Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, June 11, 1919 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, June 11, 1919
The CHAIRMAN. What is your idea of the minimum wage for poets?--In view
of the present purchasing power of the sovereign I should put it at
eight hundred pounds a year. Modern poets require an extra amount of
nourishment, owing to the nervous strain involved in production, and
their requirements in the matter of dress are often difficult to
satisfy. I understand that the price of sandals has gone up two hundred
per cent.
Mr. CHARLES GARVICE, the next witness, stated that he did not think
the literary quality of novels would be necessarily improved by
nationalisation. Speaking for himself he did not think it would affect
his output. But if the State took over this industry it should be
liberal in affording novel-producers facilities for obtaining fresh
material, local colour, etc. At all costs the output of salubrious
and sedative fiction must be maintained if only as an antidote to the
subversive and revolutionary literature now freely disseminated among
the proletariat.
COLONEL WEDGWOOD. HOW do you expect a workman earning only three
pounds a week to afford seven shillings for every novel that he
buys?--Personally I should like to see the cost reduced, but I
understand that if the price of novels were fixed at one shilling
it would involve the State in an expenditure of ten million pounds
annually, even with the present reduced output of novels, which has
fallen during the War to little over twenty million tons.
Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE declared himself a whole-hearted supporter of
nationalisation. There was something extraordinarily uplifting in the
notion of consecrating one's talents to the State. Publishers were too
often callous individualists. Here one would be working for humanity. If
his interview with the KAISER had been issued under State sanction he
believed that the Peace would have been signed months sooner.
* * * * *
OFFICIAL CANDOUR.
"TELEGRAPHIC NOTICE.
Public is hereby informed that delays to and from offices in Punjab
are normal."--_Indian Paper_.
Same here.
* * * * *
OUR VETERANS.
"London Rifle Brigade, 40 strong, of the 1st Battalion, which
went out in 1814, arrived in London from France at mid-day
yesterday."--_Daily Paper_.
* * * * *
A ROYAL INTERVIEW.
"Someone to see you, Miss."
Thus Mary at about nine o'clock on an April evening at the door of my
tiny sitting-room.
There was a strange little quiver in her voice.
Mary is so extremely well trained, and so accustomed, moreover, to queer
visitors at the flat, that I looked up in surprise.
"Yes?" I said. "Is it a lady?"
Mary did not reply immediately; she seemed half-dazed.
"Is it a lady?" I repeated a little sharply. My usually imperturbable
parlourmaid appeared to have taken leave of her senses.
"She said she was a queen, Miss," she gasped.
At that moment the visitor, evidently grown tired of waiting, calmly
floated in through the half-open door and settled down gracefully in the
centre of a large gold cushion lying on the end of the Chesterfield.
Fortunately I grasped the situation at once.
"Thank you, Mary," I said, with what I now feel to have been most
commendable coolness in the entirely unprecedented circumstances; "I
will ring if I want tea later."
When the door had closed upon the still gasping Mary I turned
apologetically to my visitor.
"I'm so sorry, your Majesty," I said. "You see, my maid was not
unnaturally a little surprised--"
"It's _quite_ all right," said the Fairy Queen graciously; "I thought
you wouldn't mind my coming in."
"Of course not," I said; "I am only too delighted. Won't you come nearer
the fire?"
She looked down at the cushion on which she was sitting, then she looked
up at me and smiled.
"I don't like to leave it," she said; "it's so pretty." And she stroked
the soft gold stuff with her tiny hand.
"Yes," I said; "and your lovely frock goes with it so beautifully. But
how would this be?"
I stooped, gently lifted the cushion with its delicate burden and put it
down on the floor in front of the fire. "There--how is that?"
"That's delightful," said the Fairy Queen. "I'm so glad you like my
frock," she went on. "Paris, of course. That is to say, the idea came
from there. My own people did the actual making. After all, no one can
touch the French when it comes to real _chic_. Don't you think so?"
I acquiesced. Oh, yes, Paris was certainly the best.
"But I didn't come here to discuss clothes," said my visitor. She made a
quick movement and leaned suddenly forward on the cushion, her delicate
golden head supported on her slender hand. "Do you know the Editor of
_Punch_?" she asked abruptly.
I hesitated. "I can't exactly say that I _know_ him," I said.
The Fairy Queen looked very disappointed.
"Oh, dear, then I'm afraid it's no good. I thought you'd be sure to know
him."
"But although I don't know him personally I am in communication with
him," I said. "Perhaps--"
She brightened up a little.
"I suppose you _could_ write," she said; "though of course it would be
far better to see him."
"It's about that cover," she went on. I looked at her blankly.
"The cover of _Punch_, you know."
Vague pictures of Mr. Punch surrounded by little dancing figures, an
easel, Toby, a lion--surely there was a lion somewhere--flitted across
my mind. What on earth had the cover of _Punch_ got to do with the Fairy
Queen?
I went over to the little table where lay the latest copy, and came back
with it in my hand and knelt down on the floor near the cushion.
The Fairy Queen came close to me and peered over the edge of the paper.
"Look at the fairies," she said, pointing with a tiny indignant finger.
"_Look_ at them. They're most dreadfully old-fashioned. Nobody in
fairyland looks in the least like that now."
I looked. Certainly the little figures had rather an early-Victorian air
about them.
"Of course we should never dream of being tremendously fashionable or
anything of that kind. I would not for one moment think of allowing any
of my court-ladies to cut their hair short, for instance, or to wear one
of those foolish hobble skirts; but nobody, nobody could accuse us of
being dowdy. Now tell me, have you ever seen one of us looking like
that, or like that?"
"But are you quite sure," I said, not without hesitation, for she was by
way of being rather an autocratic and imperious little person and I was
the least little bit afraid of her--"are you quite sure that they _are_
fairies?"
"Of course they are," she replied quickly. "What else could they be?
Naturally Mr. Punch would have fairies all round him. He loves us. You
have no idea how much we have in common."
I didn't reply at once. I was engaged in staring at the familiar design.
"They haven't any wings," I said, still rather doubtfully, "except this
one at the bottom."
But the Fairy Queen was very decided indeed. "All fairies don't have
wings," she said; "and with regard to that particular one at the
bottom," she glanced a little superciliously at the buxom lady with the
trumpet, "as a matter of fact, she isn't a fairy at all. I don't quite
know what she is, an angel perhaps, but not a fairy, certainly not
a fairy. But the others are, of course." She glanced at me a little
defiantly with her bright eyes. "Surely, my dear, I ought to know
a fairy when I see one. At the time when these were done they were
perfectly all right; they only want bringing up to date, like the
pictures inside, that's all. Now you will see whether you can do
anything, won't you?"
It was difficult to refuse, but I didn't feel very hopeful.
"I'll try," I said. "I'll write to the Editor; but I'm afraid it's not
very likely that he will do anything in the matter. You see the cover's
been like that for years and years. Almost ever since _Punch_ began.
It's--well, it's part of the _Punch_ tradition. We all love it. Nobody
would like to see it altered; it wouldn't seem the same thing."
The Fairy Queen was busy with her cloak and didn't pay much attention to
what I was saying,
"Won't you stay a little longer and have some tea or something?" I
begged.
She shook her head.
"A chocolate?"
She smiled. "I can't resist a chocolate," she said. She took a very
little one and nibbled at it daintily, flitting about the room meanwhile
and chattering away in the friendliest fashion in her tiny high voice.
"I must go," she said at last. "I have enjoyed it so much. May I come
again some day? I should love to come again."...
I went out with her into the little lobby and down the stairs, and stood
at the hall door to watch her go.
"Now don't forget," were her last words as she floated out into the
night. "Tell him, tell him exactly what we really look like."
"I can't," I called after her desperately; "I can't."
But she had already disappeared in the soft haze. I went slowly up the
stairs and back to my quiet room and the dying fire.
"I can't," I said again. "I only wish I could."
R. F.
* * * * *
"Bandsmen Wanted for Municipal Band. Solo Cornet and others. Work
found for bricklayer, carpenter, painter and paperhanger."--_Daily
Paper_.
With whose assistance we may expect some jazzling effects.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LURE OF THE LAND.
ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A MAN WHO BOUGHT A FARM--
--BECAUSE AN OPEN-AIR LIFE APPEALED TO HIM--
--AND BECAUSE IT MADE ONE ONE'S OWN MASTER--
--BECAUSE, MOREOVER, HE WAS FOND OF ANIMALS--
--AND ALSO BECAUSE ANY AMOUNT OF EXPERT OPINION WAS ALWAYS AVAILABLE IN
CASES OF DOUBT--
--BECAUSE, AGAIN, THE ELEMENT OF UNCERTAINTY GAVE SUCH A CHARM TO IT--
--AND, FURTHER, BECAUSE CERTAIN SECTIONS WERE BOUND TO BE PROFITABLE--
--IN ADDITION BECAUSE UP-TO-DATE APPLIANCES MADE EVERYTHING SO EASY--
--BECAUSE, IN PARTICULAR, IT TOOK ONE BACK TO NATURE, AND HELPED ONE TO
AN UNDERSTANDING OF NATURAL LAWS--
--AND, LASTLY, BECAUSE, AFTER ALL, ONE COULD ALWAYS GET RID OF THE
BEASTLY THING.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Author_. "YOU REMEMBER MY LAST BOOK?"
_Artist_. "THE ONE I ILLUSTRATED?"
_Author_. "YES. WELL, SIR BARNES STORMER WANTS ME TO DRAMATISE IT FOR
HIS NEXT WEST-END PRODUCTION."
_Artist_. "I SAY! THAT'S SPLENDID. I MUST READ IT."]
* * * * *
THE MURMANSK MOSQUITO.
My particular interest having been aroused by descriptions recently
published in the English Press of the Murmansk mosquito, I made a point,
on my arrival in North Russia with the Relief Force, of collecting
further data from officers whose experience entitles them to speak with
authority upon the habits of the local fauna.
From them I have gathered some curious information which should interest
even those whose enthusiasm for the phenomena of natural history
is normally but languid, and cannot fail to intrigue not only the
entomologist but also the big game hunter, who would find it well
worth his while to observe and study the tactics of this sagacious and
formidable insect.
Judging from the evidence at my command the true Murmansk mosquito is
considerably larger and fiercer than the Archangel variety, owing no
doubt to the genial influence of the Gulf Stream. Both types are however
sufficiently ferocious, and, save when rendered comatose by excess of
nutrition, will attack human beings without provocation. The female
of the species, if disturbed while accompanied by her young, will
invariably charge with such fury that only by an exceptional combination
of skill and courage can she be driven off. The shrill and vibrating cry
of the Russian mosquito as it swoops to the attack is, I am assured,
qualified to shake the fortitude of even experienced troops.
So surprising are some of the current stories of the size, strength and
agility of these dreaded carnivora that one would suspect their veracity
were they not vouched for by military and naval officers, and supported
by such concrete evidence as that of the local architecture. The houses
are almost universally constructed of substantial logs, undoubtedly for
the reason that brickwork would be more easily displaced by the furious
assault of the mosquito, which usually hunts in droves, packs or
swarms, and has been known to surround and make concerted attacks, upon
buildings occupied by particularly well-nourished personnel.
As evidence of the determination of their attacks, veterans of this
front have pointed out to me, in the walls of local buildings, massive
timbers which have been scarred and splintered by the teeth and claws of
these monsters, emboldened by hunger and incensed by resistance.
The peculiar ferocity of the mosquito of these high latitudes is,
of course, accounted for by the brevity of its actual life. Immured
throughout the prolonged winter within its icy sarcophagus, it is not
released before the middle of June, while the premature severity of
August rapidly lowers its vitality. Such is its offensive spirit during
the first relaxation of wintry rigour that it is dangerous in the
extreme for anyone to walk about alone, for naturally the mosquito which
the sunshine has just liberated, fasting and impatient, will make a
determined effort to partake of the first likely repast which presents
itself. Single newly-thawed specimens have been known to lie in ambush
by frequented paths and fall upon lonely wayfarers with the desperate
courage of starvation. I am credibly informed that, if duty necessitates
an unescorted journey at this season, it is a wise precaution to provide
oneself with several joints of reindeer flesh, which, in the event of
attack by mosquitoes, may be thrown to them and so effect at least a
temporary diversion.
The revolver is of little service against this formidable creature,
owing to its cunning and the rapidity with which it manoeuvres, while
its bristly hide is stout enough to defy the ordinary shotgun. It
is proposed to detail certain anti-aircraft batteries to deal with
high-flying swarms, while a young friend of my own, who was with a
special company of the R.E. in France, is prepared to design a haversack
projector for issue to all ranks. But against this it is urged by those
familiar with North Russian towns in summer that nothing of such a
nature can materially damage the _moral_ of the local mosquito.
Thrilling stories are told of escapes from these dangerous brutes. A
senior officer of notoriously full habit of body, having attracted the
attention of several immense specimens, was by them surrounded in his
office, and rescued only just in time by the gallant efforts of an
allied fatigue party which the besieged officer had the presence of mind
to detail over the telephone. While awaiting (or pending) their arrival
he passed through a period of mental agony (which has left unmistakable
marks upon him) as he listened to the roar of their wings and the
crunching of their fangs upon the outer timbers, or fixed his fascinated
gaze upon the sweep, of their antennae under the front door, where they
were trying for a purchase in order to force an entry.
On another occasion a patrol which was attacked by a large swarm was
only saved by the _savoir faire_ of its commander, who ordered his men
each to ward off the rush of the hungry insects with a ration biscuit
held out to them at arm's length. In their impetuous ferocity the
creatures blindly snapped at the biscuits, with the result foreseen by
the experienced leader; the swarm, with every appearance of complete
demoralisation, broke and fled, several being weakened by the fracture
of their mandibles and falling an easy prey to the bayonets of the
exultant patrol.
With its naturally ardent temperament irritated by months of bitter
cold, its constitutional hunger aggravated by a prolonged fast, its
appetite tempted by a novel diet in the form of British soldiery
well-washed and firm-fleshed after years of Army rations, the North
Russian mosquito is likely, in the opinion of experts, to take a high
place among the more deadly horrors of war.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Sergeant_. "NOW THEN, ARE YOU THE FOUR MEN WITH A
KNOWLEDGE OF MUSIC I WAS ASKING FOR?"
_Chorus_. "YES, SERGEANT."
_Sergeant_. "RIGHT. PARADE OFFICERS' MESS 11.30 TO MOVE GRAND PIANO TO
MARQUEE--DISTANCE 500 YARDS--FOR CONCERT THIS EVENING." ]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
_(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)_
That audacious paraphrase of the Book of Job, _The Undying Fire_
(CASSELL), seems to me to be marred by a fundamentally false note. I am
sure that Mr. WELLS is as serious about his new God in the Heart of
Man as he was about the Invisible King--I've no sort of intention of
sneering--but I cannot credit him with belief in the Adversary, who by
arrangement with the Almighty (as set forth in a discreetly flippant
prologue with something of the flavour of those irreverent yarns
invented and retailed by Italian ecclesiastics about Dominiddio) visits
_Job Huss_, the headmaster of Woldingstanton, with the plagues of his
desperate trial. However I take it that the author was anxious that his
parody should be as complete in form as possible, and, being rather
impressed by the insouciance, not to say insolence, of the Satan of the
original, seized his chance of bizarre characterisation and "celestial
badinage" and let consistency go hang for the time. Certainly the
theological disquisitions of Mr. WELLS are remarkable not for their
formal logic, but for their provocative quality and the very real
eloquence of detached passages of the rambling argument. In particular,
taking up again the thread of _Joan and Peter_, he gives such a survey
of the scope and glories of a new education that is to salve the world's
wounds as would move the heart of a jelly-fish. Mr. WELLS has his own
methods of justifying the ways of God to man. He may be discursive,
impatient, rash, perhaps a little shallow; but he has an undying fire of
his own. He is certainly not dull. And therefore orthodox divines and
pedagogues may perhaps have a real grievance against him. But I can't
imagine any serious-minded man in a serious time reading this book and
not getting hope and courage from it.
* * * * *
_Victory Over Blindness_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is a book whose title
gives you at once the key to its contents and to the spirit that
animates them. It is the record by Sir ARTHUR PEARSON of one of the most
finely successful enterprises that the War has called forth. Everyone
to-day has at least a vague idea of the work carried on at St.
Dunstan's, "the biggest individual business," Sir ARTHUR terms it, "that
I have ever conducted." A study of these pages will transform that vague
idea into wonder and admiration. Big the business might well be called,
since it is nothing less than the bringing back, almost to normal life,
of men apparently condemned to an existence of helpless inactivity and
dependence. Few things will strike you more forcibly in this book than
its practical common sense. That and an unsentimental optimism seem to
be the dominant notes of all Sir ARTHUR'S effort. Without doubt the
success of this has been beyond measure helped by the fact that the
originator was himself a sharer in the adversity that it was designed
to lessen. Two chapters especially in the book, called "Learning to be
Blind," a brief manual of practical suggestions by one whom experience
has rendered expert, supply a clue to the difference between the work
at St. Dunstan's and the best-intentioned efforts of outside sympathy,
_Victory Over Blindness_ is a proud and rewarding motto; this little
volume will show how thoroughly it has been earned.
* * * * *
I fancy that Miss JOAN THOMPSON had some design of symbolism in the
choice of a name for her heroine, _Mary England_ (METHUEN). The
publishers indeed consider that she might be called "Every Woman," so
typical is she of her sex, and "so like to the emotional careers of so
many English girls is her own." Perhaps, on the other hand (without
disparagement to the skill of Miss THOMPSON'S portraiture), I should
have expected the typical maiden of _Mary's_ class to show greater
initiative. Many things nearly happened to _Mary_; practically nothing
in her life was fashioned by her own intent. Of the two men who might
have made her happy, one didn't propose at all, and one did it in the
wrong fashion. Other two, who seemed possibly menacing, both drifted
away with their evil purpose (if any) unfulfilled. I am wrong, though,
in recalling _Mary_ as invariably passive. She was once roused to the
action of destroying the manuscript of a novel, in which the writer, the
man who didn't propose, had too faithfully revealed his perception of
herself. But though, as a reviewer, I may applaud this achievement on
general grounds, it provided no kind of solution for the problem of her
existence. This was left to be settled, very much offhand, by a detached
iceberg, which sank the ship in which _Mary_ was emigrating. I thought
that iceberg rather an evasion on the part of Miss THOMPSON. Perhaps
however all this effect of drift is part of a subtle intention. I
can certainly call the book admirably written, with restraint and an
emotional sympathy that impressed me as the outcome probably of an
intimate knowledge of the scenes and persons described. Whether her
lethargy is "typical" or not, as a study _Mary England_ will hold you at
least sufficiently curious to deplore its arbitrary end.
* * * * *
Sir HARRY JOHNSTON has written a book which I find it difficult to
define. His publishers and Mr. H.G. WELLS call it a novel, but bits of a
biography and an autobiography and an African explorer's account of his
travels have all somehow squeezed themselves into it, and for readers
whose birthdays began before the last quarter of the nineteenth century
_The Gay-Dombeys_ (CHATTO AND WINDUS) will best justify itself as a
_chronique scandaleuse_. To penetrate the thin disguises in which the
author has dressed his notabilities and to sort the composite or hybrid
personalities into their component parts should provide the initiated
with congenial if not very edifying occupation. The reader who is also
a DICKENS enthusiast will be, according to temperament, delighted or
outraged to find that Sir HARRY JOHNSTON has made his book as it were a
continuation of _Dombey and Son_. Many of his characters are either the
creations of Boz or their children and he contrives to carry on the
interweaving of their lives to an unbelievable extent--even when
the fullest allowance has been made for the smallness of the world.
_Florence Dombey_ and _Walter Gay_, as _Mr._ and _Mrs. Gay-Dombey_,
actually survive well into the present book, while Sir HARRY JOHNSTON'S
_Eustace Morven_, who tells us that he has reverted to the ancient
spelling of his name, is the son of _Harriet Carker_ and that hazel-eyed
bachelor, _Mr. Morfin_, who lived and loved in _Dombey and Son_. But
save in the chapter describing _Eustace Morven's_ appearance at the
annual dinner-party given by _Florence_ and _Walter_ to celebrate the
re-establishment of the firm, Sir HARRY JOHNSTON'S work has not a very
pronounced flavour of DICKENS. It is to be hoped that this method of
writing novels will not become popular. A series of sequels to everybody
by somebody else opens up an intimidating prospect, at least for the
reviewer.
* * * * *
Mr. PHILIP GIBBS has gathered together, under the title. _Open Warfare,
the Way to Victory_ (HEINEMANN), his despatches written from the Western
front during the last year of the War. What strikes one most on seeing
them again in book form is the obscurity in which they veil the events
they record. They so shine, as it were, with a luminous mist that they
seem to reveal everything, yet in sober truth very often it is only
in the light of later knowledge that they reveal anything at all.
Congratulations, therefore, to Mr. GIBBS, the perfect war correspondent!
I defy anyone from these papers alone (apart from the plentiful and
excellent maps) to form anything like an adequate conception of the
disaster that swept down upon the British Armies in the Spring of 1918.
And yet in a sense it is all there, gorgeously camouflaged under the
control--I daresay the wise and necessary control--of the censorship.
The author, watching the very moulding of history with every advantage
of proximity, has written down, if not much bare statement, yet an
amazing sequence of heroic detail, associated with such stirring names
as Arras or Givenchy or Cambrai. Curiously enough, though each chapter
is intensely vivid, they become, through much instancing of the same
unconquerable spirit, something monotonous, though never wearisome, in
bulk. One trusts that a future generation will realise that the value of
a book of this order consists in its first-hand record of such incidents
of valour; it would be pitiful to have it hastily assumed, because so
much is slurred or omitted to deceive the enemy, that England was
so feeble-hearted as to require her evil news predigested before
consumption in this manner. It should be added that the writer gives us
a good sound introduction that goes a long way to fill the yawning gaps.