I got up to find another large pound of vaseline on my table. The next fortnight went by slowly. I kept my eye on every day, waiting for the moment to come when I could say to the housekeeper, "You will be getting me in some more butter this morning. Would you get salt, as I don't much like the other?" Wednesday came, and there was just enough left for two days. I would speak on the morrow.
But, alas! on the morrow there was another new pound waiting. I had evidently misjudged the amount.
I forget what happened after that. I fancy I must have been very busy, so that the question of butter escaped me altogether. Sometimes, too, I would go away for a few days and the old butter would be thrown away and the new butter bought, at a time when I had no opportunity of defending myself. However it was, there came a time when I had been three months in my rooms, and was still eating fresh butter; contentedly, to all appearances—in the greatest anguish of soul, as it happened. And at the end of another month I said: "Now, then, I really must do something about this."
But whatcouldI do? After eating fresh butter for four months without protest I couldn't possibly tell the housekeeper that I didn't like it, and would she get salt in future. That would be too absurd. Fancy taking four months to discover a little thing like that! Nor could I pretend that, though I used to adore fresh butter, I had now grown tired of it. I hate instability of character, and I could not lend myself to any such fickleness. I put it to you that either of these courses would have shown deplorable weakness. No, an explanation with the housekeeper was by that time impossible; and if anything was to be done I must do it on my own responsibility. What about buying a pound of salt butter myself, and feeding on it in secret? True, I should have to get rid of a certain portion of fresh every day, but...
I don't know if you have ever tried to get rid of a certain portion of fresh butter every day, when you are living in a flat at the very top of chambers in London. Drop it out of the window once or twice, and it is an accident. Three times, and it is a coincidence. Four times, and the policeman on duty begins to think that there is more in it (if I may say so) than meets the eye.... But what about the fire, you will ask. Ah, yes; but I could foresee a day when there would be no fire. One has to look ahead.
Besides, as I said, I hate waste. As any cook will tell you, the whole art of housekeeping can be summed up in three words—Watch the butter.
More months passed and more pats of vaseline. Every day made an explanation more hopeless. I had thoughts at one time of an anonymous letter. Something in this style:
"MADAM,—One who is your friend says beware of vaseline. All is discovered. Fly before it is too late. What is it makes the sea so salt? NaCl. Sodium Chloride. THE BLACK HAND"
That would give her the impression, at any rate, that thereweretwo kinds of butter. Confound it all, by what right did she assume without asking that I had a preference for fresh?
I have now been in my rooms nearly a year. Something must be done soon. My breakfasts are becoming a farce. Meals which I used to enjoy I now face as an ordeal. Is there to be no hope for me in the future?
Well, thereisa chance? I shall have to wait until July; but with something definite in view I am content to wait.
In July I hope to go to Switzerland for a month. Two days before returning home I shall write to my housekeeper. Having announced the day of my return, and given one or two instructions, I shall refer briefly to the pleasant holiday which I have been enjoying. I shall remark perhaps on the grandeur of the mountains and the smiling beauty of the valleys, I may mention the area in square miles of the country....
And I shall dwell upon the habits of the native.
"... They live (I shall write) in extraordinary simplicity, chiefly upon the products of their farms. Their butter is the most delightful I have ever tried. It is a little salt to the taste, but after four weeks of it I begin to feel that I shall never be able to do without salt butter again! No doubt, as made in London it would be different from this, but I really think I must give it a trial. So when you are ordering the things I mentioned for me, will you ask for salt butter...."
And if that fails there remains only the one consolation. In three years my lease is up. I shall take a new flat somewhere, and on the very first day I shall have a word with the new housekeeper.
"By the way," I shall say, "about the butter...."
Of course, it is quite possible to marry for love, but I suspect that a good many bachelors marry so that they may not have to bother about the washing any more. That, anyhow, will be one of the reasons with me. "I offer you," I shall say, "my hand and heart—and the washing; and, oh,dosee that six tablecloths and my footer shorts don't get senteveryweek."
We affect Hampstead for some reason. Every week a number of shirts and things goes all the way out to Hampstead and back. I once sent a Panama to Paris to be cleaned, and for quite a year afterwards I used to lead the conversation round to travel, and then come out with, "Ah, I well remember when my Panama was in Paris...." So now, when I am asked at a dance, "Do you know Hampstead at all?" I reply, "Well, I only know it slightly myself; but my collars spend about half the year there. They are in with all the best people."
I can believe that I am not popular in Hampstead, for I give my laundress a lot of trouble. Take a little thing like handkerchiefs. My rooms, as I have mentioned, are at the very top of the building, and there is no lift. Usually I wait till I am just out into the street before I discover that I have forgotten my handkerchief. It is quite impossible to climb all the stairs again, so I go and buy one for the day. This happens about three times a week. The result is that nearly all my handkerchiefs are single ones—there are no litters of twelve, no twins even, or triplets. Now when you have a lot of strangers in a drawer like this, with no family ties (or anything) to keep them together, what wonder if they gradually drift away from each other?
My laundress does her best for them. She works a sort of birthmark in red cotton in the corner of each, so that she shall know them again. When I saw it first I was frightened. It looked like the password of some secret society.
"Are there many aliens in Hampstead?" I asked the housekeeper.
"I don't know, sir."
"Well, look here, what I found on my handkerchief. That's a secret signal of some sort, you know, that's what it is. I shall get mixed up in some kind of anarchist row before I know where I am. Will you arrange about getting my clothes washed somewhere else, please?"
"That's because you haven't got your name on it. She must mark them somehow."
"Then, why doesn't she mark them with my name? So much simpler."
"It isn't her business to mark your clothes," said the housekeeper.
That, I suppose, is true; but it seems to me that she is giving us both a lot of unnecessary trouble. Every week I pick out this decorative design with a penknife, and every week she works it in again. When you consider the time and the red cotton wasted it becomes clear that a sixpenny bottle of marking ink and a quill pen would be cheaper to her in the long run.
But she has a weakness for red cotton. The holes in the handkerchiefs she works round with it—I never quite understand why. To call my attention to them, perhaps, and to prevent me from falling through. Or else to say, "Youdid this. I only washed up to the red, so it can't bemyfault."
If I were married and had a house of my own, there would be no man below; consequently he wouldn't wear the absurd collars he does. I get about two of them a week (so even red cotton is not infallible); and if they were the right size and a decent shape I shouldn't grumble so much. But I do object to my collars mixing in town with these extraordinary things of his. At Hampstead, it may be, they have to meet on terms of equality, more or less; force of circumstances throws them together a good deal. But in town no collar of mine could be expected to keep up the acquaintance. "You knew me in the bath," I can imagine one of his monstrosities saying; and, "When I am in the bath I shall know you again," would be the dignified reply of my "16-Golf."
Collars trouble me a good deal one way or another. Whenever I buy a new dozen, all the others seem suddenly to have become old-fashioned in shape, and of the wrong size. Nothing will induce me to wear one of them again. They get put away in boxes. Covered with dust, they lie forgotten.
Forgotten, did I say? No. The housekeeper finds them and sends them to the wash. About a month later she finds them again. She is always finding clothes which have been discarded for ever, and sending them to the wash.
The mistake is, that we have not yet come to an agreement as to what reallyisto go to the wash, and what isn't. There is a tacit understanding that everything on the floor on Monday morning is intended for Hampstead. The floor is the linen-basket. It seemed a good idea at the time, but it has its faults. Things gets on to the floor somehow, which were never meant for the north-west—blankets, and parts of a tweed suit, and sofa cushions. Things have a mysterious way of dropping. Half-a-dozen pairs of white flannel trousers dropped from a shelf one December. A pair of footer shorts used to go every week—a pair which I would carefully put down to take the bath water when I had finished with it. I wonder what those shorts thought they were doing. Probably they quite fancied themselves at football, and boasted about the goals they shot to companions whom they met at Hampstead.
"You'realwayshere!" a pair of local wanderers would say.
"My dear man, I play so hard, I don't care how dirty I get."
The irony of it!
But, worst of all, the laundry-book. Every week the housekeeper says to me, "Would you pay your book now, as it's been owing for a month?" And every week I pay. That sounds absurd, but I swear it's true. Or else the weeks go very quickly.
And such amounts! Great ninepences for a counterpane or a tablecloth or a white tie. Immense numbers of handkerchiefs, counting (apparently) twelve as thirteen. Quaint hieroglyphics, which don't mean anything but seem to get added into the price. And always that little postscript, "As this has been owing for a month, we must request...."
Beatrice has been spring-cleaning me to-day, or rather my clothes. I said, wasn't it rather early for it, as none of the birds were singing properly yet, and she had much better wait till next year; but no, shewoulddo itnow. Beatrice is my sister-in-law, and she said—— Well, I forget what she did say, but she took a whole bundle of things away with her in a cab; and IknowJohn will be wearing that purple shirt of mine to-morrow. As a matter of fact, it was a perfectly new one, and I was only waiting till Lent was over.
Beatrice said the things were all lying about anyhow, and how I ever found anything to put on she didn't know; but I could have told her that they were all arranged on a symmetrical plan of my own. Beatrice doesn't understand the symmetry of a bachelor's mind. I like a collar in each drawer, and then, whatever drawer you open, there's a collar ready for you. Beatrice puts them all in one drawer, and then if you're in a hurry, and open the wrong drawer by mistake, you probably go up to the office in two waistcoats and no collar at all. That would be very awkward.
Beatrice actually wanted a braces drawer (if she hadn't married John I should never let her talk to me about braces), but I explained that I had only one pair, and was wearing those, so that it would be absurd. I expect she wanted me to think that John had two pairs. All I can say, is, that, if he has, he ought to be above taking my best shirt....
I don't think the waistcoat drawer will be a success. There are twenty-three of them, and some of them don't blend at all well. Twenty-three in one drawer—you know there are bound to be disputes. I seeWilliamhas got to the top already. Ah! he was a fine fellow, the first I ever had. I don't quite know how to describe him, but in colour he was emerald green, with bits of red silk peeping through. Sort of open-work, you know, only where you would expect to see me there was more ofWilliam. I wore him at Beatrice's wedding. Hewouldcome. Only he wouldn't let me into the vestry. I wanted to sign my name; all the others were. I have never worn him since that day, but Beatrice has fished him out, and now he lies on the very top of the drawer.
Of course it's awfully good of Beatrice to take so much trouble about my clothes, and I'm extremely grateful, and after all she did marry my brother John; but I think sometimes she—— Well, here's a case. You know, when you have twenty-three waistcoats you perhaps run a bit short of—of other things. So, naturally, the few youhavegot left, you—— Well, Beatrice took them all away, and said that as I couldn't possibly wear them again she'd cut them up for house-cloths. And really—half-way between winter and summer is a very awkward time for restocking. But I suppose it is going to be warmer now?
House-cloths! I bet John has a go at them first.
Beatrice found what they call in the profession a "morning-coat and vest" under the bed, and said that she would take it away and sell it for me. I like the way she "finds" things which I have been keeping for years under the bed. It is absurd to talk about "finding" anything in a small flat, because, of course, it's there all the time: but Beatrice thought that I ought to be grateful to her for the discovery, so I pretended I was. She said she would get at least half-a-crown for it; but I said I would rather have the coat. However, it turned out that I wasn't even to have had the half-crown....
I used to have thirty pairs of old white gloves in a drawer. I would take them out sometimes, and stroke them affectionately, and say, "Ah, yes, those were the ones I wore at that absolutely ripping dance when I first met Cynthia, and we had supper together. You can see where I spilt the ice pudding." Or—"This was that Hunt Ball, when I knew nobody and danced with Hildegarde all the time. She wore black; just look at them now." Well, Beatrice hadthatdrawer out pretty quick. And now they are on their way to Perth or Paris, or wherever it is; except Hildegarde's pair, which will just do for the girl when she cleans the grates. I expect she really will get them you know; because John doesn't dance.
You know, you mustn't make too much fun of Beatrice; she has ripping ideas sometimes. She filled a "summer-trunk" for me—a trunk full of all the clothes I am going to want in the summer. She started with a tennis-racquet (which, strictly speaking, isn't clothes at all), and went on with some of the jolliest light waistcoats you ever saw; it made me quite hot to look at them. Well, now, that's really a good idea so far as it goes. But what will happen when the summer does come? Why, we shall have to go through the whole business all over again. And who'll arrange the winter-trunk? Beatrice. And who'll get the pink pyjamas and the green socks that there's really no room for, dear? Why, John.
Yet I am sorry for John. He was once as I am. What a life is his now. Beatrice is a dear, and I will allow no one to say a word against her, but she doesn't understand that trousers must be folded, not hung; that a collar which has once been a collar can never be opened out and turned into a cuff (supposing one wore cuffs); and that a school eleven blazer, even if it happens to be pink, must not be cut down into a dressing-jacket for the little one. Poor John! Yes, I am glad now that he has that shirt of mine. It is perhaps alittletoo bright for his complexion, perhaps he has notquitethe air to carry it off; but I am glad that it is his. Now I think of it I have a tie and a pair of socks that would go well with it; and evenWilliam—can I part withWilliam?—yes, he shall haveWilliam. Oh, I see that I must be kind to John.
Dear Beatrice! I wonder when I shall have everything straight again.
I have already said that I am not afraid of my housekeeper, so there is no need for me to say it again. There are other motives than fear which prevent a man from arguing with housekeepers; dislike of conversation with his intellectual inferiors may be one, the sporting instinct is certainly another. If one is to play "Medes and Persians" properly, one must be a sportsman about it. Of course, I could say right out to her "Do this," and she might do it. Or she could say right out to me, "Do that," and I would reply, "Don't be absurd." But that wouldn't be the game.
As I play it, a "Mede" is a law whichshelays down, and to which (after many a struggle) in the end I submit; a "Persian" is a law whichIlay down, and to which ... after many a struggle ... in the end ... (when it is too late).... Well, there are many Medes, but so far I have only scored one Persian of note.
The first Mede was established last winter. For many weeks I had opened my bedroom door of a morning to find a small jug of cold water on the mat outside. The thing puzzled me. What do I want with a small jug of cold water, I asked myself, when I have quite enough in the bath as it is? Various happy thoughts occurred to me—as that it was lucky, that it collected the germs, or (who knows?) indicated a wife with five thousand a year—but it was a month before the real solution flashed across my mind. "Perhaps," I said, "it was hot once. But," I added, "it must have been a long time ago."
The discovery upset me a good deal. In the first place, it is annoying suddenly to have all one's hopes of a rich wife and protection from disease dashed to the ground; in the second, I object to anybody but a relation interfering with my moral character. Here was a comparative stranger trying to instil the habit of early rising into me by leaving shaving-water outside the door at three A.M. Was this a thing to be taken lying down?
Decidedly. So I stayed in bed and ignored the water-jug; save that each morning, as I left my rooms, I gave it a parting sneer. It was gone by the evening, but turned up again all right next day. After a month I began to get angry. My housekeeper was defying me; very well, we would see who could last the longer.
But after two months it was a Mede. Yet I have this triumph over her. That though I take the water in I ... pour it into the bath and slip back into bed again. I don't think she knows that.
Since then there have been many Medes. Little ones as to the position of the chairs; bigger ones as to the number of blankets on the bed. You mustn't think, though, that I always submit so easily. Sometimes I am firm. In the matter of "Africa Joe" I have been very firm. Here, I know, I have right on my side.
A year ago I was presented with a model of an Irish jolting car (with horse and driver complete), which had been cut out of some sort of black wood. The thing used to stand over my fireplace. Later on I acquired, at different times, a grey hippopotamus (in china) and a black elephant. These I harnessed on in front of the horse; and the whole affair made a very pretty scene, which was known to my friends as "Sunday in the Forest: Africa Joe drives his Family to Church." Besides all these I had yet another animal—a green frog climbing a cardboard ladder. I leant this against the clock. One had the illusion that the frog was climbing up in order to look at the works—which was particularly pleasing because the clock didn't go.
Very well. You have the two scenes on the same mantelboard. One, the frog as Bond Street watchmaker and jeweller, and the other (such is Empire), Africa Joe in the heart of the forest. And what does the housekeeper do? If you will believe me, she takes the frog down from the clock and props him up behind the car, just as though he were getting on to it in order to go to church with the others!
Now I do put it to you that this is simply spoiling the picture altogether. Here we have a pleasant domestic episode, such as must occur frequently in the African forests. Black Joe harnesses his horse, elephant, hippopotamus, or what not, and drives his family to the eleven o'clock service. And into this scene of rural simplicity a mere housekeeper elbows her way with irrevelant frogs and ladders!
It is a mystery to me that she cannot see how absurd her contribution is. To begin with, the family is in black (save the hippopotamus, who is in a quiet grey), so is it likely that they would tolerate the presence of a garish green-and-yellow stranger? (More than likely Joe is a churchwarden, and has not only himself to think of.) Then, again, consider the title of the scene: "Africa Joedriveshis Family"—not "Africa Joe about to drive." The horse is trotting, the elephant has one leg uplifted, and even the hippopotamus is not in a position of rest. How then could the frog put a ladder up against a moving cart, and climb in? No; here anyhow was a Mede that must be resisted at all costs. On the question of Africa Joe I would not be dictated to.
But, after re-emphasising my position daily for three weeks, I saw that there was only one thing to do. The frog must be sacrificed to the idea of Empire. So I burnt him.
But it is time I mentioned my one Persian. It was this way. In the winter I used always to dry myself after the bath in front of my sitting-room fire. Now, I know all about refraction, and the difficulty of seeing into a room from outside, and so forth, but this particular room is unusually light, having six large windows along one of its sides. I thought it proper, therefore, to draw down the three end blinds by the fireplace; more especially as the building directly opposite belonged to the Public House Reform Association. In the fierce light that beats from reform associations one cannot be too careful.
Little things like blinds easily escape the memory, and it was obvious that it would be much pleasanter if the housekeeper could be trained always to leave the end three down. The training followed its usual course.
Every morning I found the blinds up and every morning I drew them down and left them there. After a month it seemed impossible that I could ever establish my Persian. But then she forgot somehow; and one day I woke up to find the three blinds down.
By a real stroke of genius I drew them up as soon as my dressing was over. Next morning they were down again. I bathed, dried, dressed and threw them up. She thought it was a Mede, and pulled them down.
But it was a Persian, and, as I pulled them up, I knew that I had scored.
Yet, after all, I am not so sure. For it is now the summer, and I have no fire, and I do not want the blinds left down. And when I pull them up every morning I really want to find them up next morning. But I find them down. So perhaps it really is a Mede. To tell the truth, the distinction between the two is not so clear as it ought to be. I must try to come to some arrangement with the housekeeper about it.