Armageddon
The conversation had turned, as it always does in the smoking-rooms of golf clubs, to the state of poor old England, and Porkins had summed the matter up. He had marched round in ninety-seven that morning, followed by a small child with an umbrella and an arsenal of weapons, and he felt in form with himself.
“What England wants,” he said, leaning back and puffing at his cigar,—“what England wants is a war. (Another whisky and soda, waiter.) We’re getting flabby. All this pampering of the poor is playing the very deuce with the country. A bit of a scrap with a foreign power would do us all the good in the world.” He disposed of his whisky at a draught. “We’re flabby,” he repeated. “The lower classes seem to have no sense of discipline nowadays. We want a war to brace us up.”
It is well understood in Olympus that Porkins must not be disappointed. What will happen to him in the next world I do not know, but it will be something extremely humorous; in this world, however, he is to have all that he wants. Accordingly the gods got to work.
In the little village of Ospovat, which is in the southeastern corner of Ruritania, there lived a maiden called Maria Strultz, who was engaged to marry Captain Tomsk.
(“I fancy,” said one of the gods, “that it might be rather funny if Maria jilted the Captain. I have an idea that it would please Porkins.”
“Whatever has Maria—” began a very young god, but he was immediately suppressed.
“Really,” said the other, “I should have thought it was sufficiently obvious. You know what these mortals are.” He looked round to them all.
“Is it agreed then?”
It was agreed.)
So Maria Strultz jilted the Captain.
Now this, as you may imagine, annoyed Captain Tomsk. He commanded a frontier fort on the boundary between Ruritania and Essenland, and his chief amusement in a dull life was to play cards with the Essenland captain, who commanded the fort on the other side of the river. When Maria’s letter came, he felt that the only thing to do was to drown himself; on second thoughts he decided to drown his sorrows first. He did this so successfully that at the end of the evening he was convinced that it was not Maria who had jilted him, but the Essenland captain who had jilted Maria; whereupon he rowed across the river and poured his revolver into the Essenland flag which was flying over the fort. Maria thus revenged, he went home to bed, and woke next morning with a bad headache.
(“Now we’re off,” said the gods in Olympus.)
In Diedeldorf, the capital of Essenland, the leader-writers proceeded to remove their coats.
“The blood of every true Essenlander,” said the leader-writer of the “Diedeldorf Patriot”, after sending out for another pot of beer, “will boil when it hears of this fresh insult to our beloved flag, an insult which can only be wiped out with blood.” Then seeing that he had two “bloods” in one sentence, he crossed the second one out, substituted “the sword,” and lit a fresh cigarette. “For years Essenland has writhed under the provocations of Ruritania, but has preserved a dignified silence; this last insult is more than flesh and blood can stand.” Another “blood” had got in, but it was a new sentence and he thought it might be allowed to remain. “We shall not be accused of exaggeration if we say that Essenland would lose, and rightly lose, her prestige in the eyes of Europe if she let this affront pass unnoticed. In a day she would sink from a first-rate to a fifth-rate power.” But he didn’t say how.
The Chancellor of Essenland, in a speech gravely applauded by both sides of the House, announced the steps he had taken. An ultimatum had been sent to Ruritania demanding an apology, an indemnity of a hundred thousand marks, and the public degradation of Captain Tomsk, whose epaulettes were to be torn off by the Commander-in-Chief of the Essenland Army in the presence of a full corps of cinematograph artists. Failing this, war would be declared.
Ruritania offered the apology, the indemnity, and the public degradation of Captain Tomsk, but urged that this last ceremony would be better performed by the Commander-in-Chief of the Ruritanian Army; otherwise Ruritania might as well cease to be a sovereign state, for she would lose her prestige in the eyes of Europe, and sink to the level of a fifth-rate power.
There was only one possible reply to this, and Essenland made it. She invaded Ruritania.
(“Aren’t they wonderful?” said the gods in Olympus to each other.
“But haven’t you made a mistake?” asked the very young god. “Porkins lives in England, not Essenland.”
“Wait a moment,” said the others.)
In the capital of Borovia the leader-writer of the “Borovian Patriot” got to work. “How does Borovia stand?” he asked. “If Essenland occupies Ruritania, can any thinking man in Borovia feel safe with the enemy at his gates?” (The Borovian peasant, earning five marks a week, would have felt no less safe than usual, but then he could hardly be described as a thinking man.) “It is vital to the prestige of Borovia that the integrity of Ruritania should be preserved. Otherwise we may resign ourselves at once to the prospect of becoming a fifth-rate power in the eyes of Europe.” And in a speech, gravely applauded by all parties, the Borovian Chancellor said the same thing. So the Imperial Army was mobilized and, amidst a wonderful display of patriotic enthusiasm by those who were remaining behind, the Borovian troops marched to the front…
(“And there you are,” said the gods in Olympus.
“But even now—” began the very young god doubtfully.
“Silly, isn’t Felicia the ally of Essenland; isn’t Marksland the ally of Borovia; isn’t England the ally of the ally of the ally of the Country which holds the balance of power between Marksland and Felicia?”
“But if any of them thought the whole thing stupid or unjust or—”
“Their prestige,” said the gods gravely, trying not to laugh.
“Oh, I see,” said the very young god.)
And when a year later the hundred-thousandth English mother woke up to read that her boy had been shot, I am afraid she shed foolish tears and thought that the world had come to an end.
Poor short-sighted creature! She didn’t realize that Porkins, who had marched round in ninety-six the day before, was now thoroughly braced up.
(“What babies they all are,” said the very young god.)
Toby
It will save trouble if I say at once that I know nothing about horses. This will be quite apparent to you, of course, before I have finished, but I don’t want you to suppose that it is not also quite apparent to me. I have no illusions on the subject; neither, I imagine, has Toby.
To me there are only two kinds of horse. Chestnuts, roans, bay rums—I know nothing of all these; I can only describe a horse simply as a nice horse or a nasty horse. Toby is a nice horse.
Toby, of course, knows much more about men than I do about horses, and no doubt he describes me professionally to his colleagues as a “flea-bitten fellow standing about eighteen hoofs”; but when he is not being technical I like to think that he sums me up to himself as a nice man. At any rate I am not allowed to wear spurs, and that must weigh with a horse a good deal.
I have no real right to Toby. The Signalling Officer’s official mount is a bicycle, but a bicycle in this weather—! And there is Toby, and somebody must ride him, and, as I point out to the other subalterns, it would only cause jealousy if one of them rode him, and—”
“Why would it create more jealousy than if you do?” asked one of them.
“Well,” I said, “you’re the officer commanding platoon number—”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen. Now, why should the officer commanding the fifteenth platoon ride a horse when the officer commanding the nineteenth—”
He reminded me that there were only sixteen platoons in a battalion. It’s such a long time since I had anything to do with platoons that I forget.
“All right, we’ll say the sixteenth. Why shouldn’t he have a horse? Of all the unjust—Well, you see what recriminations it would lead to. Now I don’t say I’m more valuable than a platoon-commander or more effective on a horse, but, at any rate, there aren’t sixteen of me. There’s only one Signalling Officer, and if there is a spare horse over—”
“What about the Bombing Officer?” said O.C. Platoon 15 carelessly.
I had quite forgotten the Bombing Officer. Of course he is a specialist too.
“Yes, quite so, but if you would only think a little,” I said, thinking hard all the time, “you would—well, put it this way. The range of a Mills bomb is about fifty yards; the range of a field telephone is several miles. Which of us is more likely to require a horse?”
“And the Sniping officer?” he went on dreamily.
This annoyed me.
“You don’t shoot snipe from horseback,” I said sharply. “You’re mixing up shooting and hunting, my lad. And in any case there are reasons, special reasons, why I ride Toby—reasons of which you know nothing.”
Here are the reasons:—1. I think I have more claim to a horse called Toby than has a contributor to “Our Feathered Friends” or whatever paper the Sniping Officer writes for.
2. When I joined the Army, Celia was inconsolable. I begged her to keep a stiff upper lip, to which she replied that she could do it better if I promised not to keep a bristly one. I pointed out that the country wanted bristles; and though, between ourselves, we might regard it as a promising face spoilt for a tradition, still discipline was discipline. And so the bristles came, and remained until the happy day when the War Office, at the risk of losing the war, made them optional. Immediately they were uprooted.
Now the Colonel has only one fault (I have been definitely promised my second star in 1927, so he won’t think I am flattering him with a purpose): he likes moustaches. His own is admirable, and I have no wish for him to remove it, but I think he should be equally broad-minded about mine.
“You aren’t really more beautiful without it,” he said. “A moustache suits you.”
“My wife doesn’t think so,” I said firmly. I had the War Office on my side, so I could afford to be firm.
The Colonel looked at me, and then he looked out of the window, and made the following remarkable statement.
“Toby,” he said gently to himself, “doesn’t like clean-shaven officers.”
This hadn’t occurred to me; I let it sink in.
“Of course,” I said at last, “one must consider one’s horse. I quite see that.”
“With a bicycle,” he said, “it’s different.”
And so there you have the second reason. If the Bombing Officer rode Toby, I should shave again to-morrow, and then where would the Battalion be? Ruined.
So Toby and I go off together. Up till now he has been good to me. He has bitten one Company Commander, removed another, and led the Colonel a three-mile chase across country after him, so if any misunderstanding occurs between us there will be good precedent for it. So far my only real trouble has been once when billeting.
Billeting is delightful fun. You start three hours in advance of the battalion, which means that if the battalion leaves at eight in the morning, you are up in the fresh of the day, when the birds are singing. You arrive at the village and get from the Mayor or the Town Major a list of possible hostesses. Entering the first house (labelled “Officers 5”) you say, “Vous avez un lit pour un Officier ici, n’est-ce pas? Vive la France!” She answers, “Pas un lit,” and you go to the next house. “Vous avez place pour cent hommes—oui?” “Non,” says she—and so on. By-andby the battalion arrives, and everybody surrounds you. “Where are my men going?” “Where is my billet?” “Where’s ‘C’ Company’s mess?” “Have you found anything for the Pioneers?” And so one knows what it is to be popular.
Well, the other day the Major thought he’d come with me, just to give me an idea how it ought to be done. I say nothing of the result; but for reasons connected with Toby I hope he won’t come again. For in the middle of a narrow street crowded with lorries, he jumped off his horse, flung (I think that’s the expression)—flung me the reins and said, “Just wait here while I see the Mayor a moment.”
The Major’s horse I can describe quite shortly—a nasty big black horse.
Toby I have already described as a nice horse, but he had been knee-deep in mud, inspecting huts, for nearly half an hour, and was sick of billeting.
I need not describe two-hundred-lorries-on-a-dark-evening to you.
And so, seeing that you know the constituents, I must let you imagine how they all mixed…
This is a beastly war. But it has its times; and when our own particular bit of the battle is over, and what is left of the battalion is marching back to rest, I doubt if, even in England (which seems very far off), you will find two people more contented with the morning than Toby and I, as we jog along together.
Common
Seated in your comfortable club, my very dear sir, or in your delightful drawing-room, madam, you may smile pityingly at the idea of a mascot saving anybody’s life. “What will be, will be,” you say to yourself (or in Italian to your friends), “and to suppose that a charm round the neck of a soldier will divert a German shell is ridiculous.” But out there, through the crumps, things look otherwise.
Common had sat on the mantelpiece at home. An ugly little ginger dog, with a bit of red tape for his tongue and two black beads for his eyes, he viewed his limited world with an air of innocent impertinence very attractive to visitors. Common he looked and Common he was called, with a Christian name of Howard for registration. For six months he sat there, and no doubt he thought that he had seen all that there was to see of the world when the summons came which was to give him so different an outlook on life.
For that summons meant the breaking up of his home. Master was going wandering from trench to trench, Mistress from one person’s house to another person’s house. She no doubt would take Common with her; or perhaps she couldn’t be bothered with an ugly little ginger dog, and he would be stored in some repository, boarded out in some Olympic kennel. “Or do you possibly think Master might—”
He looked very wistful that last morning, so wistful that Mistress couldn’t bear it, and she slipped him in hastily between the revolver and the boracic powder, “Just to look after you,” she said. So Common came with me to France.
His first view of the country was at Rouen, when he sat at the entrance to my tent and hooshed the early morning flies away. His next at a village behind the lines, where he met stout fellows of “D” Company and took the centre of the table at mess in the apple orchard; and moreover was introduced to a French maiden of two, with whom, at the instigation of the seconds in the business—her mother and myself—a prolonged but monotonous conversation in the French tongue ensued, Common, under suitable pressure, barking idiomatically, and the maiden, carefully prompted, replying with the native for “Bow-wow.” A pretty greenwood scene beneath the apple-trees, and in any decent civilization the great adventure would have ended there. But Common knew that it was not only for this that he had been brought out, and that there was more arduous work to come.
Once more he retired to the valise, for we were making now for a vill—for a heap of bricks near the river; you may guess the river. It was about this time that I made a little rhyme for him:
There was a young puppy called Howard,
Who at fighting was rather a coward;
He never quite ran
When the battle began,
But he started at once to bow-wow hard.
A good poet is supposed to be superior to the exigencies of rhyme, but I am afraid that in any case Common’s reputation had to be sacrificed to them. To be lyrical over anybody called Howard Common without hinting that he—well, try for yourself. Anyhow it was a lie, as so much good poetry is.
There came a time when valises were left behind and life for a fortnight had to be sustained on a pack. One seems to want very many things, but there was no hesitation about Common’s right to a place. So he came to see his first German dug-out, and to get a proper understanding of this dead bleached land and the great work which awaited him there. It was to blow away shells and bullets when they came too near the master in whose pocket he sat.
In this he was successful; but I think that the feat in which he takes most pride was performed one very early summer morning. A telephone line had to be laid, and, for reasons obvious to Common, rather rapidly. It was laid safely—a mere nothing to him by this time. But when it was joined up to the telephone in the front line, then he realized that he was called upon to be not only a personal mascot, but a mascot to the battalion, and he sat himself upon the telephone and called down a blessing on that cable, so that it remained whole for two days and a night when by all the rules it should have been in a thousand pieces. “And even if I didn’t really do it all myself,” he said, “anyhow I did make some of the men in the trench smile a little that morning, and there wasn’t so very much smiling going on just then, you know.”
After that morning he lived in my pocket, sometimes sniffing at an empty pipe, sometimes trying to read letters from Mistress which joined him every day. We had gone North to a more gentlemanly part of the line, and his duties took but little of his time, so that anything novel, like a pair of pliers or an order from the Director of Army Signals, was always welcome. To begin with he took up rather more than his fair share of the pocket, but he rapidly thinned down. Alas! in the rigours of the campaign he also lost his voice; and his little black collar, his only kit, disappeared.
Then, just when we seemed settled for the winter, we were ordered South again. Common knew what that meant, a busy time for him. We moved down slowly, and he sampled billet after billet, but we arrived at last and sat down to wait for the day.
And then he began to get nervous. Always he was present when the operations were discussed; he had seen all the maps; he knew exactly what was expected of us. And he didn’t like it.
“It’s more than a fellow can do,” he said; “at least to be certain of. I can blow away the shells in front and the shells from the right, but if Master’s map is correct we’re going to get enfiladed from the left as well, and one can’t be everywhere. This wants thinking about.”
So he dived head downwards into the deepest recesses of my pocket and abandoned himself to thought. A little later he came up with a smile…
Next morning I stayed in bed and the doctor came. Common looked over his shoulder as he read the thermometer.
“A hundred and four,” said Common. “Golly! I hope I haven’t over-done it.”
He came with me to the clearing station.
“I only just blowed a germ at him,” he said wistfully—“one I found in his pocket. I only just blowed it at him.”
We went down to the base hospital together; we went back to England. And in the hospital in England Common suddenly saw his mistress again.
“I’ve brought him back, Misses,” he said. “Here he is. Have I done well?”
He sits now in a little basket lined with flannel, a hero returned from the War. Round his neck he wears the regimental colours, and on his chest will be sewn whatever medal is given to those who have served faithfully on the Western Front. Seated in your comfortable club, my very dear sir, or in your delightful drawing-room, madam, you smile pityingly…
Or perhaps you don’t.
The Ballad of Private Chad
I sing of George Augustus Chadd,
Who’d always from a baby had
A deep affection for his Dad—
In other words, his Father;
Contrariwise, the father’s one
And only treasure was his son,
Yes, even when he’d gone and done
Things which annoyed him rather.
For instance, if at Christmas (say)
Or on his parent’s natal day
The thoughtless lad forgot to pay
The customary greeting,
His father’s visage only took
That dignified reproachful look
Which dying beetles give the cook
Above the clouds of Keating.
As years went on such looks were rare;
The younger Chadd was always there
To greet his father and to share
His father’s birthday party;
The pink “For auld acquaintance sake”
Engraved in sugar on the cake
Was his. The speech he used to make
Was reverent but hearty.
The younger Chadd was twentyish
When War broke out, but did not wish
To get an A.S.C. commish
Or be a rag-time sailor;
Just Private Chadd he was, and went
To join his Dad’s old regiment,
While Dad (the dear old dug-out) sent
For red tabs from the tailor.
To those inured to war’s alarms
I need not dwell upon the charms
Of raw recruits when sloping arms,
Nor tell why Chadd was hoping
That, if his sloping-powers increased,
They’d give him two days’ leave at least
To join his Father’s birthday feast…
And so resumed his sloping.
One morning on the training ground,
When fixing bayonets, he found
The fatal day already round,
And, even as he fixed, he
Decided then and there to state
To Sergeant Brown (at any rate)
His longing to congratulate
His sire on being sixty.
“Sergeant,” he said, “we’re on the eve
Of Father’s birthday; grant me leave”
(And here his bosom gave a heave)
“To offer him my blessing;
And, if a Private’s tender thanks—
Nay, do not blank my blanky blanks!
I could not help but leave the ranks;
Birthdays are more than dressing.”
The Sergeant was a kindly soul,
He loved his men upon the whole,
He’d also had a father’s r le
Pressed on him fairly lately.
“Brave Chadd,” he said, “thou speakest
sooth!
O happy day! O pious youth!
Great,” he extemporized, “is Truth,
And it shall flourish greatly.”
The Sergeant took him by the hand
And led him to the Captain, and
The Captain tried to understand,
And (more or less) succeeded;
“Correct me if you don’t agree,
But one of you wants what?” said he,
And George Augustus Chadd said, “Me!”
Meaning of course that he did.
The Captain took him by the ear
And gradually brought him near
The Colonel, who was far from clear,
But heard it all politely,
And asked him twice, “You want a what?”
The Captain said that he did not,
And Chadd saluted quite a lot
And put the matter rightly.
The Colonel took him by the hair
And furtively conveyed him where
The General inhaled the air,
Immaculately booted;
Then said, “Unless I greatly err
This Private wishes to prefer
A small petition to you, Sir,”
And so again saluted.
The General inclined his head
Towards the two of them and said,
“Speak slowly, please, or shout instead;
I’m hard of hearing, rather.”
So Chadd, that promising recruit,
Stood to attention, clicked his boot,
And bellowed, with his best salute,
“A happy birthday, Father!”
One Star
Occasionally I receive letters from friends, whom I have not seen lately, addressed to Lieutenant M——and apologizing prettily inside in case I am by now a colonel; in drawing-rooms I am sometimes called “Captain-er”; and up at the Fort the other day a sentry of the Royal Defence Corps, wearing the Cr y medal, mistook me for a Major, and presented crossbows to me. This is all wrong. As Mr. Garvin well points out, it is important that we should not have a false perspective of the War. Let me, then, make it perfectly plain—I am a Second Lieutenant.
When I first became a Second Lieutenant I was rather proud. I was a Second Lieutenant “on probation.” On my right sleeve I wore a single star. So:
(on probation, of course). On my left sleeve I wore another star. So:
(also on probation).
They were good stars, none better in the service; and as we didn’t like the sound of “on probation” Celia put a few stitches in them to make them more permanent. This proved effective. Six months later I had a very pleasant note from the King telling me that the days of probation were now over, and making it clear that he and I were friends.
I was now a real Second Lieutenant. On my right sleeve I had a single star. Thus:
(not on probation).
On my left sleeve I also had a single star. In this manner:
This star also was now a fixed one.
From that time forward my thoughts dwelt naturally on promotion. There were exalted persons in the regiment called Lieutenants. They had two stars on each sleeve. So:
I decided to become a Lieutenant.
Promotion in our regiment was difficult. After giving the matter every consideration I came to the conclusion that the only way to win my second star was to save the Colonel’s life. I used to follow him about affectionately in the hope that he would fall into the sea. He was a big strong man and a powerful swimmer, but once in the water it would not be difficult to cling round his neck and give an impression that I was rescuing him. However, he refused to fall in. I fancy that he wore somebody’s Military Soles which prevent slipping.
Years rolled on. I used to look at my stars sometimes, one on each sleeve; they seemed very lonely. At times they came close together; but at other times as, for instance, when I was semaphoring, they were very far apart. To prevent these occasional separations Celia took them off my sleeves and put them on my shoulders. One on each shoulder. So:
And so:
There they stayed.
And more years rolled on.
One day Celia came to me in great excitement.
“Have you seen this in the paper about promotion?” she said eagerly.
“No; what is it?” I asked. “Are they making more generals?”
“I don’t know about generals; it’s Second Lieutenants being Lieutenants.”
“You’re joking on a very grave subject,” I said seriously. “You can’t expect to win the War if you go on like that.”
“Well, you read it,” she said, handing me the paper.
I took the paper with a trembling hand, and read. She was right! If the paper was to be believed, all Second Lieutenants were to become Lieutenants after eighteen years’ service. At last my chance had come.
“My dear, this is wonderful,” I said. “In another fifteen years we shall be there. You might buy two more stars this afternoon and practise sewing them on, in order to be ready. You mustn’t be taken by surprise when the actual moment comes.”
“But you’re a Lieutenant now,” she said, “if that’s true. It says that ‘after eighteen months—’”
I snatched up the paper again. Good Heavens! it was eighteen months—not years.
“Then I am a Lieutenant,” I said.
We had a bottle of champagne for dinner that night, and Celia got the paper and read it aloud to my tunic. And just for practice she took the two stars off my other tunic and sewed them on this one—thus:
And we had a very happy evening.
“I suppose it will be a few days before it’s officially announced,” I said.
“Bother, I suppose it will,” said Celia, and very reluctantly she took one star off each shoulder, leaving the matter—so:
And the years rolled on…
And I am still a Second Lieutenant…
I do not complain; indeed I am even rather proud of it. If I am not gaining on my original one star, at least I am keeping pace with it. I might so easily have been a corporal by now.
But I should like to have seen a little more notice taken of me in the “Gazette.” I scan it every day, hoping for some such announcement as this:
“Second Lieutenant M——to remain a Second Lieutenant.”
Or this:
“Second Lieutenant M——to be seconded and to retain his present rank of Second Lieutenant.”
Or even this:
“Second Lieutenant M——relinquishes the rank of Acting Second Lieutenant on ceasing to command a Battalion, and reverts to the rank of Second Lieutenant.”
Failing this, I have thought sometimes of making an announcement in the Personal Column of “The Times”:
“Second Lieutenant M——regrets that his duties as a Second Lieutenant prevent him from replying personally to the many kind inquiries he has received, and begs to take this opportunity of announcing that he still retains a star on each shoulder. Both doing well.”
But perhaps that is unnecessary now. I think that by this time I have made it clear just how many stars I possess.
One on the right shoulder. So:
And one on the left shoulder. So:
That is all.
O.B.E.
I know a Captain of Industry,
Who made big bombs for the R.F.C.,
And collared a lot of £ s. d.—
And he—thank God!—has the O.B.E.
I know a Lady of Pedigree,
Who asked some soldiers out to tea,
And said “Dear me!” and “Yes, I see”—
And she—thank God!—has the O.B.E.
I know a fellow of twenty-three,
Who got a job with a fat M.P.—
(Not caring much for the Infantry.)
And he—thank God!—has the O.B.E.
I had a friend; a friend, and he
Just held the line for you and me,
And kept the Germans from the sea, And died—without the O.B.E.
Thank God!
He died without the O.B.E.
The Joke: A Tragedy
CHAPTER I
The Joke was born one October day in the trench called Mechanics, not so far from Loos. We had just come back into the line after six days in reserve, and, the afternoon being quiet, I was writing my daily letter to Celia. I was telling her about our cat, imported into our dug-out in the hope that it would keep the rats down, when suddenly the Joke came. I was so surprised by it that I added in brackets, “This is quite my own. I’ve only just thought of it.” Later on the Post-Corporal came, and the Joke started on its way to England.
CHAPTER II
Chapter II finds me some months later at home again.
“Do you remember that joke about the rats in one of your letters?” said Celia one evening.
“Yes. You never told me if you liked it.”
“I simply loved it. You aren’t going to waste it, are you?”
“If you simply loved it, it wasn’t wasted.”
“But I want everybody else—Couldn’t you use it in the Revue?”
I was supposed to be writing a Revue at this time for a certain impresario. I wasn’t getting on very fast, because whenever I suggested a scene to him, he either said, “Oh, that’s been done,” which killed it, or else he said, “Oh, but that’s never been done,” which killed it even more completely.
“Good idea,” I said to Celia. “We’ll have a Trench Scene.”
I suggested it to the impresario when next I saw him.
“Oh, that’s been done,” he said.
“Mine will be quite different from anybody else’s,” I said firmly.
He brightened up a little.
“All right, try it,” he said.
I seemed to have discovered the secret of successful revue-writing.
The Trench Scene was written. It was written round the Joke, whose bright beams, like a perfect jewel in a perfect setting—However, I said all that to Celia at the time. She was just going to have said it herself, she told me.
So far, so good. But a month later the Revue collapsed. The impresario and I agreed upon many things—as, for instance, that the War would be a long one, and that Hindenburg was no fool—but there were two points upon which we could never quite agree: (1) What was funny, and (2) which of us was writing the Revue. So, with mutual expressions of goodwill, and hopes that one day we might write a tragedy together, we parted.
That ended the Revue; it ended the Trench Scene; and, for the moment, it ended the Joke.
CHAPTER III
Chapter III finds the war over and Celia still at it.
“You haven’t got that Joke in yet.”
She had just read an article of mine called “Autumn in a Country Vicarage.”
“It wouldn’t go in there very well,” I said.
“It would go in anywhere where there were rats. There might easily be rats in a vicarage.”
“Not in this one.”
“You talk about ‘poor as a church mouse.’”
“I am an artist,” I said, thumping my heart and forehead and other seats of the emotions. “I don’t happen to see rats there, and if I don’t see them I can’t write about them. Anyhow, they wouldn’t be secular rats, like the ones I made my joke about.”
“I don’t mind whether the rats are secular or circular,” said Celia, “but do get them in soon.”
Well, I tried. I really did try, but for months I couldn’t get those rats in. It was a near thing sometimes, and I would think that I had them, but at the last moment they would whisk off and back into their holes again. I even wrote an article about “Cooking in the Great War,” feeling that that would surely tempt them, but they were not to be drawn…
CHAPTER IV
But at last the perfect opportunity came. I received a letter from a botanical paper asking for an article on the Flora of Trench Life.
“Hooray!” said Celia. “There you are.”
I sat down and wrote the article. Working up gradually to the subject of rats, and even more gradually intertwining it, so to speak, with the subject of cats, I brought off in one perfect climax the great Joke.
“Lovely!” said Celia excitedly.
“There is one small point which has occurred to me. Rats are fauna, not flora; I’ve just remembered.”
“Oh, does it matter?”
“For a botanical paper, yes.”
And then Celia had a brilliant inspiration.
“Send it to another paper,” she said.
I did. Two days later it appeared. Considering that I hadn’t had a proof, it came out extraordinarily well. There was only one misprint. It was at the critical word of the Joke
CHAPTER V
“That’s torn it,” I said to Celia.
“I suppose it has,” she said sadly.
“The world will never hear the Joke now. It’s had it wrong, but still it’s had it, and I can’t repeat it.”
Celia began to smile.
“It’s sickening,” she said; “but it’s really rather funny, you know.”
And then she had another brilliant inspiration.
“In fact you might write an article about it.”
And, as you see, I have.
EPILOGUE
Having read thus far, Celia says, “But you still haven’t got the Joke in.”
Oh, well, here goes.
Extract from letter: “We came back to the line to-day to find that the cat had kittened. However, as all the rats seem to have rottened we are much as we were.”
“Rottened” was misprinted “rattened,” which seems to me to spoil the Joke…
Yet I must confess that there are times now when I feel that perhaps after all I may have overrated it…
But it was a pleasant joke in its day.
