l"V\/0 TOWN S ONE CITY PARIS -LONDON t TWO TOWNS-ONE CITY TWO TOWNS-ONE CITY PARIS-LONDON BY JOHN F. MAGDONALD AUTHOR OF "PARIS OF THE PARISIANS" 1 Les maisons font la ville, mais les citoyens font la cite." J. J. Rousseau. LONDON GRANT RICHARDS LTD. ST MARTINS STREET MDCCCCXVII ■DC7 2i» PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BV THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED EDINBURGH CONTENTS PAGE Introduction . . . . .7 PART I THE " ENTENTE "—BEFORE THE WAR I. PARIS AND KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH . 19 II. PARIS AND "son ALTESSE ROY ALE " . . 42 III. PARIS AND LONDON SCHOOL CHILDREN: THE FIVE HUNDRED . . . .48 IV. LONDON CHILDREN AT HOME . . .68 V. LONDONERS IN LONDON: AFTER THE SUMMER HOLIDAYS . . . . .74 VI. LONDON IN NOVEMBER : GUY FAWKSING . 80 viT. A Londoner's reflections on Christmas: its COSTS AND CONSEQUENCES . . .91 PART II LONDON IN WAR TIME I. THE MONTH OF AUGUST. THE LONDON CHILDREN AND THE NEW DEMOCRACY. THE GENERAL PRECEPT : " KEEP CALM " . . . 101 II. THE FIRST MONTH. IN CLUBLAND. AFTERNOON WOOL-WORKERS. THE AIRSHIP. THE MORA- TORIUM . . . . .118 III. THE SECOND MONTH OF THE WAR. MINISTERS IN STATE. PADDINGTON PREPARES. THE MILITARY BAND AS RECRUITER. TERRI- TORIALS AND CHRISTIANS . . . 129 5 44S972 6 CONTENTS PAGE IV. THE SECOND MONTH OF THE WAR. THE FORTY- FOURTH ANNIVERSARY OF SEDAN. SMALLER STAGELAND. SO HO IN THE EIGHTH WEEK . 149 V. THIRD MONTH OF THE WAR. BELGIAN REFUGEES. THE VANDENBERGERS. ALEXANDRA PALACE. TRAFALGAR DAY . . . .161 VI. THE FOURTH AND FIFTH MONTHS. DARKNESS IN LONDON. CABBAGES AND RABBITS 172 VII. THE FOURTH AND FIFTH MONTHS, NO. 2. THE LORD mayor's show. THE CATHEDRAL. THE CHURCHES ..... 180 PART III PARIS OF TO-DAY. APRIL-OCTOBER 1915 I. THE CROSSING ..... 191 II. NOT A NEWTOWN THE SAME CITY. THE STREETS. THE SOUP KITCHEN. THE CHURCHES . 202 III. ON THE BOULEVARDS. IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS. ON THE BANKS OF THE SEINE. "on NE DINE PLUS A PARIS " . . 212 IV. THE HEAT WAVE. THE NEW ENEMY. " SOLDIERS THREE " IN THE LATIN QUARTER . . 222 V. THE WOUNDED IN THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE. VANISHED PREJUDICES AT VERSAILLES. CLERICALISM AND THE REPUBLIC . . 238 mTRODUCTION By the general consent of both French and English critics who have judged him, since his death, the author of Paris of the Parisians has been given the title of " the interpreter to England of the spirit of France." This title headed the obituary notice of him in The Daily News which announced his death (26th November 1915). The same phrase, or some equivalent sentence, occurs in every one of the many generous appreciations of the special service rendered by this young writer who, in 1900, began to work for the " Entente " at a time when France and England did not understand each other as affectionately as they do to-day, and who continued to make the strengthening of the sentimental and intellectual, as well as the political, friendship between these two peoples his task of love, during the brief but effective literary career broken off in November, 1915. " He had a great love for France, did much to promote, and consolidate, the good feeling now existing between it and England," wrote the 7 8. ... INTRODUCTION critic of The Morning Post (27th November 1915). ■j^^'Jj^ his: Paris of the Parisians he was the inter- preter and exponent of all that is best in the life of the French capital." " Let me raise to his memory, not the monu- ment of my personal and poignant regrets, but the lasting emblem of the Entente," said the author of the biographical sketch entitled "An Historian of Paris" which appeared in the Paris edition of The Daily Mail of 29th November 1915. His task was the one, firstly, of binding the friendship between France and England securely by bringing home to both nations their real kinship ; secondly, of sweeping away prejudices, and, on both sides, some national conceits, which outer differences of manners, education and con- ventions aggravate. These blunders helped to encourage in France the delusion that the typical Englishman is unsympathetic, phlegmatic, melancholic and has " the spleen " ; and in England they fostered the even more foolish error that the typical Frenchman is deficient in seriousness and morality, that he is flippant, gushing, changeable and led by vanity rather than principles. Against both these delu- sions John F. Macdonald brought his intimate INTRODUCTION 9 sympathy with the most amiable and admirable characteristics of both peoples ; and his own special gifts of mind and temper, his indulgent sense of fellowship with all sorts and conditions of men, as a sentiment of humanity, which is more English than French in character ; and his wit, so full of gaiety, so free from bitterness, so pene- trated by the sense of " joy in widest commonalty spread," which is more French than English. By virtue of these combined qualities he was able to penetrate, and afterwards to interpret, the spiritual kinship and need of each other, of these two modern nations who appear to be " divinely selected " by evolutionary, and by revolutionary, processes to play the part of champions of a humane civilisation against the German menace of a restored military despotism. The articles on Paris in War Time represent actually the last chapter of a long work even as it stands, since it covered fifteen years, which the writer began when he was only twenty-one, and which was broken off abruptly by his death before he had attained middle life. If we are to believe his critics— the task was not left incomplete. In his pictures of London and Londoners, before and during the war, the object of the author was 10 INTRODUCTION consistently to exhibit and interpret, not only to France, but to many of our own Apostles of Culture also, some of the essentially British characteristics which belong to our national inheritance, as it stands revealed in the title " Merrie England " — characteristics still conspicu- ous in the popular philosophy of life of the really typical Londoner, and which have endeared the British soldier within the last eighteen months to the French people. These national qualities — merriment and frank sentimentality, allied to indomitable pluck — are perhaps the very last characteristics that (founding his observations on the representative Englishman abroad) an un- travelled Frenchman before the war would have suspected in our race. Now the importance of such true impressions is felt : for, notwithstanding the spiritual kinship established by historical evidence between the two nations in the modern world, who most value freedom and most detest tyranny, the mythical image of the phlegmatic Englishman, impenetrable to ideas and afflicted with the spleen, did put difficulties in the way of French sympathy with the British nation. And on the other hand, the equally false legend of French levity did disturb the confidence the stay-at-home Englishman was disposed to give INTRODUCTION 11 his natural Ally in the defence of modern civilisa- tion against the conspiracy to Germanise Europe. Confronted to-day with the results of this care- fully planned conspiracy we must — it seems to me — agree with the French playwright who held that a writer who had worked to remove mis- understandings between France and England " deserved well of both nations." And it may be said that the obligations are not lessened by the fact that in England also his influences have helped to dispel, in intercourse with our Allies, a certain affectation of insensibility where true kindliness of feeling exists, and of an assumed, not real, lack of generosity and enthusiasm dis- played by way of protecting the " well-bred man " from the vulgar exhibition of his fine sentiments. Under the stress of warm sympathy with France the best bred Englishman learns that to school oneself " to shame-facedness in the presence of emotions " of which one has no reason to feel ashamed (since to remain un- touched by them would speak very badly for one's character), and to cultivate as a pose an appearance of being less kind-hearted, less cheerful, less lovable than the Maker of English- men intended them to be, is not patriotic ; nor yet, as a cultural system, is such schooling of a 12 INTRODUCTION sort that assists our personal or racial progress towards perfection. There has been a general agreement in the testimony of many writers that the charm and the particular savour of John F. Macdonald's style, the quality of sentiment, controlled by kindly wit, were the result and the fine expression of his character. " He was a true Bohemian, a true lover of Paris," wrote the colleague who had known him longest, who, in standpoint of observation of French character, sympathised with him most, because this correspondent too spent his student days in the Latin Quarter (see Referee, 5th December 1915) : " He wrote absurdly little, when one thinks of the mark that little has made. But every line he wrote teemed with understand- ing of his fellow-creatures. For he loved ' the life ' and the people whom he found there. He was the first Kinematograph of Paris life. He wrote in broad, vivid, verbless splashes of word- painting, which smacked the picture home. And you always remembered his pictures. The man himself was almost more lovable than what he wrote. He is the only man I have ever known who would stroll up to a Paris policeman, at two in the morning, tuck his arm through his, call INTRODUCTION 13 him ' Cher Ami ' and ask him where a last drink was to be had and obtain a polite and satisfactory answer ! I have seen him pick up half-a-dozen waifs and strays in the street, and feed them at three in the morning, with eggs and coffee. I have known him get himself into debt to relieve a woman whom he hardly knew, and cared nothing about. He was a pocket Don Quixote, with the heart of Peter Pan. He would never have grown up. Bless him ! The War killed him, because War is so horribly matter-of-fact. But never mind, Mac ! We who loved you (and everyone who knew you loved you) will never forget you. The little you wrote will live, long after we are forgotten ; and the spirit of you, the great heart of you will live; because love of one's fellow- creatures is, thank God, the kind of thing which does not die." The fragrance of such a friendship as breathes thi'ough this little memoir honours both the man who inspired these sentiments and the heart capable of entertaining them. But there is one sentence which, because other critics have adopted and repeated it, seems to call for ex- amination. It is assumed that by virtue of the youthful charm of his style and character, which left him at thirty-eight just as convinced as at 14 INTRODUCTION twenty-one of "joy in widest commonalty spread " as the inspiring source and motive of the right study of life and laws of human judg- ments and obligations, that John F. Macdonald was a literary Peter Pan, who " elected to live always in the ' Never-Never-Land ' of his own imagination," and who, because he " would never grow up," judged men and events from the fantastic and unreal standpoint of his own optimism. Surely there must be some mistake here ? Can it be maintained of " the interpreter to England of the spirit of France," who from 1900 to 1914 worked to promote and consolidate the Entente, that he lived outside of reality, in the " Never- Never-Land " or in " some far fantastic country, east of the moon," as one of his critics supposes ? What should not be forgotten is that through- out this opening epoch of the present century, which ended with the outbreak of war, the pro- fessional counsellors and guides of the British public in political opinions taught the tranquillis- ing doctrine that the German Kaiser, who within the last two years has earned for himself the title of " William the Hun," merited to be known as " William the Peaceful," because his real motive in building up armaments was to inspu'e terror INTRODUCTION 15 of war and thus preserve the tranquillity of Europe. One has to ask oneself whether it was these interpreters of the purposes and plans of the German Kaiser, or whether it was the advocate of the importance of a good understanding be- tween France and England, wlio saw things from the imaginary standpoint of an unwise optimism. Frederika Macdonald. I have to thank the editors of the Fortnightly Review, Daily News, Morning Leader^ Star and Evening News for their kind permission to reproduce the papers printed in this volume. F. M. PART I THE " ENTENTE "—BEFORE THE WAR PARIS AND KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH June, 1902 ONE afternoon in June, 1902, not a vacant chair was to be had on the broad terrace of the Cafe de la Paix. There, under the awning, shoulder to shoulder, sat Pari- sians, Englishmen, Americans, Germans, Russians, three or four Japanese, dark-skinned gentlemen from Brazil, the Argentine Republic, Venezuela, a Turk or two in frock-coat and fez, Greeks, Scandinavians — for all I know, Haitians, Green- landers, Thibetans ; the usual amazing cosmo- politan gathering that inspired an American writer happily to proclaim the leading cafe in Paris " the Centre of the Universe." Thus, all languages, all drinks, and what a melange of tobacco smoke ! Glasses of turbid and opalescent absinthe, of light and dark beer, of madeira and malaga, of vermouth and cassis, of grenadine and kirsch, of Vichy and Contrexeville waters (these 19 20 BEFORE THE WAR for the dusky, ever-dyspeptic Brazilians and Venezuelans) crowded the round, marble-topped tables ; the fumes of choice, portly Havanas, of the stumpy, democratic three-sou cigar, of Turk- ish, Egyptian and coarse Maryland cigarettes drifted about hazily and lazily in the warm summer air. As usual, all subjects were being discussed — high, subtle politics down to the latest comic song, and lively anecdotes, tales of personal follies and escapades, related in more or less of an undertone, provoked winks, shinigs of the shoulder and laughter. Far back on the terrace sat Henri Rochefort, sipping milk, scowling and hoarsely declaring that every member of the Government should be strangled. Near by was elegant, impertinent Le Bargy, of the Comedie Frangaise, ridiculing and sneering at M. Jules Claretie, the managing director, and at grand old Mounet-Sully, the doyen, because those gentlemen had very properly reprimanded the vainest of J'rench comedians for breaking the rules of the National Theatre. And conspicuous, too, on this most interesting of cafe terraces were the carica- turist " Sem " (slyly pencilling down likenesses), the famous surgeon, Dr Doyen (describing an operation), a notorious professional beauty (in ecstasies over a mauve ice), silver-tongued Maitre KING EDWARD 21 Labori of the Bar (criticising a judgment), thick- lipped Baron Wolff of the Bourse (cursing his rival, Joseph Isidore Kahn) and Marcel Hutin, Labruyere and other yellow journalists, grinning and gesticulating as they narrated their latest lurid achievements. Then, whilst Paris and " the Universe " thus gossiped under the awning, all kinds of well-known personages drove by. " There goes Arthur the Catholic- Jew," croaked Henri Rochefort, as white-whiskered but steady- handed M. Arthur Meyer, proprietor of the Royalist Gaidois, piloted his pair of bays through the bewildering traffic of the boulevards. " That is Madame Re jane, the great actress," obligingly explained a waiter to Brazil and Venezuela, when the dark-skinned gentlemen jumped up in amaze- ment from their chairs at the spectacle of a lady in an oddly shaped brougham, drawn by two mules. President Loubet, in an open carriage, set old Rochefort storming ; eccentric, slim Mademoiselle Polaire, in a large blue victoria, provoked exclamations of " What eyes ! " and " What a figure ! " and Yells in the distance — ^the wild, frenzied yell of the camelot when he is the bearer of particularly sensational information. Up dashed half-a-dozen of them, panting and shouting : " Illness of the 22 BEFORE THE WAR King of England : postponement of the Corona- tion." Then, confusion on the terrace ; every- one on his feet, holding forth sous, clamouring for the damp " special editions." Then a din in the *' Centre of the Universe " ; everybody reading out aloud the grave, startling announcement and commenting on it excitedly in his own language. Then away to the fashionable Faubourg St Germain, to the gay Latin Quarter, to delirious Montmartre, to sombre Belleville, Villette and Menilmontant, sped the camelots with their news — " Illness of the King of England : postpone- ment of the Coronation." It staggered, it shocked Paris. It brought the carriages of Ambassadors, Cabinet Ministers, the aristocracy of Paris rattling into the courtyard of the British Embassy. It sent the most brilliant writers on the Paris Press hastening to London (how feel- ingly they described the removal of the decora- tions, and what prominence they gave to the Royal command that the banquet to the poor of the metropolis—" his Majesty's 500,000 guests " — should take place as arranged !). It caused the bourgeoisie, the workman, the cocker, the charming midinette, Gavroche the street gamin, the pretty bare-headed girls from the blanchisserie, even the sergent de ville, to assemble before the windows KING ED^A'ARD 23 of those newspaper offices in which huge repro- ductions of the bulletins from England were exhibited. It set the bands in the cafes playing God Save the King. It silenced the mischief- makers on the Anglophobe journals. It pro- voked, in a word, a unanimous, whole-hearted demonstration of respect, admiration and personal regard for the sick sovereign, who, when Prince of Wales, had so endeared himself to the French nation as to be popularly known as " I'ami de la France." Tlius, when at last the Coronation had been solemnised, Parisians rejoiced — and talked for hours at a time of the brilliant fetes that were taking place in London, and of the hons mots and geniality of the King, the " exquisite grace " of Queen Alexandra, and the stirring loyal enthusi- asm of their subjects. Picture post cards of their Majesties sold by the thousand, and what terrific business did the kinematograph establishments with their dizzy visions of the King in his robes, the King in his gala carriage, the King looking grave, the King laughing, the King acknowledg- ing the cheers of the multitude ! The rapid re- covery of His Majesty betokened a fine constitu- tion. " The King is sixty and grey-headed, yet he is younger than many a man of thirty," said 24 BEFORE THE WAR the Parisians. The banquet to "the 500,000," held by command of the Royal host whilst he was lying ill in Buckingham Palace, was constantly alluded to. " That is the King of England all over," was the comment. And when, in April, 1903, the day of his Majesty's official visit to Paris drew near, it was unanimously decided to give the " Friend of France " the warmest of welcomes. No — not entirely unanimously. Certain violent Nationalists agreed that here was an opportunity for a demonstration against England's annexation of the Transvaal. " We are not hostile to the King ; indeed, he is sympathetic to us," announced the agitators, in the course of an elaborate manifesto. " But upon the present occasion the Royal visitor is coming to France in the capacity of the ruler of the most tyrannical and treacherous of nations ; we have, of course, named England. We call, therefore, upon all humane and justice-loving Frenchmen at least to preserve an attitude of cold disapproval during the King's sojourn in our capital." The " at least " signified, if you shout " A bas I'Angle- terre," and groan, and blow whistles, so much the better. Thus the Nationalist manifesto, with its latent incitement to disorder, made M. Lepine, KING EDWARD 25 the Chief of the Police, uneasy. What was the reason of M. le Nationaliste's Anglophobia ? Partly his resentment of England's severe criti- cism of the Dreyfus Affair, but chiefly his consum- ing desire for noise and notoriety. I do not be- lieve the Nationalists cared a rap for the late Mr Kruger — yet what a reception they gave the deposed President when he landed at Marseilles, and w^hat a hero they made of him in Paris, call- ing him out on to the balcony of the Hotel Scribe again and again, chanting the Marseillaise and the Transvaal Hymn, and making the boulevards echo with cries of " Vive Kruger " and " Vivent les Boeres " and " A bas I'Angleterre ! " Tliose were fine days for MM. les Nationalistes. Their names and photographs appeared in the news- papers ; their own organs published verbatim reports of their own speeches and glowing accounts of their own open-air demonstrations. For it was all a " got -up " affair — ^the public held aloof, and if it cost money, it was worth it, for the advertisement. It cost money, because MM. les Nationalistes engaged the services of M. Napoleon Hayard, the " Emperor of the Camelots " — the ablest man in France at organising and " con- ducting " manifestations. At the rate of two francs a head he provided stalwart, lusty-lunged 26 BEFORE THE WAR camelots, warranted to break up meetings, blow ear-splitting whistles, shout themselves hoarse. They appeared, in fine form, at Marseilles ; they reappeared, husky and tired, beneath the balcony of the Hotel Scribe. But their " Emperor " was present in Paris to encourage them and direct operations. He had only to give the signal, and heavens ! how loyally, how uproariously the two- franc a head camelots — " Messieurs les Quarante Sous " — responded ! . . . Well, in April, 1903, it became known to M. Lepine, the Chief of the Police, that the more violent Nationalists were once again in communication with enterprising and obliging Napoleon Hayard. Later it trans- pired that " les Quarante Sous " had received orders to be ready and busy with their whistles on the day of King Edward's official entry into Paris. But MM. les Nationalistes had reckoned without the public, and without the higher- class Press, and without M. Paul Deroulede, their chivalrous if hysterical leader. Indignation amongst the Parisians ; stern reprimands from the Temps, Figaro and Debats ; and from M. Deroulede (in exile at St Sebastien) a long, elo- quent telegram dissociating himself from those of his followers who (" so he had seen reported ") were advocating a hostile demonstration against the KING EDWARD 27 Republic's Royal guest. These protests reassured the Chief of the Police ; how M. Lepine's frowns and uneasiness vanished ! Shrewdly, gaily he said : " The Nationalists are done for. Not a camelot will dare to blow his whistle, for fear of being set upon by the crowd. Tout va bien. Messieurs les Nationalistes, good-night." And here, as usual, M. Lepine was right. The Nationalist party abandoned their proposed demonstration. The " Emperor of the Came- lots " and the stalwart, lusty-lunged, unshaven " Quarante Sous " witnessed, it is true, the drive down the Champs Elysees of King Edward the Seventh — but in the capacity of spectators only. What cheers, what a waving of handkerchiefs and hats, what an ovation ! " Vive le Roi ! " shouted the " Emperor of the Camelots," a good fellow at heart. " Vive le Roi ! " yelled the " Quarante Sous," other good souls. " There is the King Edward — the Friend of France — look at him well — vive le Roi!" cried excitedly a Parisian to the small son he had perched, none too securely, on his shoulder. "Vive le Roi!" — more enthusiastically than ever when the King Edward smiled, bowed and »' saluted." 28 BEFORE THE WAR " Vive le Roi ! " — all along the route, outside the British Embassy, outside the Hotel de Ville, the Opera, the Comedie Frangaise — wherever and whenever, during liis short official visit to Paris, his Majesty appeared in public. And familiarly, affectionately, on the day of the King's departure — " Vive Edouard ! " In spite of Mr Balfour's recent words in the House of Commons, Parisians will ever maintain that it was King Edward the Seventh who " made " the Entente Cordiale. " It was arranged," MM. Duval, Durand and Dupont will tell you, " at the Elysee. The King and President Loubet discussed it together. Then M. Delcasse, who was in waiting, was called in. Half-an-hour later the Entente was established." Excessive imagination, no doubt, on the part of the three M. D.'s, but it is certain that when, in the early summer of 1903, M. Loubet returned the King's visit, the draft of the Anglo-French Agree- ment travelled with him to London. The scenes there come back to me : simple, kindly, admir- able M. Loubet " saluting " the Londoners from his carriage, and short-siglited, earnest-faced M. Delcasse starting forward from his seat and nervously removing his hat, when now and again the crowd recognised and cheered him. In KING ED>YARD 29 London, too, was the " Emperor of the Camelots." In London, also, were the " Quarante Sous " — fifty of them, with picture post cards of the King and M. Loubet, and songs that " celebrated " the meeting of " Emile " and " Edouard." Soho was decorated, illuminated. French journalists, the " Emperor of the Camelots " and the " Forty Sous " made the restaurants in Old Compton and Dean Streets their headquarters, and the " Emperor " (when reminded of Marseilles) ex- claimed, " Bah ! " and the " Sous " (when asked, Where were their whistles ?) frankly admitted : " II n'y a plus de sifflets. Le roi Edouard est chic. Tout change. C'est la vie. Que voulez- vous ! " Over to Paris, from the French special correspondents and from the French residents in London, went glowing accoimts of M. Loubet's reception. Vain, pompous Felix Faure brought back with him from Russia an Alliance ; modest, admirable Emile Loubet left England with an unsigned but none the less official Agreement ; and of the two Presidents it was the latter who aroused the greater enthusiasm and rejoicing when he returned home through the densely crowded streets to the Elysee. . . . " Edouard ! " Two years after the Coronation the last Anglo- 30 BEFORE THE WAR phobes in Paris admitted themselves converted. Everywhere, symbols of the Entente ; the En- tente boot, the Entente cravat, the Entente shirt, the Entente pair of braces, the Entente valse, the Entente perfume, the new Entente liquem'— all these articles were displayed in the shop windows, together with portraits of "the Maker of the Entente — the Friend of France — King Edward the Seventh." Then the " musical Entente " ; when an English band visited Paris, or the band of the Republican Guard went to London. Also the "Municipal Entente," when the Paris County Councillors crossed the Channel and were received by the King. Among the councillors was — posi- tively — M. Emile Massard, proprietor of the once Anglophobe Patrie. What vitriolic attacks he had made on " perfidious Albion " ! What gro- tesque, savage caricatures he had published of " grasping, sinister John Bull " ! No matter — " tout change," as the " Quarante Sous " observe, and " everything " had " changed " (so M. Mas- sard confessed) with the advent of King Edward. " A great man, and entirely affable, sympathetic, irresistible," wrote the proprietor of the Patrie, " Edouard ! " Upon the occasions of his private visits to Paris, en route for Biarritz, all Paris turned out, at some KING EDWARD 31 hour or another, to see and "salute" the Royal traveller. Crowds assembled to cheer him on his arrival at the Gare du Nord. M. Bcrtrand, the small bourgeois, and his wife and the little Bertrands " occupied " penny chairs on the Champs Elysees, in order to catch a glimpse of the King as he drove out into the Bois. Numbers of other Parisians loitered outside the abodes of his Majesty's intimate friends — the rez-de- chaussee of General de Galliffet, the fine mansion of the Due de Talleyrand-Perigord, the vast studio of Edouard Detaille ; old, dear friends the King never failed to visit. The General was crippled with rheumatism, the Duke (formerly the elegant, dashing Prince de Sagan) had been stricken down by the deadliest paralysis. " Edouard re- members his friends. That is Edouard all over," remarked Paris. Then a call upon wonderful Rodin, calls in the Faubourg St Germain, dinner at the Hotel Bristol or the Cafe Anglais (the last of the quiet Empire restaurants) and the theatre. Two private boxes were thrown into one for the King and his suite. Murmurs all over the house when his Majesty entered. " How he appreciates the subtleties of our language!" exclaimed the stallholders, when King Edward laughed. " Edouard s'amuse," said the gallery. " He is 32 BEFORE ,THE WAR the most Parisian of kings," said the upper circle. The fact was, the spectators were more interested in the King than in the play. They waited for him to give (as the French journalist has it) the " signal for applause." They were out of the theatre in time to see " Edouard " step into his electric car. Hats off, more cheers — and a smile of acknowledgment from " I'ami de la France." " Edouard ! " The workman, the cocker, the charming midi- nette, Gavroche the street gamin, the sergent de ville, the pretty, bare-headed girls from the hlan- chisserie, all were devoted admirers of King Edward the Seventh. I have heard a " sergot " say to a colleague : " Edouard drove by ten minutes ago. Naturally, I saluted. Edouard — I swear it — nodded his head. Well, mon vieux, it is something to be noticed by Edouard." Then this appreciation from a Gavroche to another Gavroche : " Chic, chic, chic. A shining hat, a buttonliole of carnations, a white waistcoat, a big cigar. I cried, ' Vive Edouard,' and he smiled. Mon petit, I assure you he smiled." And next, the charming midinettes who work in the fashion- able dressmaking shops in the neighbourhood of the Hotel Bristol. (Elsewhere I have already described the doings of the midinettes on the Place KING EDWARD 33 Vendome, but these doings were so delightful that I beg leave to repeat myself.) Well, at noon, their luncheon hour, Mesdemoiselles les Midinettes assembled in front of the Bristol, and there, under the windows of the Royal apartments, Marie the blonde, and Charlotte the binine, and Juliette the rousse devoured hot fried potatoes and galantine sandwiches and quenched their thirst with milk and weak wine-and- water drunk out of medicine bottles. Distinguished callers at the hotel — even the solemn porter at the door — smiled upon the scene. " Edouard will not drive out for another half-^an-hour," said a friendly sergent de ville. "On attendra, voila tout," replied the girls. " Here he is — attention," excitedly cried the constable, when the thirty minutes were up. And then what shrill cries from Mesdemoiselles Marie, Charlotte, and Juliette, of " Vive le Roi ! " and " Vive Edouard ! " ; and what smiles, and what a waving of handkerchiefs, and — yes, what a throwing of penny bunches of violets when the King, himself smiling, raised his hat ! Tlie fashionable dressmakers declared that his Majesty's visits to Paris were disorganising. Returned to their shops, Mesdemoiselles les Midi- nettes neglected their work in order to describe, at infinite length, the exact impression made on 34 BEFORE THE WAR them by King Edward. Said Mademoiselle Marie: "He is all that is most distinguished." Said Mademoiselle Charlotte : " What style, what supreme elegance ! " Said Mademoiselle Juliette : "Epatant — simply epatant.^^ And, sighed faded, sentimental Mademoiselle Berthe, the overseer in the room ; " He is incomparable." " Edouard ! " Even in sleepy, obscure villages the King's name was honoured. Take the village of Santois, for instance, with a population of four hundred peasants and a rugged, weather-beaten farmer, in sabots and a blue blouse, for mayor. But upon one particular occasion, when I met the Santois official, he was wearing huge, creaking boots, a fat buttonhole of rustic flowers and a wonderful old frock-coat, and was entertaining a number of villagers to a "lunch" (so he called it) of hard, sugared biscuits and atrocious, sweet champagne in the inn of " The Rabbit that Limps." " You have arrived just in time," said M. le Maire. " I am celebrating the birth of the Entente Cordiale Twins." Amazement of myself. " Yes, the Entente Twins," reiterated the mayor. " They were born — strong, admirable boys — three days ago. And I have named the KING EDWARD 85 one, Armand, after M. Armand Falli^res, the President of the Republic, and the second, Edouard, after your great King." *' Vive Ai'mand ! Vive Edouard ! " cried the peasants. " Rosbif — Milord — Pale Ale — You love me ? — Yes, my dear — 'Oooray," strangely shouted the landlord, a bibulous soul. Then toasts, in the atrocious champagne, to Madame Fallieres and to Queen Alexandra. Another to " la vieille Angleterre " ; after which, of course, I proposed "la belle France." Point- ing to a villager, M. le Maire said : " Hippolyte, you are a musician. So play us the two National Anthems." And on the old, exhausted, yellow- keyed piano of " The Rabbit that Limps " Hippo- lyte the peasant, with his clumsy, knotted fingers, strummed out the Marseillaise and God Save the King. " Edouard ! " Thus, familiarly and affectionately, was King Edward the Seventh called by the Parisians. " Edouard, I'ami de la France." Thus in Paris to-day, six weeks after his Majesty's swift, startling passing, is the familiar name spoken, not only with affection, but in a spirit that will secure the dead King imperishable sympathy and fame. " I tell Pierre and Paul, 36 BEFORE THE WAR my small sons, that King Edward the Seventh resembled our great Henri Quatre," a Frenchman has said to me. A finer tribute he could not pay. For, in France, Henri Quatre stands as the monarch who most excelled in the supreme art of kingship — ^that of endearing himself to his people by ever having their honour, prosperity and happiness at heart. Listen, for example, to this verse from the stirring Henriade of Voltaire : Je chante les combats et ce roi genereux, Qui for^a les Frangais a devenir heureux, Qui dissipa la ligue et fit trembler I'lbere Qui fut de ses sujets le vainqueur et le pere, Dans Paris subjugue fit adorer ses lois, Et fut I'amour du monde et I'exemple des rois. And now listen to the Frenchman of to-day, who gossips about Henri Quatre — eulogising his " amiability," his '' esprit," yes, even his " chic," just as if Queen Elizabeth's contemporary on the French throne had " flourished " but a short while ago ! I could not say how often I have heard related at the dinner-table of M. le Bourgeois, when the inevitable poulet roti had been served, the old, old story of how Henri Quatre vowed he never would be satisfied until his subjects ate meat every day and had a fowl boiling cheerfully in the pot on Sundays. KING EDWARD 87 " He had a heart. But, in my opinion, a fowl should be roasted, not boiled," stout Madame la Bourgeoise usually observes upon these occasions. " Did they dance in those days ? If they did, how magnificently Henri Quatre must have led the cotillon ! " states her daughter. Very likely, a school friend of Mademoiselle la Bourgeoise remarks, that Henri Quatre would have been, equally efficient and irresistible at golf. " Voyons, voyons," M. le Bourgeois then objects, " we are losing our heads. We shall next imagine Henri Quatre declaring no-trumps at bridge, and cutting amazing angles and figures in the skating-rink of the rue Amsterdam." Laughter, of course, at M. le Bourgeois' joke ; and our host rubs his square hands and continues : ** Voyons, voyons— soyons serieux, soyons sage." But when he crosses the Pont Neuf, with his son, M. le Bourgeois pauses before Henri Quatre's statue and exclaims : " Mon fils, look at the admirable Henri Quatre. Does he not appear alive ? Were he to descend from his horse I should scarcely be surprised." Master Bourgeois hates, as a rule, being pulled up before historical monuments and lectured thereon. But Henri Quatre, on his steed, is an 88 BEFORE THE WAR exception. Henri Quatre also, when discussed by the master in the inky, stuffy schoolroom, immediately becomes the favourite of the pupils, then their idol. They love, naturally, his bravery, his battles, but they are also taught to admire the human qualities that made him " I'amour du monde et I'exemple des rois." I do not suppose a French schoolboy has ever failed over an examination paper that had Henri Quatre as theme. Most certainly those documents have never lacked exhaustive data, eloquence, force of style. " Henri Quatre was Henri Quatre, c'est tout dire," was the decisive conclusion to a long, terrific essay by a certain Jean-Henri-Gilbert-Louis Dupont, aged thirteen. And I am entirely persuaded that when J. H. G. L. Dupont has grown up and married, and become the proud, fussy father of a son, one of the first stories he will tell Dupont fils will be that of Henri Quatre, the Sunday fowl and the pot, and that many years later Dupont fils, in his turn, will relate the same anecdote to his heir, and that in the far-distant future — the year 2000 ; the twenty-second century — still at a Dupont dinner- table, still in the schools, still on the Pont Neuf, still will Henri Quatre be held up, familiarly and affectionately, as " the model of kings." Why KING EDWARD 39 not ? Already he has been dead these three hundred years, and yet M. le Bourgeois can almost see his favourite monarch dismounting that stony, weather-stained horse, while the authors of the topical " revues " actually bring him on to the stage, astride a " property " charger — amidst enthusiastic applause. " Here is Henri Quatre " is the murmur. And what earnest attention, what naive exclamations of " Qa, c'est bien," and " Qa, c'est chic," when the stage hero proceeds to denounce modern instances of cyni- cism, selfishness, injustice. And what bravos, what encores, when " Henri Quatre," on his " property " steed, trots off the stage. Well, King Edward the Seventh is compared to-day to Henri the tolerant, Henri the human, Henri the well-beloved, " our own national Henri " — ^the finest tribute conceivable in the mind of the admiring Paris public. W^as not that banquet to " the 500,000 " somewhat — more than somewhat — reminiscent of the old story of the fowl ? Did not that visit to Ireland, when the King penetrated into the Dublin slums and chatted freely and sympathetically with their ragged, haggard inhabitants — did that not reveal chivalrous solicitude for an unhappy people ? And had not this tact, this kindliness, this bon- 40 BEFORE THE WAR homie the effect of destroying the popular super- stition that an Englishman must necessarily be arrogant and angular, narrow-minded and querulous, a most unsympathetic person, with a pair of aggressive side-whiskers and a set of fierce, protruding teeth ? Paris has seen the funeral procession — on the kinematograph — and the spectators have never failed to rise from their seats when, as the hidden orchestra has played Chopin's solemn march, the gun-carriage has passed. " After it had passed," a French friend tells me, " we all recognised with emotion the dog — Edouard's terrier, who used to be lifted so care- fully, so ceremoniously out of the royal train at the Gare du Nord. Once on the platform it barked at your Ambassador and at M. Lepine, the Chief of the Police. How Edouard laughed ! The smallest human incident interested or amused him ; a policeman, for instance, helping an old woman across the street, a gamin clinging round a lamp-post in order to have a good look at him, a superannuated soldier with a glorious medal, a street accident (upon which he made inquiries), convalescents taking air in a hospital garden, old Crainquebille with his barrow of vegetables, the chiffonier picking up cigar stumps — que sais-je KING EDWARD 41 encore ? Ah, le brave homme, le bon roi ! He was Edward, King of England, but he was also in a measure ' Edouard,' King of Hearts in France. You know a street in Paris is to be named after him ? " " In which district ? " I ask. " That has not yet been determined," replies my friend. " But it should be in the neighbour- hood of Henri Quatre's statue." II PARIS AND " SON ALTESSE ROYALE " 2lst June 1912 IT was in March last — just three months ago — that the King saw his son off to Paris from Victoria Station. The young Prince, the newspapers stated, was looking pale. Suppressed emotion of King George when he shook hands with the boyish traveller. Then the Prince at the carriage window, the Prince decidedly perturbed, and the King smiling encouragingly, his silk hat in his hand, as the train moved away. Back to Buckingham Palace went his Majesty ; away to the boulevards with his tutor sped the Comte de Chester — not so very unofficially after all, since he was to pay his respects to President Fallieres in the palace of the Elysee, and be ready with polite speeches. Speeches in French, too ; then a gallant compliment for Madame Fallieres, and the military honours rendered Son Altesse Royale in the courtyard of the Elysee to be " graciously " acknowledged. Yes, it was a matter of being 42 " SON ALTESSE " 43 ** graciously pleased " to do this and say that — at the early age of eighteen ! One would have to control one's voice, study one's gestures, remember the innumerable subtleties and intri- cacies of the Republican protocol — although one was only a boy ! Then the scrutiny of the public, who would not fail to take the liveliest interest in Son Altesse Royale. Imperative to make a favourable impression on the Parisians ! Indis- pensable that they should exclaim : "II est chic — il est sympathique — il est gentil ! " All- important that one should be considered worthy of one's grandfather, who was known plainly, familiarly and affectionately on the boulevards as " Edouard." Well, at the Gare du Nord, the magnesium explosions of the inevitable photographers — that made Son Altesse Royale start. But nothing in that ; " Edouard " himself abhorred those sudden lurid flashes, and it was at his strongly worded request that no photographers were admitted into the French Northern Railway station when his late Majesty visited Paris. On the platform, the Marquis de Breteuil — the Prince's host — and, of course, M. Lepine, the Chief of the Paris Police, both of whom had been intimate friends of the boyish traveller's popular grandfather. Tlien 44 BEFORE THE WAR into a motor car. Present at the departure, hundreds of spectators. No cheers, because his Royal Highness was incognito. But, as the car disappeared, unanimous exclamations of : "II est gentil — il est sympathique — il est chic." Very flattered were the Parisians that their city should have been chosen as the scene of the Comte de Chester's studies ; very delighted, too, at the Prince's simple and yet dignified demeanour. " Ah, les Anglais, they are astonishing ! " ex- claimed M. le Bourgeois. " They send their heir to the throne, only eighteen years old, abroad — and already, at that tender age, he wears a frock- coat and goes to the races, and visits the Opera and Comedie Frangaise, and becomes the friend of our admirable Lepine ! " And it was true ; the Prince witnessed ballets and enjoyed Moliere, appeared top-hatted at Long- champ and viewed monuments. State industries and dingy, dubious neighbourhoods in the com- pany of the lynx-eyed, white-bearded Chief of the Police. Indeed, the Comte de Chester went here, there and everywhere, so that his experiences were at once " extensive and peculiar." From the fine salons of his host's mansion in the Avenue du Bois to the musty amphitheatres of the Sor- bonne University ; then to debates in the Senate " SON ALTESSE " 45 and Chamber ; then to a sitting of tlie Immortals of the Academie Fran9aise ; then to shops, picture galleries, communal schools, churches. And after that — and more recently — away to Toulon, where Son Altesse Royale boarded a submarine ; and next a long motor trip to the wonderful old historic chateaux of beautiful Touraine. — Only eighteen years old, and already examining submarines and inspecting ruined, ghostly castles ? M. le Bourgeois was loud in his praise of the " enterprise " of the Comte de Chester ! More wonderful than that, Son Altesse Royale had actually succeeded in outwitting the notorious M. Marcel Hutin — the Yellowest of the Yellow Paris journalists — who pursued the Prince about Touraine with the object of obtaining an inter- view. M. Hutin it was who got over a garden wall in the days when the King of Spain was engaged to Princess Ena, and boldly addressed the Royal fiances as they sat sentimentally together in an arbour. M. Hutin who forced " confes- sions " out of Madame Steinheil, who is the terror and nightmare of statesmen and celebrities, who regards himself, and is generally regarded, as indomitable, irresistible. Yellow M. Hutin was none the less baffled by the boyish Altesse Royale. 46 BEFORE THE WAR It was impossible to " corner " the Comte de Chester. " Ce sacre Hut in has met his master," exulted M. le Bourgeois. " Ah, les Anglais, they are incredible ! They send their heir to the throne — only eighteen — to France, and he proves too much for even our terrible Hutin ! " However, in spite of his incognito, the Prince has had flowers left for him by unknown admirers at the Marquis de Breteuil's residence, and penny bunches of violets thrown at him by the charming, bare-headed midinettes of the Rue de la Paix. His passing in a motor car has provoked as much excitement amongst Mesdemoiselles des Midinettes as did the appearance of King Edward, whom the Germaines and Yvonnes of the fashionable dress- makers' shops idolised. Blushing of Son Altesse Royale ; increased delight of the girls I Tlien it has been stated that burly, white-headed Presi- dent Fallieres has spoken most highly of the " gifts " of the Comte de Chester, and that he desires to invest him with the Grand Cordon of the Legion of Honour — and only eighteen 1 According to the chroniclers of Court news, his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales is to spend this week-end in his own country. To-day, the Channel ; on Saturday and Sunday, Windsor ; on Monday, London ; and on Tuesday or Wednes- " SON ALTESSE " 47 day, back to France under the title of the Comte de Chester. Thus, not much of a holiday ; and in the brief period of a week-end not even the most eloquent, the most garrulous of boys could be expected to give a full and detailed account of the amazing experiences his Royal Highness might relate when he spends this week-end in England. But what modesty will forbid his stating is that he has completely won the hearts of the French people. They admire the slight figure, the candid, open expression, the frank, boyish smile. Most certainly — in his frock-coat and top hat — he is a grandson worthy of " Edouard ! " Most assuredly he is a credit to " la vieille Angleterre ! " Most indisputably : " II est gentil — il est sympathique — il est chic." Ill PARIS AND LONDON SCHOOL CHILDREN : THE FIVE HUNDRED IT was the longest of trains, the most animated and most amazing of corridor expresses, that left London Bridge station for Folkestone harbour and the Channel, shortly after eight o'clock in the morning on the twenty- fifth of May. In the saloon carriage, reserved for special newspaper correspondents and camera- laden photographers, M. Sire, the white-bearded but ever-youthful representative in London of the French Northern Railway, thus addressed the company : "I should like to say of this ex- pedition to Paris that it is at once refreshing and unique. Unlike official visits — Royal, Parlia- mentary or Municipal — its character is neither formal nor conventional ; far less does there lurk in it a political significance. It is entirely spon- taneous ; it is wholly unsophisticated ; it is innocence itself. In a word, it is human, it is poetical, it " But here a din of shrill, excited cheering — for which, needless to say, the hlase 48 THE FIVE HUNDRED 49 journalists and photographers were not responsible — interrupted M. Sire's discourse. The din came from without. And, on going to the window, I discovered the heads of children upon children thrust through the innumerable other windows of this interminable train. Not only heads, but hands and arms — and here and there the best part of a body. And the cheers were being raised at the spectacle of a number of peasants at work in a green field ; a sight rarely, if ever, beheld by this trainful of small boys and girls from the back streets of Peckham and Tooting, Brixton and West Kensington, Greenwich and Woolwich. Also from the County Council schools of those districts — five hundred Carries and Cissies and Gerties, and Georges and Jimmies and Willies, in all. Their destination — oh, gracious goodness ! — was the boulevards. Nor were they cheap Whit- suntide trippers, but the officially invited guests of the City of Paris, with a leading part to play in the International Musical Festival. Hence the special corridor train. Hence M. Sire's speech. Hence the collection of cameras and journalists and the formidable array of County Council " teachers," guides and nurses in attendance on dingiest London's obscure children — ^liereafter to be termed, collectively and importantly, the Five Hundred. 50 BEFORE THE WAR Only from France, the country of human sym- pathies and ideas, could such an " invitation " have been extended. On the other hand, only in England do there exist children dauntless and adventurous enough to face, without a qualm, an unknown people in an unfamiliar land. You could never persuade little Rene and Marguerite of Paris, nor young Hans and Hilda of Berlin, to come publicly to London ; there would be tears, hysterics at the mere suggestion of such a thing. But our Carries and Cissies, and Georges and Jimmies, would embark for anywhere at an hour's notice, and confront and endure the most em- barrassing situations with admirable heroism. The sea and her shocks and miseries, for instance. As the train bearing the Five Hundred steamed into Folkestone harbour station, what a cheer for the Channel ! Out of the carriages jumped the children, and, dividing themselves into groups, awaited the orders of their " teachers." Either a red or a white or a blue ribbon around the straw hats of the girls, so that, when assembled, they formed a symbol of the tricolour. The boj^s in caps, again either blue or white or red ; thus more homage to the French national colours. Then knapsacks and military-looking water-bottles (slung dashingly across them by a strap) for the THE FIVE HUNDRED 51 Georges, and reticules and rush " pilgrim " baskets for the Carries and Cissies. A clapping of hands — the command to proceed — and the Five Hundred, now two abreast, pass gaily along the platform and across the gangway on to the boat. Down they troop into the saloon, where they deposit their luggage. Up they come on to deck, and then do the girls tie handkerchiefs (motor-veil fashion) over their straw hats, whilst the boys perform gymnastics, clamber on to railings and funnels and pay admiring homage to the sailors. But not for long. Behold the Channel becoming choppy, the Channel getting worse, and the Carries and Cissies staggering about and being taken below, and the Georges and Jimmies also disappearing, and the "teachers '* and nurses consoling and soothing the Five Hundred. Still, in spite of its suffering, it was an admirable Five Hundred. It neither cried out for mercy nor begged despairingly for death. And how rapidly, how astonishingly it recovered when informed that Boulogne harbour had been entered, and that it was time to line up on deck and make a favourable impression on the crowd assembled on the quays. There stood M. le Maire, with the entire Municipal Council assembled imposingly behind him. Prominent, too, was 52 BEFORE THE WAR the Municipal Band, which struck up God Save the King, the very moment the boat, after a last shudder, came to a standstill. After that, the Marseillaise, and next, the Five Hundred's very shrillest cheering. Of course, speeches and toasts and champagne in the buffet, where M. le Maire received the L.C.C. authorities. And whilst he discussed this unique visit with elegance and charm, a group of Boulogne fisherwomen (in their best black dresses and starched, fan-shaped white caps) were presenting the children with tri- colour dolls, flags, paper flowers and rosettes. Then a distribution of buns and cakes, an empty- ing of the military water-bottles and deep draughts of lemonade, and into another special train, en route — oh, dear me ! — to the boulevards. There were cheers for the French peasantry, French cattle, French cottages, French windmills. More cheers for the Amiens Cathedral, for the vast, vulgar chateau of the Baron Gustave de Roths- child, for the gas and electrical works of Creil, for the grim chimneys of St Denis. And what ring- ing, piercing cheers for the one and only Gare du Nord, where eighteen brand new motor omni- buses were in waiting to transport the flushed and dishevelled Five Hundred to their various school residences in the outlying districts of THE FIVE HUNDRED 58 Auteuil, Neuilly, Passy and Montrouge ! It was five o'clock, the " green hour," and thus the obscure children of dingiest London saw Paris at the most animated and exhilarating time in the day. Hanging out of the omnibus windows, they cheered the crowded terraces of the boule- vard cafes, the radiant Champs Elysees, the swift little steamers on the Seine, the students of the Latin Quarter, all the while waving their dolls and small tricolour flags. Not a trace of appre- hension, as they trooped into their school residences with their baskets, knapsacks and water-bottles. The great doors closed-to amidst the clamour of shrill voices and the shuffling of feet ; and the admirable Five Hundred had both dined and been put to bed when, at nine o'clock, the Inter- national Musical Festival began with an explosion of fireworks, torchlight processions and stirring military tattoos. Mercy me, the state of Paris ! No fewer than five hundred musical societies from all parts of the country had invaded the city and taken possession of theatres and halls, public gardens and squares, even of cafes and street corners. Here, a choir from Rheims. Over there, the brassiest of brass bands from Normandy and Brittany. Elsewhere, ear-splitting fanfares from 54 BEFORE THE WAR primitive, remote villages. Farther on, a dozen lusty trumpeters. Then the wail of the flute, the crash of the cymbal, the boom of the drum — and every one of these multitudinous performers singing and playing his hardest and loudest. Naturally, cases of jealousy : resulting in stormy scenes between Normans and Bretons, and in one of the remote Village Fanfares threaten- ing to destroy an important Brass Band with its primitive instruments. Nor did the husky old barrel organs of Paris fail to come out ; nor yet the street-singers with their harmoniums, violins and harps, together with beggars, " strong men," wrestlers and roundabouts. Many were the Village Fanfares that got lost in dubious neigh- bourhoods, and sought refuge in police-stations ; many the Brass Bands that appealed in vain for accommodation, and had to pass the night in the open ; many the Choirs that completely lost their voices from excitement and fatigue. It was amidst all this chaos and din that the eighteen brand new motor omnibuses, containing London's Five Hundred, made what the French journalists termed " a sensational appearance." Never had Paris beheld such a charming collection of blonde little girls, never did small boys excite so much interest and admiration. It was the flaxen hair, THE FIVE HUNDRED 55 it was the military water-bottles, tliat won the children their first enthusiastic ovation. Then were patriotic French hearts stirred by the tri- colour ribbons and the small national flags, and the shrill, constant cheering and the cries of " Vive la France," and the singing of the Marseil- laise in the shade of the Bois de Boulogne. Sunday afternoon : and so all bourgeois Paris on show in the Bois. M. Dupont smoking a tough demi-londres cigar ; stout Madame Dupont in black satin, white gloves and a heliotrope bonnet ; the little Duponts also installed in penny chairs, with orders not to leave them, lest they should stain their tight Sunday clothes. Then all of a sudden, the arrival of the Five Hundred, and (as they say in the Chamber) " mouvements " of the bourgeoisie. " Charmantes, les petites blondes,'* observed Madame la Bourgeoise. " Tu vois, comme ils sont pratiques, les Anglais," remarked the husband, h propos of the water-bottles. Emotion of small Ren6 Dupont ; of his little sister, Marguerite. Yes ; what with the blond- ness of the Cissies and the gallant water-bottles of the Jimmies, the young Duponts of Paris there and then lost their hearts to the fair and heroic Five Hundred. And no wonder ! Peckham swarmed up trees ; Tooting bent down perilously 56 BEFORE THE WAR over the edge of the lake ; Brixton almost got splashed by the cascade ; Woolwich was patted on the shoulder by an officer of the Legion of Honour ; West Kensington (in the person of its blondest representative) was presented with a rose by an elegant lady, who at the very least must have been a marquise. " Vas-y, vas-y," assented M. le Bourgeois, when, in spite of their Sunday clothes, little Ren6 and Marguerite begged leave to descend from their penny chairs and mix with the Five Hundred. Of course, awkwardness, embarrassment. " Monsieur," said Rene to Jimmy ; " Madame," said Marguerite to Cissie, by way of introduction. " Bong jour," replied London. A twiddling of thumbs, a kick- ing of heels, heavy breathing, infinite blushing, sly, tentative smiles. " We'd better shake 'ands with them," suggested Peckham. " And after that show 'em the water-bottles." Then a Cockney grip of the hand that made Ren6 and Marguerite start ; then the tops of the water- bottles unscrewed, and young, bourgeois Paris staring (one after another) into their mysterious depths ; then naive French cries of " C'est beau, 9a," and London exclamations of " Thought you'd like it — ought to get one yerself — they're the limit — but of covirse you don't understand wot THE FIVE HUNDRED 57 I'm saying — never mind, can't 'elp it " ; then a handkerchief exchanged sentimentally between the Boulevard Magenta and Sampson Street, Tooting, and then the Five Hundred suddenly called upon by its teachers to give an impromptu rendering of the Marseillaise. For no singing figured in Sunday's official programme ; it was at the special request of the before -mentioned officer of the Legion of Honour, of Madame la Marquise, of the bourgeoisie, that London's obscure children formed up into a square and chanted the French National Anthem. Shoulder to shoulder they sang — time and tune both perfect, beating the air with their flags and the tricolour dolls ; in their ardour tossing back their blonde hair and shifting the straps of their water-bottles. ..." Marchong, marchong ! . . ." How the Bois echoed with the children's shrill, fervent voices ! How belated Parisians came hastening up to the scene ! What exclamations of " Bravo " and " Epatants, les petits Anglais," and " Bis, bis," when the Five Hundred had finished ! But — more to follow ; cries of " Vive la France " and the eternal shrill cheers, which increased the delight of the Parisians. Breaking the ranks of the Five Hundred, the Duponts and Durands congratulated, caressed and embraced Peckham and Tooting. How did 58 BEFORE THE WAR the Five Hundred like France ? What did they think of French cooking ? What had been the state of the " sinister " Channel ? How were the fogs of "la vieille Angleterre " ? All this, most rapidly, in French ! Vague replies, therefore, of, " Yes, mister," and " All right, thank you, lady." Young Rene and small Marguerite edged nearer and nearer to Carrie and Jimmie. Solid Peck- ham hands were clasped by frail Paris hands, and more exchanges of handkerchiefs between the Back Streets of Tooting and Brixton and the Bour- geois Boulevards of Arago, Pasteur and Magenta. A fondling of those gallant, military water-bottles on the part of small Marguerite and Rene. Audibly and indisputably, a Marguerite kissed by a Jimmie. Nor were Marguerite's parents shocked by the impropriety. " Oh, les blondes, they turn one's head ! " exclaimed M. le Bour- geois. " When one is a child, it does not matter. But you, mon cher Hippolyte, are too old to be- come sentimental over blondes — leave that to your son," snapped Madame la Bourgeoise, who was swarthy. It is possible that the Renes and Marguerites, and the Edouards and Cissies, and the Georges and Yvonnes would have wandered away into the depths of the Bois, and there have planned elopements to "la vieille Angleterre," THE FIVE HUNDRED 59 had not the L.C.C. authorities called upon the Five Hundred to return to their motor omnibuses. Dolls, caps and flags held up in the air by London's children, as they march two abreast through the wood to their vehicles. Gloom of Rene and Marguerite when the Five Hundred dis- appear. Questions of: When shall we sec them again ? When may we invite them to tea ? When are you going to give me a water-bottle ? Why should English boys carry water-bottles and French boys have none ? Why should little English girls be allowed to ? " La paix," cries M. le Bourgeois. "It is Sunday and we are in the Bois, so be correct," Madame Dupont commands both her husband and children. " But I want to see les petits Anglais again," sobs Marguerite. " I tnust have a water- bottle," declares Ren^. So, with their children dissatisfied, rebellious, the Duponts make their long way home to Arago, Pasteur and Magenta. En route, glimpses of the Five Hundred, whose progress in the motor omnibuses had been im- peded by the swarms of Brass Bands and Village Fanfares. " There they are again," shout Marguerite and Rene. Yes, there they were, always cheering, always waving their tricolour presents, always (as a Peckhamite shouted out of 60 BEFORE THE WAR the window) " always merry and bright." Alas for the important Brass Bands and those remote Village Fanfares, and for all the rest of the five hundred vocal and instrumental societies come to Paris ! They were eclipsed by London's Five Hundred. They were ordered by the fierce, nervous little Paris policeman to " stand back and keep quiet." When they protested, threats of arrest. What were they doing there except making a bear-garden of Paris ? Stand back ! Stand back for the motor buses of the Five Hundred. Way for the Blondes and the Water- bottles ! Place for the English " gosses " who had crossed the sinister Channel to sing in Paris the Marseillaise. And they sang it again shrilly from the windows of the omnibuses, whilst the Brass Bands and the Village Fanfares " stood back," humiliated, ignored. Impossible to record all the cheers, all the doings and adventures of the Five Hundred during its three and a half days' sojourn in Paris. It went up the Seine on those swift, darting steamboats to St Cloud. It went, with its military water-bottles, to the tomb of Napoleon, and stared down admiringly upon the massive chocolate-coloured sarcophagus and the groups THE FIVE HUNDRED 61 of dim, tattered flags. It went to the Louvre, and was more or less impressed by the gorgeous statue of the Victory, but was confused and em- barrassed by the armless state of the Venus de Milo — " becos you can't do nothing if you ain't got any arms, and that's a cert. Any'ow, like that, she don't look like a lidy — but she's got a room all to 'erself — and per'aps she was orl right in her time. . . ." It went to Notre -Dame, in the twilight, and there the Five Hundred beheld, whilst passing up the aisles, candles flickering at the side-altars for the souls of the departed ; bent, bowed -down figures at prayer, or in abject contemplation ; splashes of colour cast here, there, everywhere, from the multitudinously stained-glass windows ; and then beheld a bare, deal coffin borne hurriedly through the Cathedral by four dingy croque-niorts — a pauper's dismal funeral ; shades of the back streets of Peckham and Tooting ! . . . But the Five Hundred went out into Paris again — always cheering. They were the guests of the City of Paris, and thus had polite and official duties to perform. So they cheered and sang the Marseillaise wherever they went, and eventually, on the vast stage of the Chatelet theatre, where the judges of the Inter- national Musical Festival were assembled, the 62 BEFORE THE WAR Five Hundred were awarded prizes for their render- ing of Charley is My Darling, the seventeenth - century madrigal, How Merrily We Live ! and, above all, the Marseillaise. I fancy that by now, the third and last day of the Musical Festival, the Brass Bands and Village Fanfares could not bear the sight of the Five Hundred, After the innumerable competitions at the Chatelet they drove about in char-a-bancs and motor cabs with their instruments, but again and again did they meet those eighteen brand new omnibuses and suffer the indignity of being " held up " against kerbstones, so that triumph- ant Peckham and Tooting might pass. In fact, the Blondes and the Water-bottles had become the sight of Paris. Their fame had spread to the heights of La Villette and to those vague, desolate neighbourhoods at the foot of the fortifications. Even Messieurs les Apaches — the *' Terror of Montparno," " Zizi the Red," " Alexandre the Green-eyed " — and Mesdemoiselles their accom- plices, " Henriette the Pale " and " Ernestine the Hollow-faced " — made a point of taking a look at " les gosses." Amongst all those thousands of " musical " competitors only the Five Hundred (none of whom was younger than twelve nor more elderly than fourteen) remained THE FIVE HUNDRED 63 cheerful and fresh, and excited the admiration and sympathy of the Parisians, who had had more than enough of this desperate and delirious festival. " Yes ; there's no doubt abaht it — we're It, that's wot we is," a Water-bottle told me. " Our faces in the papers. People wanting to kiss us. Wot they're going to do when we've gone, goodness only knows." Thus, immodesty, even " swelled head " of Peckham, but none the less the sheer truth. Most certainly, in Paris, the Five Hundred was "It." A rush upon the Tuileries Gardens when it was rumoured that London's children were to sing there, and some- thing like a riot when the report proved to be false. Excitement on cafe terraces, enthusiasm at windows and in balconies, more enthusiasts standing on the benches of the boulevards and the Champs Elysecs, when the now familiar shrill Cockney cheers announced the approach of the Blondes and the Water-bottles. And, if further proof be required of the terrific popularity of the Five Hundred, behold, on the morning of the 29th May, the keepers of the vast, popular Paris bazaars selling their goods to Peckham and Toot- ing at cost price. And behold, a few hours later, an enormous crowd assembled outside the Gare du Nord, and platform No. 1, and the engine of 64 BEFORE THE WAR the special train drawn up alongside of it, decor- ated lavishly with the English and French flags. A triumphant departure ! How the spectators outside the station cheered when London's children shook hands with and said good-bye to the motor omnibus drivers, and a chauffeur embraced one of the blondes ! A last answering shrill cheer from the Five Hundred : Way for Peckham and Tooting ; and — yes — Out of the Way with a Band and a Village Fanfare, burdened with brassy instruments and frantic to discover their own particular platforms. But their own platforms, their own slow and common old trains didn't count. Only the decorated platform and the " special " corridor express of the Five Hundred were of importance. Stand back and " Fichez-moi la paix ! " thus crowning, supreme humiliation, of the Brass Bands and Fanfares. So, back to dingiest London and obscurity. Past Creil and Amiens Cathedral, past French peasantry, cows and cottages once again, but in different, adverse circumstances. Paris far behind ; the back streets of Peckham and Toot- ing ahead. No more wonderful French soup ; those equally wonderful Gallic stews but a memory ; the vast, comfortable dormitories in the Paris school residences, a dream; the THE FIVE HUNDRED 65 eighteen brand new motor omnibuses, terrific things of the past ; no longer was one " It . " How- ever, souvenirs remained — all those multitudin- ous articles acquired that morning in the Paris bazaars at cost (I believe, at less than cost) price. But the souvenirs the Five Hundred had not bought for themselves, but for their mothers and fathers, and sisters and brothers, of those dingy and tragical streets in obscure London. As the train dashed along, the Jimmies and Georges (in whose compartment I travelled) produced from their pockets shaving-brushes, tobacco pouches, corkscrews, ash-trays, braces " for Dad " ; pin- cushions, hair-nets, thimbles and — yes — bottles of eau-de-Cologne for " muvver " ; picture post cards, sweets and ribbons for their sisters, and pen-knives and whistles and pocket-books for their brothers. They were proud of their pur- chases : Peckham's ladies perfumed with eau-de- Cologne, "Dad" in his shirt-sleeves on Sunday, with a new pair of braces ! But the grim fact remained, one was no longer " It." No Mayor, no Municipal Council and Band at Boulogne. But, as a compensation, the Channel was calm, and the stewards in the boat's first-class dining saloon literally gave away handsome, huge apples at a penny apiece, and obligingly changed the few 66 BEFORE THE WAR remaining French sous of the Five Hundred into England's own coppers. At Folkestone, how- ever, a band and an ovation. It was to the strains of See the Conquering Hero Comes that the steamer took up her moorings. Then the Marseillaise and God Save the King, and cheers from the crowd assembled on the pier, to which the children always cordially and shrilly responded. England once again, and thick slices of bread and butter, slabs of yellow seed cake handed into the children's compartments before the train left for London. . . . All over ! Eight o'clock, Wednesday night, the 29th May — and the end. Wistfulness and sad- ness of the Cissies and Carries ; apprehension and gloom of the Jimmies and Georges. The blonde hair limp, out of curl ; the water-bottles discarded — even kicked beneath the seats. How the train shook and swayed, what steamy, ear-splitting shrieks from the engine, as the Five Hundred returned to dingiest London ! All over ; the end of it all ; nothing but memories ; no longer " It." One had become plain, obscure Carrie and Jimmy again. Already, out of the windows and through the darkness of the night, one could discern a shadowy clothes'-line stretched across a bit of back garden ; rows of brick houses ; candles burning behind the mean windows of musty, ill-kept little THE FIVE HUNDRED 67 rooms. Then, as the train dashed mercilessly onwards, the glare of public-houses, that cast light upon loafers with clay pipes, bloated, monstrous women in shawls, barrows of winkles and whelks, the pawnbroker's sign. Increasing wistfulness, dejection and gloom of the Five Hundred. The end of it all ; the inevitable painful reaction and awakening. It was back to poverty after a short spell of j^aradise. It was back to realities after freedom and exhilaration. It was back to side streets and inky schoolrooms, to sharp words and coarse food, perhaps to threats, blows and tears. But, when the very End of It All was reached at London Bridge station, the Five Hundred faced the future with characteristic resolution and courage. There, on the platform, with baskets, knapsacks and water-bottles ; pale, dishevelled, fatigued ; blinking and starting at the magnesium flashes and explosions of the photo- graphers ; there, on the threshold of dingiest London and on the point of being restored to its mustiness and meanness ; there, with so much to look back upon and so little to look forward to — there the Five Hundred shrilly and heroically sang Home, Sweet Home, IV LONDON CHILDREN AT HOME THE SWARM BARRED at either end with a rope, littered with huge, dislodged cobble- stones, swarming with excited children — such is the present aspect of Bannister Row, a poor street in Bloomsbury. Thus, Bannister Row is " up." And inevitably, like all shabby, " barred " streets, it has become the playground of the ragged, adventurous Jimmies and Billies and 'Enrys of the neighbourhood, and of short- skirted Cissies and Marys and shrill-voiced Gerties and Maudies, their sisters ; all of whom may be colloquially described as having " the time of their lives " as they disport themselves under the dim, watery eye of a feeble old watchman. Although it is warm, he wears a sack over his shoulders. But then all watchmen, at all seasons, wear sacks. By some remarkable unwritten law it has apparently been ordained — if you're a watchman, you must absolutely wear a sack. 68 AT HOME 69 No less indispensable is a crooked stick, or rather a staff, which the guardian of Bannister Row occasionally shakes at the children. Querulously, in a cracked voice, he cries : " Now then, enuf of that larking. Can't you 'ear me ? I said, enuf of it." But the swarm of little boys and little girls pay no heed. The superannuated watchman doesn't count. Only the cobble-stones count. For cobble-stones are the favourite playthings of street children. Cobble-stones, in a word, are the Joy of the Swarm. So, in Bannister Row this afternoon, a busy, animated scene. The great work in hand is to build pillars, barricades and houses of cobble- stones ; next — when all this labour has been accomplished — the exciting thing to do is to perch oneself most perilously on the pillars, to assault and throw down the barricades, to enter into possession of the " house." " This is No. 19 Russell Square. You can come in and 'ave a look if you like. Only you've got to ring first," cries Cissie, aged seven. " Can't come now, as I'm expecting the milk- man and callers. But as you ain't doing nothing, come in and see us yerself. It's No. 12 Oxford Street you've got to ask for," replies Gertie, aged nine. 70 BEFORE THE WAR Truly, an extraordinary conversation and an amazing state of affairs ! All that Cissie and Gertie have done is, partially to surround them- selves with three low walls of cobble-stones — a yard at the most separates their domains. And yet they give Russell Square and Oxford Street as their respective fine addresses ; and yet Cissie tells Gertie to ring the bell ; and yet Gertie expecteth the milkman, and yet " Now then, 'Enry Johnson, leave other people's 'ouses alone," shouts Maudie, a third householder, when 'Enry seats himself most unceremoniously on her cobble-stone wall. " Get off it, and quick too ; a droring-room ain't no place for boys." " Where's the droring-room ? " inquired 'Enry scathingly. " It's where I'm sitting, and it's meant for lydies ; and none of yer sauce," replies ^laudie. " Where's the lydies ? " asks 'Enry, always scathingly. " I'll show you where they are." And spring- ing up from her sofa of cobble-stones, and darting out of her cobble-stone drawing-room, Maudie seizes hold of 'Enry Johnson, and is just about to shake him when — " Why, 'Enry, you've got a man's collar on," she admiringly exclaims. AT HOME 71 " Yes," assents 'Enry. And truly enough, 'Enry weareth a " stand-up " collar many sizes too large for him. " I don't mind," stammers Maudie, *' I don't mind if you come into my droring-room." Gracious me, the instantaneous, tlie extra- ordinary success of 'Enry Johnson's " stand-up " collar. It is frayed, it is dingy, it could easily go twice round his neck ; but, as we have seen, it has had an all-conquering effect on Maudie, and it also procures for the wearer pressing invitations to other stone " houses." No sooner has the thrilling news been circulated that " 'Enry's got a man's collar on," than he is shrilly called upon to visit Gertie and Cissie, at 12 Oxford Street and 19 Russell Square. In terrific demand is eight-year-old 'Enry. He completely eclipses Jimmie Styles, whose one dilapidated roller-skate has made him a great personage amongst the Swarm. Yes, for the time being, at all events, the Collar has beaten the Skate. "You do look nice, 'Enry," says Gertie. And Cissie inquires : " 'Ow do you feel in it ? I mean, does it make you feel any different ? " To which elegant 'Enry vaguely replies : " Yes, there's a difference somewhere, but I don't know where." Here and there little girls in curl-papers are 72 BEFORE THE WAR engaged in attaching gardens to their " houses." Three or four cobble-stones placed side by side represent a flower-bed, and banana skins, wisps of straw, corks and bits of broken crockery do duty for flowers. Other little girls " join hands " and dance round the " houses," in many of which a baby has been deposited : and gravely, wonder- ingly, do the babies survey the scene. However, they are not forgotten, not even neglected. Cissie, for instance, makes them smile by utter- ing guttural, gurgling sounds ; Maudie sweeps them to and fro in the air. And, shrilly, Mary sings : " Byby, Byby, when you're a lydy You'll ride in a carridge and pair ; Byby, Byby, when you're a lydy, You'll 'ave lots of money to spare." As the shadows fall on Bannister Row, the Swarm becomes more and more animated. Down with a crash come the pillars and barri- cades of cobble-stones, and the Jimmies and Billies cheer, and the Cissies and Gerties clap their hands, and the babies stare more wonderingly than ever, as the cobbles, striking against one another, emit jagged splinters and sparks, and clouds of dust fill the air. Then much jumping over the cobble- stones, and many perilous balancing feats on the AT HOME 73 cobble-stones, and a great deal of stumbling and falling over the cobble-stones. Legs show cuts and bruises, but on goes the sport. Along the pavement dashes Jimmie Styles on his one dilapi- dated roller-skate, but once again is his sensational performance eclipsed by the elegant 'Enry John- son. Perched upon a pile of cobble-stones, 'Enry waves a dirty handkerchief in the air and shouts " 'Ooray." Heaven knows whom or what he is thus acclaiming, but thirty shrill voices take up the cry. More barricades erected and promptly assaulted, and further clouds of dust. Frantic dancing round the *' houses " ; music-hall choruses ; sharp words between Mary and Cissie ; a struggle between Billie and Jimmie ; a fall for roller-skating Styles; louder and louder '"Oorays" from 'Enry Johnson ; din, chaos amidst the cobble-stones, and at the end of the street, shak- ing his staff, the feeble old watchman. For the hundredth time this afternoon he cries queru- lously : " Now then, enuf of it. Can't you 'ear me ? I said, enuf of it." But the children ignore him. " 'Ooray," shouts the Swarm, led by 'Enry Johnson. The Swarm adore cobble-stones ; the Swarm are having " the time of their lives." LONDONERS IN LONDON: AFTER THE SUMMER HOLIDAY SEPTEMBER, in certain respects, is the saddest month in the year. No sooner has it dawned than back to London, back to worries and responsibilities, back (oh, sombre event !) to quarter-day, come the thousands and thousands of small people who have contrived by long, patient economy to pass a fortnight at the seaside. All this economising in trifles, all this hoarding up of shillings, sixpences, coppers, begins as far back as March, and the mixed coins are put away into a drawer, a battered money-box, a vase, a tobacco jar, or, in the cases of particu- larly thrifty, methodical persons, into the savings bank. Heavens, how Canning Town, Islington and Walham Green cut down expenses ! Those occasional visits to the picture theatre and the local music hall are suspended. " Tlie Bunch of Grapes " loses, for the time being, its best 74 AFTER THE HOLIDAY 75 customers. Saturday night's shopping is re- duced to the strictest necessities, so that the housewife's string bag returns liomc limp and not swollen and bloated as heretofore, and Sunday's dinner ceases to be the great meal of the week. Perhaps, too, Jimmy and Mary are deprived of their pennyworth of hard, lurid-coloured sweets. " You shall 'ave them again when we get to Mar- gate, and other things besides," their mother assures them. And that silences Jimmy and Mary. How they dream and dream of wonderful Margate ! In other musty, dim homes, w^hat gay, excited chatter over Yarmouth, and South- end, and Clacton, and Well, well, the great, the glorious morning arrives when the small people throng the vast railway termini on their way to the seaside ; but, alas! a fortnight later, the sad, the grim after- noon comes round when they find themselves in the same stations — returned to struggling, desperate London, with the before-mentioned worries, responsibilities and quarter-day to face. At one of these termini I have been watching the rentree of the Canning Town, Islington and Walham Green holiday-makers. I suppose they rose early to take their last look at the sea ; and I 76 BEFORE THE WAR expect their children, in their desire to bring home souvenirs and trophies, nearly lost the train, and had literally to be dragged to the station, crying and struggling, so loath were they to leave the delights of the sands for the dreariness of Smut Street, Brick Buildings and Iron Row. At all events, grimy tear-stains on the cheeks of Jimmy and Mary, and very dishevelled is their mother, and very tired and very cross. " Never again," she cries shrilly. " I let you bring them filthy things 'ome with you because I thought you'd be good. That's what I get for my kindness — kicking and 'owling. Never again ! " The " filthy things " in question are a collection of sodden seaweed, shells, sand and a deceased baby crab or two, which Jimmy and Mary have packed into their tin pails. Behind his family walks the father, carrying two spades and a damp paper parcel, through holes of which I perceive Jimmy's and Mary's bathing (or rather paddling) drawers. " Come along, George," says the lady sharply to her husband. " I'm coming, ain't I ? I'm 'ere, I suppose. Or per'aps I'm left be'ind at Margate, along with the mussels," is the bitter retort. AFTER THE HOLIDAY 77 " Never again. I mean it. Never again. So now you know it," says the mother, at which dire announcement Jimmy and Mary break out into more " 'owls." Down the platform, through the barrier, they disappear, followed by scores of other small people also burdened with the sodden souvenirs and trophies of their offsprings, and bound for Smut Street, Brick Buildings and Iron Row. Over the actual home-coming we must draw a veil, the doors of the small people being shut in our faces, and thus we shall never, never know (as I, for one, would dearly like to know) what happens, in London, to the seaweed and sand, and the shells and deceased crabs. However, one may see the little paddling- drawers dangling from the clothes'-line ; and one knows that the father and mother work harder than ever; and one hears, at night-time, Mrs Sharp and Mrs Joy and Mrs Goodge and Mrs Harper chatting about their holiday on their doorsteps, in the shops and at the corner of the street. How they enjoyed it, how their husbands en- joyed it, how they laughed, "fit to die ! " It was a " fair treat " to see George Sharp sound asleep on the sands, his hat over his face ; it was 78 BEFORE THE WAR another " fair treat " to behold WiUiam Goodge eating buns. Eating ? Why it was nothing but eating and eating. " I can't fancy a London shrimp any longer," sighs Mrs Joy. And the whelks — " Well, they were whelks." And the mussels — " Frank Harper wouldn't leave them alone." And a certain " dressed " crab, con- sumed in a fish -shop — " I really don't believe there was ever another crab like it." Then, how the small people delighted in the songs of the pierrots, and in the fireworks in the park, and in the bands on the parade. One song in particular enchanted Mrs Joy. " Jessie learnt it by 'eart," she says. And Jessie, Mrs Joy's nine-year-old daughter, coming up at this moment, is requested to repeat it. She refuses ; she demurs ; she yields, and in a shrill voice she sings : " Love is like a balloon, it takes you right up in the sk}^ ; Whether it's late or early, aU you want is your girlie. Love is like a balloon, you're up in the sky it's plain, But marriage is often the parachute, that brings you to earth again." Congratulations for Jessie ; and Jessie blushes, and kicks one foot over the other, and wishes her- self back on the sands. So does her mother ; so do the other mothers. There was nothing to do AFTER THE HOLIDAY 79 but to rest and to amuse oneself. Even when it rained — well, at least one had nothing on one's mind, nothing to worry about, nothing to cry over. But now " Well, good-night, Mrs Sharp ; and only to think that this day last week my 'usband and me and the children was at the seaside ! " VI LONDON IN NOVEMBER: GUY FAWICSING BRIGHTON CRESCENT is so full of misnomers, incongruities, surprises, that it has become a favourite idling-place of mine. To begin with, it is miles and miles away from Brighton — lies, in fact, in Hammer- smith ; and secondly, heaven only knows (and I don't believe even heaven can possibly know) why it has been named a crescent. For it never bends, it never curves, it contains neither an angle nor a dent : but is the longest, the straightest, the rigid- est mean London street I have yet visited. At a corner, a grimy, sombre public-house, named, oh, audacity, "The Monarch." Then a dark little barber's shop, kept by a Mr John Pole ; who exhibits the following intimation (on half a sheet of notepaper) in his window : — " Latest luxuries from Paris." And here and there, a sweep. There must, indeed, be a good dozen sweeps in Brighton Crescent. " Why," I soliloquise, as I survey the street, 80 IN NOVEMBER 81 *' why don't these sweeps operate upon their own chimneys and upon the chimneys of their neigh- bours ? Mr Pole's chimney, for instance, is in a shocking state ; and what a swarm of smuts have fastened themselves on to the windows of * The Monarch ' I Smuts everywhere. On the vegetables at the greengrocer's ; on the ghastly display at the butcher's ; on the faces of the house- wives of Brighton Crescent ; on their children ; on this wizened baby in the rickety perambulator ; on " Give us a penny," pleads a little boy. " It's for fireworks. You know — the fifth of November. ' ' " But it's only the third of November," I object, fumbling, nevertheless, in my pocket. " You're anticipating events ? " " What's that ? " asks the little boy. " Anticipating," I begin, " means " But the boy doesn't want to be educated ; the boy only wants fireworks ; the boy runs off with my pennies. Of course the news of my generosity spreads in Brighton Crescent ; and inevitably, therefore, I am accosted by other children, eager to celebrate the Fifth on this evening of the third. But this impatience is natural : children hate to wait ; they begin to worry and worry about their 82 BEFORE THE WAR birthday or Christmas presents a month before the time ; and, as we, in our extreme youth, were equally exacting, we should not fail to recall our own past anxiety and distress and — do as we should have wished to be done by. So I distri- bute pennies — lots of them — and I notice that the children disappear with them into the dingy little shop of a certain Mrs Joy. In her window, newspapers, strong, bitter tobaccos, lurid- coloured sweets, dusty bottles of ink, and the announcement on a discoloured bit of old card- board : Splendid Fireworks ! Now's Your Time ! Come In. However, no gaiety about the lady of the name of Joy, and no splendour about her collection of fireworks. Tumbled together in a box are squibs, catherine-wheels and cardboard tubes labelled " stars," " red fire " and " golden rain." Not a rocket amongst them, far less a " Prince of Wales' Feathers." And Mrs Joy herself is a thin, yellow- faced little old woman, who tells me that the children of Brighton Crescent deserve "to be blown up, as most likely they will do to them- selves ; and quick, too, I 'ope." IN NOVEMBER 88 Unpraise worthy this, in a lady who advertises " Splendid Fireworks," and declares " Now's Your Time," and issues the invitation to " Come In." Nor does Mrs Joy become joyous when I spend fourpence on tobacco. Indeed, she de- clares in one breath that fireworks, masks, red cardboard noses, false beards and moustaches, and other symbols of the Fifth of November, " will be the 'orrid end of 'er." " Guy Fawksing, they calls it ! I should like to give 'em Guy Fawksing," is the bitter, anoma- lous complaint of the lady, who is doing hand- somely out of the Treason and Plot. However, out in Brighton Crescent and in neighbouring streets, the Fifth is being cheerfully, if not magnificently, celebrated. A number of little boys have smeared their faces with red paint, others are busy pinning Catherine- wheels on to a board, and a certain " William " (who appears to be the hero of the Crescent) struts about in a mask and brandishes a wooden sword. I don't know what " William " thinks he is doing. " Guy Fawksing," I suppose Mrs Joy would call it. At all events, he is followed about by a troop of admiring little girls, and is urged by another little girl with a perambulator to " come and show " himself to " Biby." But " Biby " howls 84 BEFORE THE WAR discordantly at " William's " mask ; and " Biby's " mother hurries up with the threat that if William doesn't decamp, shell " mask " him. A moment later she cries : " Now then, Jimmy Green, Fll give you fireworks if you don't leave 'em alone," and next : " Just let me get 'old of you, and Fll give you squibs." Still, in spite of these warnings, the squibs crack and splutter and the catherine-wheels revolve on their boards, though feebly. " Ain't it lovely ! " exclaim the little girls, dancing on one leg and clapping their hands. They are easily satisfied ; and Mrs Joy should be sent to penal servitude for selling such damp, miserable stuff. After a melancholy flicker the " golden rain " expires. Not a " star " escapes from the tube alleged to contain stars ; and the " red fire " glows no more powerfully than a fusee. Headed by William, in his mask, a group of little boys in paper caps march up and down the street, chanting the refrain : / do Like to be Beside the Seaside. In a corner a number of little girls have made a kind of grotto out of oyster- shells. With the children, a Guy — the very shabbiest and silliest Guy I ever have seen. It is no more than a bundle of old newspapers tied together in places with tape. Pinned to the top IN NOVEMBER 85 of the bundle, a mask with a grinning mouth and a red nose. And the Thing is propped up against the wall, amidst a collection of banana skins and oyster-shells. " Please, sir, remember the Guy," says a small boy, holding forth a grimy hand. " But it's not the Fifth of November ; it's only the third," I protest again. Silence — gloom — of the boy. Gloom, too, of his small companions. " We made it ourselves," ventures a little girl. " And if we 'ad any money we'd buy 'im one of them yeller paper caps that Mrs Tooke sells round the corner, and make 'im look pretty." " But we ain't got no money," insists another little girl. " Well, here's sixpence," I say generously. And then, the joy of the children. After infinite chattering they decide to go forth in quest of the yellow paper cap. All of them want to go, but if all go, who's to look after the Guy ? At last, after more chattering and a great deal of whispering, one of the little girls steps forward and boldly addresses me : " Would you mind taking care of 'im while we goes to Mrs Tooke's ? She's only round the , =-lH.lii I U == — 86 BEFORE THE WAR corner. We sha'n't be a minute. Mind you takes care of 'im." And without waiting for my consent the children race off, leaving me, to my horror, in charge of the Guy. Thank heaven, it's a dim street. What a blessing, too, that it's a mean neighbourhood, and that no one is about. Still, there are lights in the grim little houses, and apprehensively do I look up at the windows to discover whether any- body is watching me, is ridiculing me, as I stand here in the damp by the side of the Guy. How- ever, no mocking faces at the windows. Nor — thank heaven again — so nmch as a glance from a man who hurries by on the opposite side of the street. Reassured, I light a cigarette, and, in the fiame from the match, the bundle of old news- papers propped up against the wall in its garden of banana skins and oyster-shells, and topped with its penny red mask, looks particularly hideous. Fancy me, a grown man, keeping watch over this ! Imagine a rate-payer, a member of a club, an uncle, a Footsteps, heavy footsteps : and up saunters a constable, who looks first at me and then at the Guy : and then again at me. My first impulse is IN NOVEMBER 87 to exclaim : " It isn't my Guy. I've got nothing to do with it. I swear it isn't mine." But fortun- ately — qui s'excuse s'accuse — I remain silent : and the policeman saunters on. Five, seven minutes must have elapsed, but not a sign of the children. Again I look down the street towards the corner round which they dis- appeared. Since they love their Guy, wliy should they linger so long? Surely to buy a yellow paper cap of Mrs Tooke should be but the affair of a moment ? But no : never a sign, never a sound of the children. And I throw my cigar- ette away in disgust. And I fancy I perceive a face at one of the windows opposite. And I turn my back upon that window, thus confronting the Guy. And to this inanimate, hideous Object I mutter preposterously : " You Monster, you Atrocity, you " More footsteps ; then — oh, horror ! — a small boy. And he stops, and stares hard at the Guy, and inquires : " Is He yours ? " Truly, a terrible night ! I know from observa- tion — though I cannot explain the phenomenon — that when one small boy comes to a standstill in the street, he is bound to be joined all in a minute by other small boys, arrived from heaven knows 88 BEFORE THE WAR where. Thus, unless I agitate promptly, I shall be speedily surrounded by boys. " Is He yours ? " reiterates the urchin. " Of course not," I reply sharply. " How could He be mine ? I'm only looking after it. That is to say " But the boy looks at me so blankly that I stop. " I don't think much of 'im. 'E ain't got no legs, nor no arms. And what's them shells and banana skins for ? " asks the boy. " That's what I'd like to know," I reply. " Now listen. Do you know Mrs Tooke's, round the corner ? " The boy does. So do I tell him to run to Mrs Tooke's and to warn the children there that their Guy is in peril. Furthermore, I give the boy twopence for his errand ; watch him race down the street and disappear round the corner, and resume my vigil. Not so closely, however. The Guy has become so odious to me that I walk away from it ; and when a prowling cat approaches it, and sniffs about amidst the oyster-shells, I make no remon- strance. I doubt, indeed, if I should put diffi- culties in the way, if it pleased the cat to claw the atrocity to pieces. But the cat, like the boy just departed, doesn't " think much " of the Guy. After a sniff or two she goes her way. And where is the boy just departed ? And IN NOVEMBER 89 where are the children he has raced off to fetch ? It comes to this : you, kindly and humanely, give children sixpence with which to buy a yellow paper cap, and what do they do ? They leave you in charge of a Guy. Then, you give a boy twopence to bring you back those children, and the boy disappears. Not only is one eight- pence out of pocket, but one finds oneself in a humiliating, even a disgraceful, position. One's own fault, no doubt. One should refuse positively and decisively to mount guard over Guys. And if, as in my case, one has had a Guy thrust upon one, against one's will, wholly without one's con- sent, then one should walk away and abandon that Guy. But . . . Most assuredly, a terrible night ! And it be- comes increasingly terrible when the constable of half-an-hour ago again makes his appearance, and this time regards me with severity, suspicion. Defiantly I look back at him, and he crosses the road and stations himself under a lamp-post nearby, so that I am watched. And then does this brilliant idea occur to me. Why should not the constable mount guard over this ignoble Guy ? And so, after crossing over to the policeman, I thus address him : " I say, constable, you might just keep your eye 90 BEFORE THE WAR on that Guy over the way. It belongs to some children round the corner. They've got lost in a sweetshop, I suppose. But they won't be long, and " " I've got something better to do than " begins the constable. " Just keep your eye on it," I intervene. *' I've had enough of it. It's your turn now." VII A LONDONER'S REFLECTIONS ON CHRIST- MAS : ITS COSTS AND CONSEQUENCES AFTER all these many days of rejoicing, what a change has come over London and the Londoners ! Gone, out of shop windows and houses, the colour, light and mirth of festivity. Gone, out of our hearts, the cheerfulness and gaiety that made even the austerest and most pompous of us commit all kinds of follies. It was no time ago that I beheld stout, elderly men and tall, bearded men, spec- tacled sages and grey-headed old fellows ; burning their fingers at " Snapdragon," and singeing themselves over the coloured candles of the Christmas tree, and vehemently pulling crackers, and themselves playing with the toys they had lavished on the children. And then how they laughed at nothing, and how they smiled for no reason, and how charming and affectionate they were to everyone — in a word, what an assembly of grown-up, irresponsible children ! But a very different assembly to-day. Not 91 92 BEFORE THE WAR only is it a matter of back to work and responsi- bilities, but it is a case of recovering from last week's dissipations. Indigestion is about. Diets of Vichy water and plain foods are being rigidly observed. The odour of plum pudding is in- tolerable, the spectacle of a mince-pie unbearable ; and who could believe that these taciturn, dis- contented-looking gentlemen in the tube, or in the elephantine motor omnibuses, or by the side of the fire, were beating drums and blowing shrill whistles, and otherwise rejoicing in grotesque paper caps a few nights ago ? No ; the faces of fathers and uncles, and their tempers and their feelings, are now anything but radiant. Better leave father alone, and keep clear of uncle. They have had enough of folly ; they desire peace. It is even an effort for them to speak ; they want silence. And how early they retire to rest, and how soundly they sleep, and how loudly many of them snore ! Hush ! Let us speak in whispers, let us steal about on tiptoe, on no account let us laugh, and for heaven's sake don't let us bang the door. For the Londoners, after all these many days of rejoicing, are undergoing the inevitable dread reaction. CHRISTMAS 93 If father and uncle look exhausted and seedy, so too does the home. Despite the ministra- tions of the servants, the dining- and drawing- rooms have a decidedly tired-out and dissipated air. Pictures arc crooked, through having been decorated with, and disturbed by, holly and mistletoe. Red and white berries have been stamped into the carpet, and the festoons or bunches of holly are shrivelled, and the mistletoe droops. " Aggravating, filthy stuff that ought never to have been invented," cry the maid and the cook, both of whom are suffering from indigestion " something crooel." Still, there were lively jokes about the mistletoe between the maid and the grocer's " young man" a dozen times last week ; and the cook informed her mistress she would " never feel it was like Christmas and 'ome " unless she had a hand- some bunch of holly for the kitchen. But, alas ! the grocer's " young man " has cooled, and the temper of the kitchen is rebellious and stormy. The least reprimand — and an outburst. So let us avoid the housemaid ; and beware of the cook. Even the nursery is indisposed. One might trust Ethel and Harry with a dozen boxes of 94 BEFORE THE WAR chocolates, any quantity of oranges ; I don't believe they would touch one of them. And the handsome, costly presents we bought them and locked up in a dark cupboard until Christmas Eve, and then in the dead of the night bore stealthily into the bedrooms where the children at last lay asleep, their faces flushed with anticipa- tion ? Alas : Ethel and Harry have already be- come indifferent to those toys ; or, if they be not indifferent, they are not — well, active enough to rejoice with them. Not even this miniature motor car is put in motion. If wound up, it should pant noisily, very much like the real thing. But it panteth not ; it lieth on its side in a corner, disabled, abandoned. Then the baby aeroplane, whose first flights about the nursery aroused such shrill cries of delight : in another corner reposes the aeroplane, discarded, a wreck. And still and silent, too, is a fine, speckled chanticleer, which heralded Christmas Day with a resounding cocorico. Chanticleer has lost an eye. Chanticleer has shed a prodigious quantity of feathers. Worse still, poor Chanticleer will never, never cocorico again. Very languid, very subdued are Ethel and Harry. Now and then, sighs. And occasionally such indictments as these : CHRISTMAS 9H *' You've been taking the windows out of my doll's house." " If I've been taking the windows out of your doll's house, you've been dropping sticky caramels on my motor car." And languidly, wearily, to bed ; so that the nurse, short of temper like the cook, cries sharply : " Now then, be quick, and none of your nonsense, or I'll fetch up your ma." In humble, dim homes the same lassitude. Here, of course, there has been no elaborate, pro- longed feasting; and no handsome, fantastic toys have aroused the enthusiasm of the children. Still, an unusual amount of dusting, scrubbing and washing was done ; paper flowers and artificial sprigs of holly and mistletoe were re- quisitioned ; and up went the children's stockings on Christmas Eve — stockings very much darned, or in urgent need of darning. But, darned or no, humble stockings in humble homes were exhibited just as conspicuously as any elegant, silk stockings in spacious, prosperous houses ; and thin, pale-faced, struggling Mrs Jones slipped an orange and a cracker into the old, battered stockings when " Billy " and " Maudie " were asleep — for mothers happen everywhere. " If children didn't 'ang up their stockings once 9« BEFORE THE WAR a year — well, they wouldn't be children at all, and their mothers ought to be ashamed of their- selves," declares a woman in a mean, confused shop in Hammersmith. " Confused " because it is a newsagent's, a tobacconist's, and, further- more, deals in cough mixtures, needles and thread, lurid-coloured sweets, grim biscuits, sallow cake, and nuts, oranges, fireworks, candles and boot- laces. " I 'ad three stockings 'anging up. And if they wasn't exactly — well, crowded in the morning, they wasn't empty neither, I give you my word," continues the woman. " Can't do more than our best, can we ? " asks another woman. " As you says correctly, Mrs Jee, Christmas Eve and the children's stockings was meant to go together, and together they've got to be. I 'ad five of 'em up, and that didn't cost nothing. More than I likes to think of. But what's done is done. And it was done from the 'cart, and nice and tidy as well, I'm 'appy to say." " Certainly, it don't cost nothing," assents the first woman. " As I said before, my lot of three stockings wasn't crowded, but they was stockings with something inside of 'em all the same." Thus afterwards, light purses, indigestion, CHRISTMAS 97 exhaustion ; but it has been worth it. And so farewell, admirable, cheerful, humanising Christ- mas ; and good-night, dear, excited, shrill-voiced children, who make us grown-ups, at least once in the year, gay, irresponsible and childish our- selves, in sj^ite of our embonpoint and spectacles, our beards or grey hair. PART II LONDON IN WAR-TIME THE MONTH OF AUGUST. THE LONDON CHILDREN AND THE NEW DE^MOCRACY. THE GENERAL PRECEPT: "KEEP CALM " IT was only a fortnight ago, on a bright July afternoon, that the poor children of darker London cast aside their tattered grammars and thumb - marked copy-books, trooped hilariously out of the inky schoolrooms and plunged straight into the delights and ad- ventures of a summer holiday. The illustrated papers of that period depicted the boys bathing in the Serpentine, paddling and fishing for " tiddlers " in shallow, weedy waters ; and the girls pushing along miniature, decrepit perambu- lators — vulgar, discarded egg-boxes, some of them — containing battered, ghastly-looking dolls. Freedom and recreations, therefore, for the poor children of darker London. Then, all of a sudden, the end of peace — and the crash of war. Abandoning the Serpentine, the Tommies and Billies joined up with paper caps, wooden lOZ 192 LONDON IN WAR-TIME swords, tin pails and kettles, and marched vigor- ously and patriotically about the streets, cheering their Country and their King. Splendid patriot- ism also of the Carries and Gerties, who emptied their perambulators in order that they might serve as ambulances. It was a grand, a noble spectacle. On and on the children marched, beating their tin pails, saluting, acclaiming : and encouraging their King and Country. But in- stead of giving the children the Country's grateful thanks, instead of generously coming forward with doughnuts, apples and ginger-beer, what has the Country done ? Tlie Country — O bitter shame ! O indelible disgrace ! — has cur- tailed the children's summer holiday, and ordered them back to their teachers, discipline, grammars and schoolrooms ! Mature, methodical people, like you and me, realise, of course, that in adopting this drastic measure the Country, or rather the L.C.C., has only had the children's own interests at heart. Our educational authorities fear that Tom and Bill, as they heroically march the streets with pails and kettles, might be mowed down by murderous motor omnibuses. Also (as many of their husbands have joined the forces, and times, generally, are bad) it is probable that the mothers THE LONDON CHILDREN 103 of our Toms and Billies, and our Carries and Gerties, will be unable to provide their children with sufficient food. Hence the hurried re- opening of the schools. The schools intend to feed the children, to save them from the dread- noughts of the streets ; but it would be indis- creet and indelicate to acquaint London's small, shabby boys and girls with the real facts of the situation. Tell them the truth and they would immediately exclaim : " We ain't afraid of motor buses," and " We ain't frightened of not getting enough to eat." " We ain't done no 'arm. We're down upon the Germins, that's all we are," declares the leader of a band of boys to me in a back street off Edgware Road. He and his followers are seated on a doorstep, resting, after a long march to Trafalgar Square and back. On the ground their wooden swords, battered pails and kettles, and a board that bears (in chalk) the stirring, eloquent inscription : " No More Germin Sossijes." " Only down upon the Germins, that's all we are," repeats the leader of the band of London's Tommies and Billies. " And back we go to school — the lot of us — and all becos we've spoken up nice and proud for our Country." Angrily ,% 104 LONDON IN WAR-TIME he beats a battered old kettle with a stick of charred firewood. Another warrior produces further din from a crippled pail. A third mani- festant whistles shrilly and derisively. As they thus demonstrate, I count them up. Eleven in all. Eleven patriots and heroes — fighting for King and Country — yet, sent back ignominiously to school ! " But you won't have a bad time of it," I inter- vene. " I don't mind telling you that a good many of your teachers are missing. When they left on their holidays they went to Germany and Switzerland, and now they can't get back." " 'Ooray ! " shouts an urchin. " 'Ooray ! 'Ooray ! " cry other delighted urchins. " Back to the old school to-morrow," sneers a passing constable. " No wonder you're merry and bright." But the urchins hear not the mocking words of the policeman. They consult, and whisper, and laugh joyously together. They break out into another " 'Ooray ! " They dance with sheer ecstasy. More bangs on the crippled kettles and pails. When I ask for an explanation of his gaiety, the leader of the band shouts with laughter. " Old Barrett — one of our teachers — went to Germiny for 'is 'olidays, and, of course, the THE NFAY DEMOCRACY 105 Germins 'ave got 'im," cries the leader spas- modically. " 'Ooray ! 'Ooray ! 'Ooray ! " scream the followers. Thus the children console themselves ; it belongs to childhood to recover joy. But adults want sympathy — need conversation. During the last day or two I have been having a good deal to do with strangers ; and strangers have been having a good deal to do with me. In tubes and omnibuses and open spaces, I have suddenly found myself engaged in conversation with all sorts and conditions of unknown people, even with ladies and their cherished, sacred children. How the first overtures were made I am not quite clear. Somebody has smiled, or somebody has sighed, or somebody has said nothing, has only looked, and lo ! conversations have been opened and conventions broken down, the stiffness and reserve for which the English nation is notorious have been superseded by spontaneity and naturalness. Indeed one might almost say that there are no strangers left in London. In normal times lots and lots of lonely souls ; but to-day the loneliest of them easily finds someone to gossip with. No introductions are necessary ; everyone speaks to everybody else ; and pathetic, faded spinsters and 106 LONDON IN WAR-TIME shabby, solitary old fellows have been invited to emerge from their obscurity and join in the general conversations and gossip about govern- ments. The rich city man is as approachable (about war schemes) as the workman. Prosperous shopkeepers exchange confidences with crossing- sweepers ; pert errand boys are on familiar terms with stalwart constables ; the stout, ever-garrulous charwoman calls the lady of the house " my dear," and even " nuts," " flappers," actor-managers and Sloane Square mannequins have put aside their airs and graces and heroically succumbed to the spirit of the hour. A most admirable and sympathetic spirit, since it brings together every class in the community. War devastates, annihil- ates; but war also destroys class prejudices, and humanises. Already out of the war there has been born in London a new democracy. I admit that this new democracy — this freedom in opening sudden conversations — is sometimes puzzling and disconcerting. One hears the odd- est arguments and theories ; one is told things staggering enough to take one's breatli away. This afternoon, for instance, whilst I am resting on a bench on Hampstead Heath, my neighbour, a thin, elderly man with weak whiskers, a dull eye, but emphatic manners, impulsively invites THE NEAY DEMOCRACY 107 me to survey the heavens. Apprehensively I look upwards, expecting Zeppelins. Nothing, however, but sombre, sullen clouds. Not the speck of an invader — and I say so. " I didn't mean Germans ; I meant the clouds," replies my neighbour crossly. " Don't they look like the Dreadnoughts in the North Sea — the same dark grey colour, frowning, menacing ? Firing, we know, affects the weather. A great battle is raging — perhaps on sea, no doubt on land. I shall immediately go home, and enter this obser- vation in my diary." No sooner has he left the bench, than down on it sits a burly man with an evening newspaper. In- stead of reading it, he reflectively strokes his face and chin. Then he informs me that he is engaged at a furniture remover's, and that " something is worrying and puzzling and upsetting " him. Of course, as one of the new democrats, I express concern and sympathy. " You'd 'ardly believe it, but it's a fact," my new neighbour solemnly relates. " It's fit to put in the papers. Just 'ave a look at me, and tell me — does I need shaving ? " " Not much, perhaps a little," I reply ambigu- ously. " Now listen. For many years I only wanted a 108 LONDON IN WAR-TIME shave every second day," solemnly continues the furniture remover. " But I 'ad one yesterday, and I wants another to-day ! And it's been like that ever since we've gone to war. Yes ; a shave every day. And it's the war that 'as done it. Why, I couldn't tell you. Fancy a war making your beard grow faster ! 'Ardly credible, but wot I'm telling you is the solemn truth. Me, Jim Barker, of Little Adam Street, Camden Town, takes 'is oath that this 'ere face was shaved yesterday ; it wants another shave to-day ; and it's the war that's worked it. But, being an Englishman, wot does a few extra shaves matter ? " We all of us recognise that as Englishmen what is required of us is to suppress, or, at any rate, conceal, emotion. We must he calm. But although everyone is striving to be calm, everyone of us is in a tense, emotional condition. During the greater part of this sunny, radiant afternoon I have been looking here, there and everywhere for what I may term a natural face, just an ordinary, normal, everyday face, but I have sought and searched in vain. Or, if I have beheld such faces, they have belonged to infants in arms and babies in perambulators. Oh, to be a baby in these hectic days, an innocent baby with a bottle and a rattle ! Try the experi- KEEP CALM 109 ment of looking for natural faces yourself. Begin, in the mirror, with your own face. If you be honest, you will admit that a sudden change has come across it. Of course I do not suggest that the faces of the present hour have undergone vicissitudes so remarkable as to render them conspicuous at a distance. The majority of faces, even a couple of yards away, appear normal. Still, fever is there ; the skin is dry, hair has lost its sheen, eyes are jaded, strained, contracted — underneath them, shadows. Moreover, mouths and nostrils twitch, and hands are restless, and legs have a nervous way of shooting outwards. Even as I write, in the smoking-room of a leading club, a member renowned for his composure has changed his chair for the third time in fifteen minutes. No reason for changing chairs ; nor is there any more reason why another member should be for ever going up and down the staircase. Then a third member — usually the quietest of souls — has ac- quired the noisy, irritating habit of jingling his coins in his pockets. A fourth is constantly snap- ping his fingers, a fifth cannot keep his pipe alight — there, the first member has changed his chair again. But enough of the honourable members of this leading club. They are all the same. Like 110 LONDON IN WAR-TIME everyone in London, they are doing their utmost to keep calm — and cannot manage it. Nor shall we ever manage it ; we should be as chilly and lifeless as the oyster or the jelly-fish if we could. If there be a superman in this kingdom who can produce an infallible remedy or method for keeping calm — in other words, for keeping our thoughts off the war — we don't want him though he be acclaimed as the greatest of all physicians and philosophers. Keep calm, whilst the newsboys are shouting! Keep calm, whilst contradictory rumours are hurtling to and fro ! Keep calm, whilst no definite information is forth- coming from the North Sea, Belgium, France, Austria and Russia ! We know nothing, and even when we do receive decisive news — what will it be ? So we live, and shall continue to live, in a state of suspense— the cruellest and most intoler- able of all ordeals and conditions. If only we knew something, . . . But no, silence is the strict, obligatory policy of modern warfare, and we must bear with the suspense and go on striving to be — no, to appear, calm. How to manage it ? The one and only way is to forget the war. But how to do it ? It is reported that Christian Scientists, and other strange kindred sects, are saying to themselves KEEP CALM 111 a thousand times a day ; " There is no war ; there is nothing but sunshine, happiness and peace." I have tried this alleged remedy myself. But it does no good. If anything, it makes one worse. A multitude of Londoners have tried bridge, chess, draughts, billiards, dominoes, gardening, Charles Dickens and Mark Twain, Euclid and Shakespeare, The Vicar of Wakefield, The Belle of New York, the summit of Primrose Hill. But in every case these endeavours to keep their minds from off the war have miserably failed. A No Tmmp hand, but what's happening in Belgium ? In off the red — probably the bloody colour of the Franco-German frontier. That song from The Belle of New York, "Follow on, Follow on." . . . Calm ! As a last hope, a final refuge, I betake myself to a swimming bath. But no sooner have I appeared in my bathing attire on the tiled plat- form that surrounds the swimming bath than a voice from the water cries out excitedly : "Any news?" Before I can reply, the speaker and other fellow- bathers swim rapidly towards me, and splutter forth the same eternal question : " Any news ? What's the latest ? " Thus even the swimming baths have become 112 LONDON IN WAR-TIME restless, warlike waters. However, I take the plunge and swim along; and as I swim along the nearest bather to me ejaculates spasmodically : " The German Emperor's done for — but we mustn't shout out just yet — lots more to come — thing to do's keep calm — thing to remember " But here my fellow-swimmer involuntarily swallows a quantity of water — and chokes. II THE FIRST MONTH. IN CLUBLAND. AFTERNOON WOOL-WORKERS. THE AIRSHIP. THE MORATORIIBI STRANGE sights are to be witnessed, and stranger things are to be heard, in one of the leading clubs of the West End. To begin with, ladies, small boys and little girls have settled down in the waiting-rooms, the ladies burdened with parcels, the children munch- ing chocolates, swinging their legs and staring with youthful innocence, curiosity or pertness at the " funny old things," and the " silly old things," and the " swanking old things " who pass to and fro. These various " old things " are, as a fact, honourable and highly respected members of the club. Many, no doubt, are bald- headed and portly ; but, after all, one is entitled to be bald and to be stout in one's club. And it is certainly not for small Peggy and Bertie, whose invasion of clubdom is an unprecedented spectacle, to " Peggy, do look at this quickly," cries Bertie. H 113 114 LONDON IN WAR-TIME " He's not half as funny as that,^^ replies Peggy, pointing forth a chocolate-stained finger. " Peggy, be quiet," protests her mother. " But, mother darling, aren't they a funny lot, now really ! And, oh, look at this one in the silly old hat. And look at that one over there, with his spectacles right up on his forehead. And " " Peggy, be quiet immediately," repeats her mother. " Mother darling, it's so funny and silly, I can't help it," pleads Peggy. " Here's the funniest of the lot. Peggy, look at it, for your life," cries brother Bertie. " Oh, goodness, here comes another, with a fly on his nose, and he doesn't know it," exults Peggy. Thus has the war stricken and demoralised even a great London club. Children and chocolates in the waiting-rooms, ribald exclamations at the bald heads and em- bonpoint of honourable members, delight of blonde little Peggy because a fly had settled on the nose of an eminent but absent-minded barrister ! What are we coming to ? What is one to think, say or do when Bertie, escaping from the waiting-room, pays a visit to the IN CLUBLAND 115 tape machines, grins and winks at the Hft-man, pops his head into the smoking-room, bursts for a moment into the library, and finally returns to blonde sister Peggy with the information that he has been having " the time of his life " ? " You are mean. You might have taken me with you. And I've finished all the chocolates," declares twelve-year-old Peggy. So what have we come to, and what on earth can we do ? Chocolates and children in clubdom ! Bertie, aged fourteen, popping his head into our sacred, vast smoking-room and impudently peer- ing up at our admirable tape machines ! Peggy indignant because her brother has not taken her with him ! Both of them calling us— yes, us, the pillars, the supports, the choice ornaments of the club—" funny," " silly," " swanking old things." Wliy, the invasion of Luxemburg and Belgium was a mere trifle to the occupation of our own club by the small Berties and Peggies. The sanctity of clubdom violated, its traditions broken down. It's the fault of Germany ; it is out- rageous, unspeakable, sinister. Still, as I watch Peggy and Bertie in the waiting-room, waiting with their mother for their father, I should, if I had my own way, make Bertie and Peggy (and their chocolates as well) honorary members on 116 LONDON IN WAR-TIME the spot, with full powers to visit the tape machines, go up and down in the lift and inter- rupt and silence the alarmists who, in muffled voices, are denouncing the " criminality " of war and luridly predicting the end of the universe. However, the alarmists are few, and may be dismissed in little blonde Peggy's own words as " silly old things." On the other hand, nothing " funny " or " swanky " about the rest of the members, as Bertie himself would honestly admit could he be permitted to overhear the conversa- tions in the smoking-'room. Stout and slim men, elegant and bald-headed men, severe men and cheerful men — all are engaged in discussing how they can best serve their country during the un- precedented crisis that has overtaken it. The general motto is, calm, economy, self- sacrifice ; and all around the room it is apparent that this doctrine is being practised. Inveterate cigar-smokers have abandoned havanas for pipes. Further abandonment of whiskies - and - sodas, wines and liqueurs. A wealthy member, instead of drinking his favourite fourpenny bottle of Bass, orders bitter beer in a tankard, and pays two- pence. The club menus have been cut down ; away have gone elaborate entrSes, not a pcche Melba remains in the place, another luxury that IN CLUBLAND 117 has been loyally dispensed with. Calm — economy — self-sacrifice. Members take the tube and motor omnibuses instead of taxis, and have offered their own automobiles to the country. Members agree among themselves to pay half wages to the wives of those employees who have joined, or been recalled to, the army or navy. Members furthermore declare that the hoarding up of foods and the sequestration of gold should be made a criminal offence. Members of all parties go on to pay tributes of admiration to Mr Asquith, Sir Edward Grey, and particularly to Mr Redmond. Strong Conservative club mem- bers exclaim : " \Vlien it's all over there will be cheers all over the country for Home Rule." Strong Liberal club members observe : " When it's all over there will be other cheers for Carson." Then more tributes to gallant Belgium ; to the memory of heroic Garros ; to the most admirable attitude of our own people, who have not smashed a window, or molested a foreigner, or even uttered a cruel cry. Calm, economy, self-sacrifice, that's the motto of this leading West End club. But I still insist upon saying that the club would be refreshed and sweetened if Peggy and Bertie could be made honorary members ; for they would be a gay sight 118 LONDON IN WAR-TIME in the lifts, and they would learn that we are not such " silly old things " after all. Not only in clubland, but other comfortable places, something perhaps even better than calm has crept in with the anxious thought that life has altered and that the foundations of what meant civilised existence yesterday have become insecure. If people have become less composed, is it possible that they care about each other more ? Thus I find that all kinds of changes have come over a particularly spacious and pleasant drawing- room in St John's Wood. Until a few weeks ago it was a veritable salon — music, brilliant con- versations, a profusion of choice flowers, exquisite petits fours, charming pr/i^ defoiegras sandAviches, incomparable coffee, and blonde, delicate China tea. The hostess, whom we will call Mrs Blythe, held these " at homes " every Saturday and Sunday afternoon between the usual conven- tional hours of four and seven. But very often, when seven o'clock became eight o'clock and then nine, an informal supper would be served, and the music and gossip would continue till midnight. After supper, cigarettes — oh, charming Mrs Blythe ! — were " permitted " in this most admir- able drawing-room. WOOL WORKERS 119 This afternoon, however, behold a very different salon. To begin with, a decided reduction in flowers. After that, not the glimpse of a petit four, but the homely muffin and crumpet. And Mrs Blythe in a plain tea-gown, and her lady visitors in simple dresses, and myself, the only male present, commanded by my hostess to sit in a dim, remote corner, far out of the way of the Wool. For the Wool has come into Mrs Blythe' s elegant drawing-room, and crochet and knitting needles, and workboxes that bristle with buttons and scissors and bodkins and thimbles, to say nothing of stout reels of cotton and veritable bundles of tape. " And what are you making ? It looks — well, it looks splendid," I say limply and weakly to my hostess. " Socks, of course," Mrs Blythe replies briskly. White wool, and brown wool, and black wool, and although I know nothing about wool, I am convinced that it is being knitted this afternoon into something efficient and serviceable. In fact, Mrs Blythe and her visitors are not " playing " with their wool, but attacking it in earnest. Amazing that these well-to-do ladies should have so quickly acquired the art of putting sharp 120 LONDON IN WAR-TIME knitting-needles into action and turning out socks. Admirable that they should assemble here with all their wool and other homely, domestic para- phernalia four times a week. Very beautiful and noble the resolution made amongst those of them who have sons, brothers and relatives at the front, not to speak of the absent ones, whilst they, their anxious, aching, loving women-folk, are working away in this changed, busy drawing- room of St John's Wood. Let me pay a particular tribute to Miss Ethel Simpson, aged eighteen, and one of England's incomparable blondes, who has become a specialist in fitting neckbands to shirts, "so that they don't scrub the soldier's neck." Six weeks ago Miss Simpson knew nothing of men's neckbands. "And there's another finished; that's the sixth this afternoon," blonde Miss Simpson re- marks, as she drops a shirt on to the thickly carpeted floor. Almost immediately after that, commencement of Neckband No. 7. The untidiest of handsome carpets. Here and there broken bits of wool, and pins and needles and buttons escaped from the workboxes, and a portly reel of brown cotton that has managed somehow or other to unwind and entangle itself around the legs of a mother-of-pearl Cairo table. THE AIRSHIP 121 But on, with increased demoralisation to the carpet, goes the work. The faint, subtle, clicking of knitting-needles, little heaps of socks and shirts and vests and ambiguities on the floor, sudden flight of a thimble (which I chase, and recover, and restore, but would have liked to preserve, for it is blonde Miss Ethel Simpson's own thimble), and a mild hum of conversation, chiefly concerned with the threatened arrival of Zeppelins. However, no exaggerated alarm about those monsters. In this first month of the war Zeppelins do not, as I have said, alarm us, but we are on the look-out for them. It follows that people walk about looking skywards. And the example is infectious — one would say a race of astronomers : the Londoner has become a Chaldean. Probably for the first time in the history of the two cities, London and Paris are thinking the same things, saying the same things and doing the same things. Out, at an early hour, go the lights of the cafes and the public-houses. By order of the two Governments no more brilliantly illumin- ated shop windows, or sky signs, or other electrical advertising devices. A searchlight on the Eiffel Tower; also a searchlight for our own Charing Cross. And just as Parisians scan the skies for 122 LONDON IN WAR-TIME German Taubes and Zeppelins, so do we Londoners cast our eyes upwards in eager quest of the long-promised airship. But she Cometh not, this airship. Nearly a week has elapsed since the Admiralty announced that a real British aerial cruiser would sail above London both by day and night. " On no account should it be fired at," the Admiralty continued. Excitement of ourselves. Bless the Admiralty for providing us — free of charge — with the thrill- ing, patriotic spectacle of a ship travelling over the metropolis. More cheers for Mr Winston Churchill ; then out into the streets, out into parks, out on to balconies, out on to roofs, and heads out of windows, and adventurous small boys up in trees, and frail, silver-haired old ladies wrapped up in shawls, awaiting the summons to come out and " see it," and all eyes looking up- wards, always and always looking upwards. But she Cometh not, this airship. We have obediently extinguished our illuminations, we wait and we watch, we peer and we pine, we stare and we strain — all in vain ; she cometh not. At least, in spite of an infinite amount of look- ing upwards, I myself have not yet beheld our long-promised airship. Nor have I met any responsible person who has discerned even the THE AIRSHIP 123 faintest shadow of her. Since they are out at all hours, and in all districts, and in all weathers, policemen and omnibus conductors may be accepted as authorities on what is happening in the skies, but (so many have assured me) not the glimpse of naval aircraft, " nothing doing," the heavens " as usual." A similar report from the weather-beaten old night watchman who sits, with his pail of coke, at the end of my street. " Never seen nuffing worth mentioning. You're not the first that 'as asked the same question. Gettin' about sick of it. Airships or no airships, ain't I got enuf to do with minding this 'ere road ? " retorts the watchman with petulance. Tlien — more authoritative still — an amateur but vigilant astronomer who has established quite a workman-like observatory in his pleasant garden in St John's Wood. " No ; although I have been keeping a good look-out for her," replies the star-gazer. " But of course I am more inter- ested in the new and unknown comet that has been seen at Compiegne." Not having, in my consuming zeal for our own British airship, even heard of the Compiegne comet, I escape hastily from the astronomer, lest he should tell me all about the new un- known phenomenon, and pursue industriously my 124 LONDON IN WAR-TIME researches. An artist, with a fine skylight, has also looked upwards, but seen " nothing." A lady, with a large garden, has likewise seen " nothing." A man who lives on Hampstead Heath, another man who haunts the top of Prim- rose Hill — neither has seen " anjdhing." One of the before-mentioned frail, silver-haired old ladies, still Avrapped in her shawl, still waiting to be called forth to " see " the airship, crossly observes : " It's too bad. I have a great admira- tion for Mr Winston Churchill, but he really shouldn't make promises that he cannot keep." On the other hand, wholly irresponsible and unreliable persons have seen London's airship again and again. " It was right over my head last night, ten o'clock sharp, just as I was saying good-night to Mrs Piper, outside the 'Bunch of Grapes,' with my jug of beer in my very own 'ands," relates Mrs Baggs, my occasional char- woman. " See it ! Bless yer 'eart, that ain't the first time, and it won't be the last. And there's my daughter down at Brixton that 'as seen it as well, and friends up at 'Oxton that is tired and sick of looking at it, and other folk at Dalston that 'ave taken pictures of it." Fortun- ate charwoman ; favoured and happy Brixton, Hoxton, Dalston ! To-night, the fifth night of THE MORATORIUM 125 my vigil, I search the skies for the last time for our airship. But still she cometh not. Note. — At last, however, the Admiralty kept its promise, and upon a few occasions — but only a very few — Londoners beheld the airship. Then she vanished. ■ ••••••• It is difficult to please everyone. Not only are Londoners whose ill luck has prevented them from seeing our airship disposed to consider themselves ill treated, but everyone is not satis- fied with the moratorium. This all comes of having expected too much. Among the humbler classes the moratorium is being regarded with feelings of disappointment and disgust. Until three weeks ago it was a word unknown to them — they had never heard of such a thing. But on the morning of its promulgation joy and hilarity of the inhabitants of shabby neighbourhoods, for the gay, exhilarat- ing rumour went round that, by virtue of the moratorium, the payment of rent, household bills and every other kind and condition of debt might be delayed. News, if you like ! Back streets enraptured. Dingy courts in ecstasies. Other insolvent corners no less triumphant. Out on to her doorstep, arms akimbo, came Mrs Piper, full 126 LONDON IN WAR-TIME of defiance against her landlord. " Let 'im come. All I says is, let 'im come. Where is 'e ? Wants 'is rent, does 'e ? Let 'im come," declaimed Mrs Piper with malicious zest. Infinite satisfaction also of Mrs Cole, who had been persecuted and threatened for weeks past by a neighbouring grocer. Well, let him show himself. What's keeping him away ? Dear, blessed moratorium — how blithely the back streets buzzed with it on the morning of its birth, three weeks ago ! Later in the day, how- ever, unfavourable, disconcerting rumours got about. From being unfavourable they became dark, then sinister. At four o'clock it was announced that the moratorium had nothing whatsoever to do with rents. At five o'clock it was furthermore established that the moratorium had not said a word about household bills. At seven came the crushing intelligence that the moratorium had entirely ignored the matter of all small, odious debts. So nothing doing, nothing changed, except the speech and attitude of Mrs Piper, Cole and Dickens. Even to-day, three weeks later, this hostility against the moratorium continueth. Perhaps its most bitter antagonist is a certain Mrs Mande- ville, a large and garrulous charwoman, who has THE MORATORIUM 127 darkened my doorstep intermittently during a period of many years. That is to say, Mrs Mande- ville is for ever appearing and disappearing. If engaged for a week, she vanishes on the third day, and remains lost for months, when she reappears, in the same old shawl and bonnet, overflowing with voluble explanations and excuses. " And I shouldn't be 'ere to-day if it wasn't for that there morotory," announces Mrs Mandeville as she stands, breathless and enormous, in my study. " Moratorium," I correct. For I am so accus- tomed to iMrs ^landeville's distorted articulation of awkward words that I grasp her meaning. " What's the matter with it ? " " Don't ask me. Tliere was me, saying to myself, now, with this 'ere morotory I can sit down a bit and give the rheumatics, saying nothing of other pains, a nice, pleasant rest. Foolish creature that I was ! 'As there ever been any rest for Mrs Mandeville ? Ain't she always been on 'er 'ands and knees cleaning and scrub- bing for gentlefolk that don't appreciate 'er ? " After a sigh, after a moment of sombre silence, Mrs Mandeville pours forth her heart, lays bare her soul, with the staggering incoherency of which only a charwoman is capable. ^Vhat's the good of a " morotory " if it doesn't help deserving 128 LONDON IN WAR-TIME people like herself ? Where's her brooch ? Pawned. Where's the clock that used to tick on the mantelpiece ? Not there. Where are two flannel petticoats, a stuffed canary in a glass case, a set of fire-irons and two real silver-plated spoons ? Same place. Where's herself? Why isn't she dead and buried ? Why was she ever born ? " It's the morotory that's done it all ; me, like the foolish creature wot I am, being taken in and deceived with it," continues Mrs Mandeville. " There I was, saying to myself, no rent to pay, everybody's got to give you credit, you simply takes what you wants and promises to settle up when you can ; if there's any trouble you only calls up a policeman, and the policeman says to the shopman, ' Becos of this 'ere morotory, you've got to serve this laidy at once ' ; and if the shopman don't obey orders, off 'e goes to prison with the Germins, and they give 'im 'ard labour, and per'aps they cuts 'is throat, and " " But nothing of the kind has happened," I frantically intervene. " Never said it 'ad 'appened. But that's wot the morotory ought to 'ave done, instead of doing nothing, and leaving me with landlords and rheumatics," retorts Mrs Mandeville with increased incoherency. Ill THE SECOND MONTH OF THE WAR. MINISTERS IN STATE. PADDINGTON PREPARES. THE MILITARY BAND AS RECRUITER. TERRITORIALS AND CHRISTIANS PARLIAMENT prorogued, honourable members at liberty to vanish on a holiday, but none of the charms of the moors, or the sands, or of peaceful, drowsy villages for his Majesty's principal Ministers of State. With the exception of occasional " week-ends," Downing Street and W^hitehall for their Excel- lencies, so that the hundreds of Londoners who haunt those official thoroughfares with the pur- pose of beholding Mr Asquith and his colleagues in real flesh and blood will not be deprived of their favourite daily pastime. All classes of Londoners — Cockneys, fussy old gentlemen, timid old ladies, brisk city clerks, smart Territorials, flower-selling Pygmalions, professional photographers, alert newspaper reporters, and, of course, a strong con- tingent of those quiet, plainly dressed, indefinable I 129 130 LONDON IN WAR-TIME people who, even in time of peace, appear to have nothing positive to do. And most of them have assembled in Whitehall and Downing Street to catch a glimpse of their own particular hero, their own special idol. Truly, a remarkable array of heroes. In the matter of strength and popularity, never such a Cabinet. Its foes have become its friends, its critics its admirers. Only one single complaint against Mr Asquith and his colleagues : they don't " show " themselves enough. " I wonder if we shall see Mr Asquith to-day," remarks one of the timid old Downing Street ladies to her daughter. " They say he has an appointment with the King at Buckingham Palace at three o'clock, and that he will drive there in a long green motor car." " No sign of Churchill," exclaims one of the fussy old gentlemen. " Constable, can you tell me whether it is true that Mr Winston Churchill is to visit Mr Asquith this afternoon ? " " Can't say, sir. But not much good waiting, I should think," replies the constable. " Churchill's car is claret-coloured, with the Call to Arms pasted on the back ; you can't miss it," relates an obliging bystander to the old gentleman. MINISTERS IN STATE 181 Three o'clock — four o'clock — but not a sign of the Prime Minister, not a glimpse of the First Lord of the Admiralty, never the shadow of Mr Lloyd George, nor even the shoulder of Lord Kitchener, nor yet the very eyebrow of Sir Edward Grey. " Of course, not wanting a fuss, they goes out by the back door," relates a flower-girl. How- ever, everything comes to those who wait, and after an infinite amount of waiting either in Whitehall, Downing Street or in front of Bucking- ham Palace, lo and behold ! the long green car of Mr Asquith, or the claret-coloured automobile of Mr Churchill, and then a rush forward of the Londoners, and cheers of the Londoners, and con- tentment of the Londoners that at last they have beheld their idols. Very different the expressions of England's statesmen. Mr Asquith — seated far back in his car — calm, grave, inscrutable. The First Lord — his hat pushed back, his arm slipped through the strap beside the window — pale restless, harassed. Both raise their hats to the admiring Londoners ; Mr Asquith with quiet dignity, Mr Churchill more impulsively and ner- vously. As they remove their hats one notices that Mr Asquith 's white hair has whitened, and that Mr Churchill is going bald. More ravages of war. 132 LONDON IN WAR-TIME Another rush forward, ringing cheers — Mr Lloyd George in a democratic taxi, brisk and smihng. Then, on foot, another hero^boyish of figure, quiet and studious of face — Sir Edward Grey ; but in spite of the Foreign Secretary's fame and popularity, the majority of the Londoners fail to recognise him. " Some men, I should say — real daisies," an American remarks obligingly of our Cabinet. "The Marqis of Crewe — a pal of the King's — that's 'im, across the road," cries a newsboy to a colleague. " Course I knows the Marqis. Married Lord Rosebery's daughter," replies newsboy No. 2. But out of this great and historic English Cabinet one figure remains invisible to the spectators in Whitehall and Downing Street. How he contrives to elude his admirers is a mystery ; but the admirers, although bitterly dis- appointed, cordially agree that " it's just like him." " Couldn't tell you, I'm sure, miss. He's not the kind of gentleman to tell us what he's doing," replies a constable to a very blonde and perfectly fascinating English girl. The incomparable, nineteen-year-old blonde (chaperoned by a younger brother) then proceeds PADDINGTON PREPARES 133 to inform the constable that she has visited Wliite- hall three afternoons in succession in the hope of catching just a " tiny " glimpse of Lord Kitchener. " Not easy to see," states the constable. " The perleeceman's right, lady," says a flower- girl. " With Kitchener it's no fuss, and out by the back door all the time." Every day sees the civilian public becoming more and more agitated as to what they ought to do if a German army actually landed in this country. To shoot or not to shoot — that is the question. Mr H. G. Wells says, " Shoot." Sir Arthur Conan Doyle says, " Shoot." Mr Wedge- wood, once the most anti-militarist of M.P.'s, but to-day a khaki-coloured member of his Majesty's forces, goes further, and cries : " Shoot from behind hedges, out of windows, from roof- tops, from here, there and everywhere." But the Government, when invited to express an opinion on what action civilians should take in the event of an invasion, has vaguely replied that the Lord Lieutenants of the country are considering the question, and that at present it would be '* un- desirable " to make any definite statement. Thus Westminster hesitates; but the borough of Paddington has made up its mind. Paddington, indeed, has already begun shooting; 184 LONDON IN WAR-TIME not from behind chimneys or out of windows, but in the Kensal Road Public Baths, which have been drained of every drop of water in order that the manhood of the neighbourhood may learn how to bore a hole througli the enemy. From eight o'clock in the morning till nine at night, Paddington shoots and shoots, so that the baths, which once resounded with divings and splashings, now echo sharply with the crack of the rifle. Eight shots for twopence and a range of twenty-five yards. *' Yes, swimming is off and shooting is /ion," the grey-headed bath attendant informs me, as he presides over a table laden with rifles and ammunition. He speaks with satisfaction, even with zest. And his joy is intelligible. For years and years he has dealt with nothing but damp towels, witnessed nothing but wet, glisten- ing bodies, inhaled nothing but moisture. To- day he is importantly in charge of bullets and gims, and so lives in a hot military atmosphere. Very earnest and deliberate is Paddington in its shooting. No standing up casually and blaz- ing away at the targets. Lying down flat on a pile of coarse rugs, the marksmen carefully study the distant bull's-eyes, and glance steadily and lengthily along the barrels of their rifles before " letting go." Only five targets. But as the PADDINGTON PREPARES 135 five marksmen fire almost simultaneously, there's plenty of noise, and there's also quite a military smell of powder ; and the scene is made further- more war-like by the presence of six or seven professionals in khaki, who comment at once encouragingly and jocosely upon the efforts of gallant Paddington. As for the marksmen, they are clerks, tradesmen's assistants, unshaven young men minus collars, elderly and somewhat stout middle-class gentlemen (who find it rather difficult to lie flat on the rugs), and fresh-faced young Londoners not yet released from the Public Schools. As for their performances, well, they vary, so that visitors to these war-like baths are warned by printed notices to be prudent. No- body must stand round or about the range of fire, but must remain strictly behind the prostrate forms of the marksmen. And these instructions are necessary, for I notice that the sides of the bath have been scratched by many a bullet, and I also perceive that the doors of the little dressing- rooms have been peppered and splintered, and — " Fine sight, ain't it ? " exclaims the bath attendant, gleefully rubbing his hands. " Some- times we 'ave as many as seventy and eighty people waiting their turn. Once they begins they don't want to stop. One old gentleman 136 LONDON IN WAR-TIME yesterday was blazing away for two hours and never got near a bull's-eye all the time. But was 'e down'earted ? No, bless 'is 'eart. Quite 'appy and cheerful, 'e said : ' When I does get a bull's-eye, there'll be a shilling for yerself.' " However, I rejoice to record that many a Paddington marksman does " get " a bull's-eye — and sometimes two and even three — on this particular afternoon of my visit. On the other hand, I behold with my own eyes the sides of the bath scratched once again, and the door of yet another dressing-room peppered. " Very often they 'its the wrong target," the attendant informs me in a whisper. " I knows a gentleman wot, when 'e's firing at card No. 1, goes and 'its card No. 5 — ten yards away — and then feels proud and 'appy with 'imself, too. Any'ow, it's better to 'it the wrong target than no blooming target at all." A military band puts the martial spirit into the soul even of a Quaker. But such weather as London has given the recruiting sergeant doesn't call out listeners to the band. At last, after days and days of wind and rain, London is being favoured with quite a tolerable afternoon. True, it is damp underfoot, and sombre clouds frown and scowl in the skies, but THE MILITARY BAND AS RECRUITER 137 now and again a gleam of sunshine falls upon the two or three hundred mixed people who have assembled in Trafalgar Square to enjoy the patriotic and " popular " music, more eloquent than speech. The patriotic note everywhere. Nelson and General Gordon, the Call to Arms, King George's Message to the Nation, " I rely with confidence upon the loyal and united efforts of all my subjects," and in front of his Majesty's de- claration, with a massive and majestic lion on either side, the circle of khaki-coloured bandsmen who have been established here to put heart into timid, wavering recruits. In order that they may be captured swiftly and decisively, behold the smart recruiting sergeant on the watch — the quickest and keenest pair of eyes in London. Like a human searchlight they sweep the Square. But on this particular afternoon there's very little in the way of height, bone and muscle to satisfy the sergeant. You can't make a soldier out of an office-boy; and I notice lots of small office-boys eagerly and wickedly listening to the band, when they ought to be delivering messages, or performing dull, inky duties, for their employers. Nor would the confirmed, incorrigible old tramp be an acquisition at the front ; and here present 188 LONDON IN WAR-TIME in Trafalgar Square are quite a number of " Weary Willies " and " Tired Tims," leaning against the parapets, smoking disreputable clay pipes, and clasping ungainly and mysterious- looking parcels and bundles under their tattered, greasy coat-sleeves. As for myself, a mere glance from the recruiting sergeant. Then, thinking nothing of me, he passes on. An admirable band ; and the programme especi- ally composed to suit the tastes and the temper of the general public. Of course not a note of Wagner ; never a Viennese waltz ; no gipsy dance from Hungary ; but British marches, American rag-time and a potpourri of the latest music hall songs. Yes, at the base of the Nelson Column, under the very shadow of General Gordon, the band breaks out into the lively strains of, Hullo, hullo, who's your Lady Friend ? and Hold your Hand out. Naughty Boy, and, after that, into the Gaby Glide and Get Out and Get Under ; and all the while the small, delighted office- boys whistle softly, and shuffle their feet, whilst the incorrigible " Weary Willies " and " Tired Tims," still leaning against the parapets, keep time to this " popular " music by tapping their battered old boots on the damp, chilly ground. Other sounds also : the chink of the Belgian RECRUITING SERGEANT AT WORK 139 money-boxes. Other sights too : the devas- tated Belgian peasant women in their rusty black dresses ; convalescent Belgian soldiers with sunken cheeks and haunted eyes ; a small English boy ordered by his mother to offer his hand and raise his cap to one of these soldiers (which he does, shyly but charmingly) ; and then, over there, at the back of Gordon's statue, the re- cruiting sergeant in close conversation with three very eligible recruits, three young fellows of the artisan class, all muscle, and shoulder, and sinew, and bone. From a distance — it would be indiscreet to approach — I watch the sergeant at work. Now he appears to speak earnestly ; then gaily ; then dramatically ; then he laughs — then he becomes serious again — then he points his stick to Nelson's Column — then another gesture towards General Gordon — then another laugh — then his hand laid persuasively on the shoulder of the most stalwart of the three artisans. Hesita- tion, however, of the latter. Resumption of the sergeant's earnestness, persuasiveness and jocularity. Obvious weakening of the Muscles and Sinew^s and Bones. Increased eloquence of the sergeant. Irresolute gesticulations of the three artisans, as who should say : " Yes, that's 140 LONDON IN WAR-TIME all very well, and I'm with you there, but what about " Well, the Band settles it. At four o'clock, as Trafalgar Square is being gradually enveloped in shadow, moisture and mist, the khaki-coloured bandsmen at the base of Nelson's Column strike up the irresistible marching song of this war of all wars. Behold, as the Band breaks out into Tiiyperary, behold the last hesitation of the three artisans, and their departure, with the recruiting sergeant, for Great Scotland Yard. Although I am nothing of a heathen, I cannot but smile at the headquarters of the Young Men's Christian Association having been turned into a barracks. Gracious goodness, the transforma- tion ! Lectures, sermons, mild games of draughts and dominoes, book-reading, conversations, tea and toast in corners — all the religious and social life of the Y.M.C.A. has been shaken, if not entirely suspended, through the invasion of its premises by the spirited and war-like 12th London Territorials. On the doorstep, just off the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Great Russell Street, stands a private with a rifle, challenging all civilians who attempt to enter. Most of the civilians are members of the Y.M.C.A., but they may not penetrate into their own domain without TERRITORIALS AND CHRISTIANS 141 exhibiting a special card. It's not the Y.M.C.A. any longer : it's barracks. It's not sermons and lectures, and toast and tea : it's the tramp of troops and military slang. For short, the private on the doorstep calls the members " the Christians." As I stand beside him, he turns away any number of " Christians " because they have forgotten to bring their cards. Many of the *' Christians " resent this, and begin to argue. Not the slightest use. The young Territorial on guard — he is certainly not yet of age — remains inflexible. " Tliose are my orders. Only Christians with cards allowed to enter," the guard informs me. " We haven't been too hard on them. We've left them their restaurant and a room or two. The least they can do is to bring their cards." However, if I may not enter London's latest barracks, I am thankful to be permitted to stand on the doorstep and watch the scene. Half-past twelve o'clock, the weather hot, and perspiring Territorials hastening and bustling about Great Russell Street, and sometimes coming into collision with the cooler Christians. Indeed, I cannot but feel sorry for the latter. Their magnificent building invaded, their cosy corners seized, but not a word of sympathy. No one 142 LONDON IN WAR-TIME casts so much as a glance at the Christians, whereas everybody's eye is fixed gaily and admiringly upon the Territorials. The invaders, heroes. The invaded and evicted, nonentities. Such is the irony of war. Three more Christians without the necessary cards, and firmly turned away. A more sym- pathetic reception, however, for a charming, brown-eyed girl who asks the guard if she can see " Henry Jenkins, only for a minute." The guard relaxes. " I'll try and get him. Wait on the other side of the street." More girls, plain or attractive : " I'll do my best. Wait on the pavement opposite." Elderly women, obvious mothers, also told to wait. And tmly enough the Territorial ^vith the rifle, upright on the doorstep, beckons, whispers and causes it to be known inside the barracks that "Henry Jenkins is wanted"; and out, very quickly, comes Jenkins, and out come other gallant Territorials, to join their brown and blue eyed sweethearts, and press their hands, and look into their eyes and Gracious goodness, the transformation in Great Russell Street ! Fancy, a fortnight ago, messages being sent into the Y.M.C.A. from charming blue and brown eyed sweethearts ! Now does the guard stand smartly at salute, TERRITORIALS AND CHRISTIANS 143 for up the steps pass half-a-dozen olticers. Now, at one o'clock, are there murmurs, cheers and exclamations of delight, when, all of a sudden, cauldrons of hot potatoes and huge baking-tins containing smoking joints of beef are borne into the street, and up the steps, by sturdy Territorials. They arrive from Tottenham Court Road, two by two, swinging the cauldrons of potatoes, but taking no risks with the tins of meat — steady and strictly horizontal with the beef. Great Russell Street perfumed with hot, browned beef. Nostrils of grimy little street children eagerly sniffing in the scent. Unshaven old loafers removing blackened, foul clay pipes from their weak, shapeless lips, the better to enjoy these whiffs of beef. Whiff after whiff. Here's yet another cauldron, here's at least the twentieth huge baking- tin. More cheers and exclamations of delight from the spectators. Beef and potatoes going through the streets steamily, smokingly, openly — never such a British, beefy spectacle ! Hooooray for the 12th London Territorials ! But what about the " Christians " ? No cheers for them -mere nonentities. Even if they be pro- vided with the necessary cards, they must make way for the baking- tins and cauldrons. After the beef and potatoes, and not before, the Christians. 144 LONDON IN WAR-TIME And what about the Press ? After a whole hour's waiting on this doorstep I am at last in- formed by a sergeant that I cannot possibly be admitted. Naturally, as a patriot, I accept the disappointment with perfect equanimity. Time of war. Strict military regime. The only way, the only thing. A last cauldron, a final whiff of beef, and I leave Great Russell Street — but not alone. With me come three Christians, round the corner to the "Horse Shoe," where the four of us drink to the health of the 12th London Territorials. Once again have I been inspecting the 12th London Territorials, who swing two by two into the massive building in Great Russell Street, with huge cauldrons of hot potatoes and vast, open baking-tins of smoking joints. Prodigious, the appetites of the gallant 12th ! At two o'clock out comes the debris of the dinner — only great bare bones rest upon the tins, merely ruined frag- ments of potatoes cling to the sides and bottom of the cauldrons. All gone : even fat and gristle vanished. And the bones, so scarped and bare, provoke the joy of Cockney passers-by. " Ain't muvver going to 'ave none ? " shouts a voice. " And never left a little bit fer pore old father. Sh-aa-me ! " exclaims another wit. Constables TERRITORIALS AND CHRISTIANS 145 and motor bus drivers smile down upon the debris. Mild old ladies, from the adjacent Blooms- bury squares, agree that great bare, reddish bones, openly carried through the streets, are an un- pleasant spectacle — "but," they add, "one must not be too sensitive in time of war." And the bone-carrying Territorials themselves ? Decidedly embarrassed, self-conscious, sheepish, although they whistle, swing their cauldrons and otherwise profess to be at ease. All kinds of rumours as to where the Territorial joints are cooked. A man asserts that they come from the spits and ovens of the Horse Shoe — " and very proper and patriotic of the Horse Shoe, too." Another declares that they hail from the comfortable private kitchens of Bedford and Russell Squares — more loyalty, more self-sacrific- ing patriotism. A third announces that they have been roasted in empty houses, every room of which has been transformed into a kitchen. But nothing of the kind. Follow the tins and cauldrons up Tottenham Court Road, turn with them into Store Street and next into Alfred Place, and you will find that the dinner of the 12th Territorials is cooked on a plot of rough, dilapidated waste ground. Once a house stood here, but it has been 146 LONDON IN WAR-TIME demolished, and the open, ragged space has been screened from the street by a barricade of weather- beaten boards. In the boards a small doorway has been fashioned ; and round the door is clustered a rather frowsy crowd, which makes way, with all kinds of jokes, as the Territorials, with their tins and cauldrons, pass in and out. Pressing against the boards and peering through the chinks and cracks, scrubby little children. Drawn up to the kerbstone, a piano organ, which jangles forth Hold your Hand out, Naughty Boy. A fierce smell of cooking. At last, after infinite waiting, I get close to the boards, discover a chink, put my eye to it, and behold — but only obscurely — vast cooking utensils stationed about the stony, uneven ground, steam escaping upwards, a heap of great bones in a corner, a mound of ashes in another, three or four Territorials sound asleep on camp beds in a third corner, a couple of perspiring cooks in their shirt-sleeves, and cauldrons being washed, and tins being scrubbed, and " Make way for us little children," exclaim a couple of stalwart Territorials, appearing at the small doorway with more bony debris. " 'Ope you enjoyed it, my dears," says a dis- hevelled woman in a shawl. " Got anything for us ? " demands a thin, TERRITORIALS AND CHRISTIANS 147 wizened child, clutching one of the Territorials by the arm. "Anything to take it away in?" asks the Territorial. The child produces a dingy, tattered pillow- case and holds it open. Into it the Territorial drops a gigantic bone, then (after groping about in the cauldron) a handful of smashed potatoes. " Bless 'is 'eart," exclaims the frowsy woman in the shawl. " 'E's the right sort," agrees her equally dis- hevelled lady friend. How the piano organ jangles on ! It appears to be a permanency, in the pay of the 12th Terri- torials, for they " support " it liberally with coppers and call out for special tunes. Two airs, applicable to the German Emperor, are jDarticu- larly popular : Get Out and Get Under, and, for the twelfth time at the very least, Hold your Hand out, Naughty Boy. This last line is accom- panied by a general emphatic smacking of dingy hands. Then, of course, Ws a Long, Long Way to Tipperary. The chorus is chanted, not only by the crowd, but by the Territorials themselves. The scrubby children dance to it. Through my own special chink in the boards I can perceive the 148 LONDON IN WAR-TIME cooks beating time to Tipperary on the backs of the vast baking-tins. On goes the organ, and on go the singing and the dancing, in spite of the fierce, demoralising heat. The frowsy ladies become more and more dishevelled. Down slip the stockings of the children. Low, vulgar dogs — attracted hours ago to Alfred Place by the odours of the cooking — still lurk and cringe about outside the boarding. Through my own chink I perceive perspiring Territorials plunging their heads into pails of water, and then combing their hair in the reflec- tion of little pocket mirrors. Why comb their hair ? Because sweethearts — the eternal sweet- hearts of time of war — are waiting on the pave- ment for their Toms and Henrys. . . . On jangles the organ. . . . Again, Hold your Hand out, Naughty Boy. . . . Out, washed and combed, come the Territorials to meet their Gerties and their Ethels. Here, in Alfred Place, waste ground, a piano organ, frowsy ladies, tattered children, greedy dogs, amorous soldiers, tender sweethearts. But above them all, dominating the reckless, sentimental, human scene, there towers incongruously the notice-board : " These eminently desirable Business Premises to be Let." IV THE SECOND MONTH OF THE WAR. THE FORTY-FOURTH ANNIVERSARY OF SEDAN. SMALLER STAGELAND. SOHO IN THE EIGHTH WEEK TO-DAY, the first of September, sees the French residents of Soho in a particu- larly acute state of anxiety and emotion. For to-day is the forty-fourth anni- versary of the disastrous battle of Sedan. Behold, looking backwards, the French Emperor made a prisoner, the French nation humiliated. Down fell the Empire. In came the Third Re- public. Despite the heroic efforts of Gambetta's Army of the Loire, further agonising surrenders and defeats, culminating in the entry of the Germans into crippled, starving Paris. The battle of Sedan practically determined the destiny of France, exactly forty-four years ago this very day. If Sedan be in the minds and in the hearts of the inhabitants of Soho, Sedan, we may be sure, has not been forgotten by the French and German 149 150 LONDON IN WAR-TIME armies on the battle-field. How are the French troops commemorating the anniversary ? And the Germans, how are they coming through it ? In the estimation of Soho the French army will not fail to attempt to inflict a decisive defeat on the enemy to-day. " I am convinced that our soldiers began opera- tions at dawn," a little old white-headed news- agent informs me. " When they went to sleep last night it was with the name of Sedan on their lips. When they woke up the first word was Sedan." " Unless it was Revenge," suggests the news- agent's wife. " Sedan and Revenge," agrees her husband. " Revenge, Revenge ; O that France may be taking it this very moment, whilst you and I, my poor wife, are sitting here, old people, old, old people in spectacles and slippers, doing nothing . . . aching . . . helpless." From the newsagent's shop to a restaurant, where, although it is four o'clock in the afternoon, I discover M. Georges Leblond, another white- headed old Frenchman, lunching off an omelet. For twenty years has M. Leblond, a small wine merchant, lived in London, and throughout that period he has invariably taken his luncheon, a 44TH ANNIVERSARY OF SEDAN 151 substantial one, French fashion, at noon. Since the war, lunch at any hour, sometimes none at all. To-day, the forty-fourth anniversary of Sedan, he sends away his omelet unfinished, refuses fruit and cheese, calls for coffee. But he ignores the coffee, he forgets to light his cigarette. The month of September of the year 1870 ; the month of September of the year 1914. M. Leblond fought and was wounded at Sedan. " Ah, the brigands ! Ah, the bandits ! " he breaks out suddenly, his eyes flashing, his hands trembling on the table. " My sons — my Jean and Henri — what are they doing to-day to those vile assassins ? " " Doing splendidly, taking their revenge," I soothingly reply. "Then why haven't we any new^s ? Why don't the papers come out ? Why don't we hear that Sedan has been avenged ? " " It's only four o'clock," I hasten to point out. " Much too early for news. Perhaps to-night. But, more probably, to-morrow." Burying his head in his hands, old M. Leblond, a stout Frenchman, gasps and heaves convul- sively. After a while I engage him in a game of dominoes — his favourite pastime. But suddenly 152 LONDON IN WAR-TIME he pushes the dominoes away, and, rising from the table, walks about the restaurant with his hands deep down in his pockets, hotly muttering. The ticking of the clock gets on his nerves, and during his perambulations to and fro he stops and shakes his fist at it. Newspapers appear — but no exhilarating information. Again M. Leblond demands : " And Jean and Henri — my sons, my own dear sons — what are they doing against those vile assassins ? And my wife — ma vieille bonne femme — where is she ? What have the brigands and bandits done to her ? " And now does old white-headed M. Leblond break down piteously, and cry. For a few days before the outbreak of the war Madame Leblond, also a sexagenarian, left London to visit her nieces in Lorraine. A telegram announced her safe arrival. Since then, nearly five weeks ago, no news of her. Every effort to obtain informa- tion of the poor old lady fruitless. " Where is she, ma bonne, ma brave vieille femme ? What are they doing, my Jean and Henri ? " the white-headed Frenchman sobs convulsively. " Courage, mon vieux. Your wife is quite safe, your sons are doing their duty — courage, mon vieux," says the proprietor of the restaurant SMALLER STAGELAND 158 in a thick voice, as he pats M. Leblond affection- ately on the shoulder. Monotonously the clock ticks on. Six, half- past six, and M. Leblond rises unsteadily from his chair, reaches unsteadily for his hat, and, always unsteadily, and with a ravaged face, and without a word, goes out into the street. . . . Without its spacious and comfortable saloon bars, in which all kinds and conditions of actors and actresses discuss their professional and personal affairs. Maiden Lane, a hard, narrow little street that rans parallel with the Strand, would be colourless and lifeless. Of course " stars " don't come here. You would never meet Mrs Patrick Campbell at Rule's, Sir Herbert Tree in the Bedford Head, or Sir George Alexander in the Peacock. Maiden Lane is the meeting-place of smaller Stageland. This afternoon I don't believe it contains a soul whose salary has ever exceeded seven pounds a week. Out of that sum costumes, wigs and grease paint to be bought. Another portion of it to be set aside for possible weeks — perhaps months — of unemployment. Aged parents or invalid relatives also to be pro- vided for. So that nobody theatrically wears diamonds or drinks champagne in Maiden Lane. However, upon most occasions it is a cheerful 154 LONDON IN WAR-TIME spot. In the saloon bars, gossip, comradeship. In the upper rooms all kinds of rehearsals are taking place — lurid melodrama in room No. 1, gay musical comedy in another, pantomime in a third ; it is even on record that a mixed troupe of performing parrots, doves and cats has rehearsed in Maiden Lane. Everyone knows everybody else. Rarely does one hear a surname ; it is just " George " or " Harry," or " Dolly " or " Ethel," or "Hello, old thing," and "Hello, old dear." Since smaller Stageland passes most of the year on tour, appointments are made to meet in such different and distant places as Aberdeen, Wigan, Cardiff, Yarmouth and the Isle of Man. The addresses of the most suitable lodgings and land- ladies are handed round. Mrs West, of Wigan, is recommended for cleanliness and steak-and- kidney pudding ; Mrs Duff, of Douglas, for honesty and " as much hot water as you want " ; but be- ware of Mrs Bolt, of Blackburn, who makes shame- less raids upon your butter, sugar, tea and stout. Such is Maiden Lane upon ordinary occasions. But a very different Maiden Lane to-day. Smaller Stageland has, in fact, been dis- astrously stricken by the war. Last Saturday night numbers of provincial touring companies " closed down," and back they have come to SMALLER STAGELAND 155 London, in a state of pathetic anxiety and con- fusion. Most of the first and second class touring companies are still fulfilling their engagements, but the others, in their own words, are " on the rocks." Even a provincial production of the enormously successful Mr Wu has suddenly succumbed. Here, in Maiden Lane, I meet two members of the cast who have been playing the small parts of Chinese coolies. " So we're not Chinamen any longer. We're just nothing. After being coolies, we're now cooling our heels. That's a pun, but I don't think much of it," says the ex-Chinaman from the provinces. He speaks dully and monotonously. His friend, the fellow-coolie, says nothing, and looks fixedly at nothing. Then up speaks another actor : " Last week I was playing the Earl of Tower- castle — old aristocrat's part — gout, beautiful daughters, and silver hair. A big success. Brought the house down when I gave the hand of my favourite daughter, the Lady Ethelreada, to Harry Burton, the son of my gamekeeper, say- ing to him as follows : — ' Harry Burton, you have served your King and Country most nobly and magnificently. Here, apart from the honours that his Majesty the King has bestowed upon you, here — in Lady Ethelreada — is your reward.' " 156 LONDON IN WAR-TIME " You won't say it again for a long time," says the first Chinese coolie. '* Perhaps we sha'n't be putting on grease paint again for another three years," funereally observes the second Chinaman. " So what's going to happen to us ? " exclaims the Earl. There's the rub. Smaller Stageland can hold out on its scanty savings for a few weeks, but no longer — and afterwards ? Therefore do the habitues of Maiden Lane ask themselves most anxiously how long the war will last, hence are their faces fixed, strained and haggard, and so do they express acute concern, not only for them- selves, but for aged parents and disabled relatives. Until the end of the war scarcely the shadow of a hope of engagements for smaller Stageland. The Earl of Towercastle foresees visits to the pawn- shop. The coolies from the provincial tour of Mr Wu predict a diet of sausages and kippers. Other actors — dukes, generals, millionaires, solicitors, doctors, detectives, farmers — all the heroes and villains of smaller Stageland survey the future with the darkest apprehension. Nor are the ladies of the obscure touring companies better off. " Closed down," all of them, whether they have been playing gay, flippant parts in SOHO IN THE EICxHTH WEEK 157 musical comedy, or haughty countesses in drawing- rooms, or persecuted but eventually victorious shop-girls and mill-hands in melodrama. Thus a dejected, lifeless Maiden Lane. Thus, when night comes on, smaller Stageland — instead of decking itself out in artificial costumes, wigs and grease paint — instead of playing elegant or exciting parts — instead of provoking applause, tears and laughter — thus does smaller Stage - land make its way to the cheap and dingy theatrical lodging-houses of Kennington and Brixton. A scanty supper, early to bed — and the awaken- ing on the morrow ? More melancholy and Maiden Lane. • « . . • • • This eighth week of the war sees the French inhabitants of Soho in a state of patient and pathetic resignation. A month ago fierce out- bursts and explosions over the brutalities of the Germans, and distressing, poignant apprehensions as to the fate of sons and husbands who had been hastily ordered to the battle-field. But tears run dry at last, the heat of anger gradually declines, and gives place to a dull, bruised feeling of weari- ness and helplessness. Soho, then, is worn out ; not, however, because it has suffered shocks and 158 LONDON IN WAR-TIiME blows in the nature of cruel tidings from the front, but because of the even darker and more devastating ordeal of Silence. Better to know the worst than, week after week, to hear nothing. Better to cry one's heart out than to leave it aching from suspense. Such is the state of Soho. After Eight Weeks, it knows nothing. Not a letter, not a post card from Soho's soldiers at the front. No use applying at the French Em- bassy or Consulate for news. As for the French papers, silence on the point of casualties within France herself ; the names of the killed and wounded are privately communicated to their families. But it's a long, long way from the seat of the French Government to Soho — and Soho is but a corner, and consequently Soho is officially ignored. " Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing," states a white-headed old newsagent, in a shabby skull- cap. " Rien, rien, absolument rien," repeats Soho's leading washerwoman. " Five of my waiters and three of my kitchen hands left me on August the 5th. They promised post cards, at least. They went off singing the Marseillaise. My wife embraced them all before SOHO IN THE EIGHTH WEEK 159 they left. But not a word," relates a restaurant- keeper. Dull, subdued voices ; voices that once were shrill or lively. Maps of the battle-field pinned to the walls of the shops and the restaurants — but what do they tell ? Tales of magnifi- cent advances, of admirably conducted re- treats. But of Gaston and Georges, of Henri and Jules, Soho's soldiers at the front, always nothing. Three weeks after the anniversary of Sedan, and for M. Lcblond, alas ! no tidings of his wife, no news, so I am told, of his sons. As for M. Leblond himself, he has (Soho informs me) practically shut himself up in his small third-floor flat, and "wishes" to see "nobody." However, as an old friend, and after a great deal of knock- ing, I gain admittance to M. Leblond's stricken home. The old gentleman, stout, florid, white- headed, apologises for his shirt-sleeves. On the table, at which he has been sitting, the photo- graphs of his wife and sons. Dust, crumbs, visions of unwashed cups and saucers, fragments of galantine on a plate, cinders and ashes in the fireplace — the discomfort and disorder of a man left helplessly alone. " Read that," says M. Leblond, handing me a 160 LONDON IN WAR-TIME post card, which he produces shakily from an inner pocket. A French post card, limp and dingy, torn in one corner, that conveys in English the following literal message : — '' Your son wounded right leg and arm, but will do nicely, and arsks me to write you, which I now does with pleasure as your sons one of the best and I was fighting longside of your son and see im got shot but will do nicely as I sed before and sends love and me is pal best respects." Thus, all the way to Soho, a typical, brief, kindly message from Thomas Atkins. " Excellent news," I say cheerfully to my stricken host. " But which of my two sons, Jacques or Henri ? " M. Leblond dully answers. " And look at the front of the card." Postmark, Paris. Date, September the second. Received, only yesterday, the 26th September. " The second of September ! " cries, or rather chokes, M. Georges Leblond. " Where are my two sons ? What has become of la patronne — ma bonne et brave femme — my cherished, poor old wife?" V THIRD MONTH OF THE WAR. BELGIAN REFUGEES. THE VANDENBERGERS. ALEXANDRA PALACE. TRAFALGAR DAY THIS chilly, misty evening, it is my privilege to entertain the Vandenberger family — or, rather, what remains of the Vandenberger family — in a corner of one of the refreshment-rooms of Waterloo Station. Five days have elapsed since they arrived in London from a ruined Belgian village. London, during those five days, has taken good care of the Vanden- bergers. And this evening, in half-an-hour's time, they are to travel to Exeter, as the guests of an English lady and her husband and daughter, in their calm, charming, old-fashioned country house. Four Vandenbergers : the mother, a son aged fourteen, and two little girls of seven and nine. The father is " missing." Also a grandfather is " missing." Also a daughter is "missing." Also Madame Vandenberger's old mother is " miss- L i6i 162 LONDON IN WAR-TIME ing." In fact, although the entire Vandenberger family fied their village side by side, only four of them wretchedly reached London. How, or where, or when they became separated, Madame Vandenberger cannot tell. At all events, some- where or other, in the frantic iTish to the Belgian coast, the stricken and distracted Vandenberger party was broken up. A typical, sturdy peasant woman, Madame Vandenberger. Forty years of age, but her face previously weather-stained by hard work in the open fields, now further ravaged by distress and despair. Her fourteen-year-old son, brown of skin, lanky, restless and awkward. The two little girls — well, each clasps a doll tightly under her arm and a stick of chocolate in one hand, and there are blue ribbons in their hair, blonde hair that has been streaked and tarnished from past rural exposure to the fierce Belgian sun. So do the Vandenbergers sit in the refreshment-room at Waterloo (more shades of Belgium !), waiting for the Exeter train, eating sandwiches and chocolates and drinking cafe au lait. Coffee is the Belgian refugee's chief consolation. Since kindly English people have been sending our stricken visitors parcels of tea, I should like to quote the following warning from a letter that I have received from a BET.GIAX REFUGEES 168 distinguished Belgian lady : — " Faites moi le plaisir de dire en toute occasion qu'on leur donne tou- jours du cafe au lait, et pas de th^ — car c'est Icur reconfort et la base de leur soutien moral et physique, et le the leur est une vraie drogue." Shades of dear, devastated Belgium again ! Amongst her peasantry, tea (as my correspondent points out) has ever been regarded as a strong, dangerous medicine ; a " drug." In villages, even in small towns, it was only procurable from the chemist. And the cautious chemist placed his tea high up on a shelf, in an ominous glass jar, amidst other sinister poisons. So, coffee and milk (three large cups of it all round) for my guests in this corner of Waterloo Station. As they speak little French, and my own knowledge of Flemish is deplorable, con- versation is difficult. Nor, I feel sure, is Madame Vandenberger in the least degree inclined to talk. The frantic flight from her village — the desperate exodus to Antwerp — the arrival at foreign Folke- stone — then London — and now Exeter ; all these agonies, all these sudden, startling vicissitudes have left her dizzy and dazed. Here she sits at Waterloo, bareheaded, wrapped up in a shawl, with two bundles at her feet — silent and expres- sionless. Smaller bundles by the side of the son 164 LONDON IN WAR-TIME and the two little girls. Exeter ! I have assured Madame Vandenberger that she and her children will receive the most sympathetic of welcomes from the charming English lady, and her open- hearted husband, and their delightful children — and I know it well. Exeter ! But what can Exeter, with all its hospitality and beauty, signify at the present moment, in Waterloo Station, to a dazed, broken Belgian peasant woman who has scarcely ever moved out of her own primitive native village ? Exeter — another journey, another long step into the unknown, farther and farther away from " missing " old Mother Vandenberger, and " miss- ing," shaky Grandfather Vandenberger, and the " missing " seventeen-year-old daughter Vanden- berger, and " Give me a kiss," says an English lady to the Vandenberger little girls, as she comes up into our corner and presents the blonde and stricken small Belgian sisters with a handsome box of chocolates. More gifts of chocolates follow. A stout gentle- man presses half-a-sovereign into the limp, roughened hands of the mother. After that, a parcel of buns. After that ... to the train. And there, on the cold, misty platform, I help bareheaded and ravaged Madame Vandenberger, BELGIAN REFUGEES 165 and the tired young Vandenbergers, and their toys, chocolates and bundles into an empty third- class carriage, and the guard gives the signal, and the train leaves for Exeter. As a result of the bombardment of Antwerp, behold Folkestone invaded every day by further contingents of homeless Belgians. A few hours later, picture scores of the new refugees estab- lished, with their bundles and their tired, brown- faced babies and children, in the innumerable halls, rooms and corridors of the vast, rambling Alex- andra Palace. This afternoon it shelters over a thousand stricken Belgians. This afternoon, too, the Palace is eagerly approached by dozens of other visitors, also laden with parcels and bundles, but none of them is allowed to proceed farther than the lodge that stands at the entrance to the grounds. " Can't let anyone pass without a permit,'* states the lodgekeeper. Appeals, protests, exhortations from the visitors, but the lodgekeeper remains inflexible. Finally, the bundles and parcels are delivered into his charge, and the visitors turn away. " People are very kind," the lodgekeeper in- forms me. " All day long they come up wanting to see the refugees, and nearly everyone brings a 166 LONDON IN WAR-TIME parcel. Clothes, boots, food, toys — I couldn't say what else. Apart from the presents, can't they do something to help ? Yes, there's no mistake about it, people are very kind." Mainly ladies, the visitors. Nor did the lodge- keeper exaggerate when he stated that they and their kindly offerings '' came up all day long." One visitor after another, some of them arrived from distant places. For instance, this grey- haired lady, with three parcels of clothing, and the hospitable intimation that she would " like " to take in and care for no fewer than six Belgian children, in her country house at Woking. A less prosperous lady — indeed, shabby and frail — anxious to help the Belgian mothers in " any way I can." And then, delightful apparition, a radiant English girl of eighteen, who informs the lodgekeeper that she wants to give the Belgian babies their nightly baths. " What, all of them ! " exclaims the lodge- keeper, at once admiringly and humorously. " I can come every day from five o'clock to eight," says the charming girl. " Shall I bring towels ? " I should have liked to know it was settled ! But the dear girl and the lady from Woking are referred to the Belgian Refugee Society in London. THE ALEXANDRA PALACE 167 Up come more and more visitors. A stout, fussy lady, accompanied by a ten-year-old son, who carries (or rather struggles with) a large card- board box, containing handkerchiefs, stockings, three flannel petticoats and six cakes of Pears' soap, so the stout lady announces breathlessly to the lodgekeeper. After that, two pounds of tea. "They can't stand tea; they only take coffee," the keeper informs me in a whisper. A nun, with a parcel. A white-headed English clergyman, with three substantial packets of chocolate. A laJy, with two sofa cushions. Another lady who, after borrowing my pencil, writes on her visiting- card : " Vive la Belgique, Pays des Heros," and pins it on a pillow-case full of toys. Out of the pillow-case protrudes the red, genial face of Mr Punch. . . . '* People are very kind ; very, very kind," repeats the lodgekeeper. When I take leave of him it is five o'clock, England's comfortable tea-time. A minute or two's walk brings me into a spruce little street, lined with spruce little villas. Spruce nurse- maids wheel home spruce perambulators contain- ing spruce suburban babies. Spruce housemaids r»ppear on spruce doorsteps to answer the call of the muffin man's bell. Spruce little wooden 168 LONDON IN WAR-TIME balconies are decked with autumn-tinted ivy. Happy, spruce school-children dance and romp homewards, swinging their satchels. Tea and muffins and crumpets, the villa windows reflect- ing the glow from cheerful fires — return of menfolk from business — dinner and gossip, card- playing and music, bed and repose. Such a comfortable, and contented, and homely London suburb ! But, in the midst of it, the homeless- ness, the hopelessness, and the helplessness, of the dazed and devastated Belgian refugees. Why didn't the Kaiser send Zeppelins, accom- panied by Taubes, to ruin this most memorable of Trafalgar Days ? He could not have forgotten, whatever and wherever his present wanderings, our annual English celebration of the 21st day of October. He could not but have known that the " mercenary," evil English, supported by their honoured and stricken visitors from Belgium and France, would this year solemnise the 109th anni- versary of Trafalgar with unprecedented vigour and enthusiasm. He must have foreseen that Trafalgar Square would be packed and crammed and hopelessly jammed — a solid, indivisible mass, a wonderful " target." But never a Zeppelin, not the shadow of a Taube, not a lurid, hectic shaft of the slightest tint or degree from the Kaiser. TRAFALGAR DAY 169 Au contraire, hawkers gaily sell the Last Will and Testament of the German Emperor. The lions around the plinth of Nelson's towering Column hold wreaths of laurels in their indomit- able, massive jaws. Tlie very first edition to be published in London of the venerable Indejoen- dance Beige, with its graceful message from Mr Asquith, sells like wildfire. Tlie newly born Echo de France and Le Cri de Londres, printed in or about our own British journalistic Fleet Street, also enjoy a fine circulation. Collection boxes rattle with copper and silver. The twopenny Life of Admiral Jellicoe finds any number of buyers. Equal success for a humorous, " spoof " newspaper, entitled The Daily Liar, which an- nounces the fall of Berlin and the destiniction of no fewer than 20,000 Zeppelins. Then, all of a sudden, in response to the favourite, eternal demand of " Are we down- hearted ? " Trafalgar Square roars forth: "No." And the Allies, in their French and Belgian accents, also contrive to shout forth : " No." And khaki shouts Ifs a Long Way to Tipperary^ and Bluejackets chant Rule, Britannia, and some- body starts the glorious and incomparable Marseil- laise, and there, amidst all the enthusiasm and din, under the dark and sullen skies, grinning 170 LONDON IN WAR-TIME small sailor-boys literally dance about on the plinth of Nelson's Column, noisily shaking their money-boxes and deftly catching (but sometimes missing) the showers of coins that are cast at them from this emotional and incomparable crowd of veritable Allies. What a scene ! Apart from the vast crowd surrounding the Column, thousands of spectators stationed on the terraces of the Square, on the steps of the National Gallery, on the top of the congested array of motor omnibuses, on the balcony of Morley's Hotel, on the roofs of lofty buildings — and everybody in every taxi-cab standing up, and odd, frail ladies in open, old- fashioned carriages on their feet. Result of all this traffic — sheer, delirious congestion. But this congestion is admirable, because it permits of the taxi-cabs of wounded French, Belgian and English soldiers being admiringly and affectionately, and intimately " saluted " by the crowd. The wounded^ — only slightly wounded — have been allowed out from their hospitals to " have a look at " Trafalgar Square. But they see little of the scenes around the plinth of the Column. For the Allies make a rush for their taxis, and cry out " Hooooray ! " and " Vive I'Angleterre ! " and throw chocolates and cigarettes into the vehicles. TRAFALGAR DAY 171 And poor women, from dim, obscure neighbour- hoods, with babies in arms, bring those babies up to the taxis and say to the babies : " Shake 'ands with the poor, wounded soldiers and say ' God bless 'em ' " — and so the babies offer limp little hands, and the wounded soldiers warmly respond, and the enthusiasm and humanity and nobility of the scene continues until long after nightfall. Out go the lights. Still, however, the Allies linger. The Marseillaise, Ride, Britannia, God Save the King, Tipper ary. Darkness. Nelson, a shadow. The Allies in Trafalgar Square also a shadowy but dense mass. What a " target " ! But never a Zeppelin. VI THE FOURTH AND FIFTH MONTHS. DARKNESS IN LONDON. CABBAGES AND RABBITS EVIDENTLY the end, the very end of summer weather, and the decisive arrival of autumn, with its mists and its melancholy. At least the nights are melan- choly ; a chill in the air, half-darkened streets, the fall of dead leaves, pale flashes from the searchlights, misty shadows by the river-side, dim ambiguities in the parks. This latest aspect of London I survey to-night from the motor car of a friend, who is a specialist, an authority on our own London's darkness. A worldly and cheerful soul, he nevertheless revels in the obscurity. A few weeks ago he habitually put himself into evening dress and visited elegant restaurants and theatres. But now, a quick chop for my friend, and a cap, mackintosh, " two-seater " and darkness. " That's nothing," replies my cicerone, when I 172 DARKNESS IN LONDON 173 point out that only every second lamp in St John's Wood Road has been lighted. " That's nothing," he repeats, when we turn into the partial obscurity of Edgware Road. " That's nothing," he reiterates Avhen, through the railings of Hyde Park and then of St James's Park, I perceive what appear to be dwarf gas- lamps, two or three feet high, dotted about on the paths and the grass. Gloom of Hyde Park Corner. Then, suddenly, the flash of the searchlight, and a glimpse of shadowy figures, high up on the archway, sur- rounded by woodwork, who are controlling the apparatus. " That's nothing," declares my friend, putting on speed. " This way for the Darkness." Lest this article should fall into the hands of the German Emperor — worse still, into the posses- sion of Count Zeppelin — it is " undesirable " to disclose the precise route taken by my friend into London's deepest darkness. Discreetly and vaguely, let me state that certain parts of Ful- ham. Hammersmith and Chelsea are plunged into almost total obscurity, whilst, here and there, stretch unimportant little streets enveloped — save for dim lights in the windows — in com- plete, silent blackness. Why should unimportant 174 LONDON IN WAR-TIME little side streets take " precautions " against Zeppelins ? " Gasworks and waterworks all about here," explains my friend, the authority on London's Darkness. . . . Yes, for sheer, Silent Darkness, impossible to surpass certain corners of Fulham, Chelsea and Hammersmith. . . . Round and about the gas and the water works, policemen, Territorials, or proud special constables. The Embankment — an important bridge — and special constables and armed Territorials once again. Black, the river ; extinguished, the blink- ing, lurid electrical advertisements of patent medicines and whiskies ; invisible, the face of Big Ben. In Whitehall and the Haymarket more semi -darkness. The mixed life of Piccadilly Circus only half alive, Regent Street deserted, Portland Place funereal, Regent's Park en- veloped in a pale, ghostly mist — all this chill and darkness depressing me, I persuade my friend to pull up at a small, vulgar coffee- stall. Two lamps, anyhow. Two lamps of the kitchen description, and the eternal hard-boiled eggs, and slabs of bread and butter, and slices of sallow seed cake, and penny packets of Woodbine cigar- ettes, and the coffee-stall keeper himself absorbed DARKNESS IN LONDON 175 in a tattered, greasy copy of the very latest " extra special." No fewer than three eggs and two cups of coffee for my friend, the authority on Darkness. After that, a chilly sardine sandwich. A la guerre, cornme d la guerre. Wliich admirable French say- ing I translate into English for the benefit of the coffee-stall keeper. " That's it, that's the proper spirit," he cordi- ally assents. " If we was to start grumbling, wot would 'appen to the war, I should like to know ! Business is rotten. On the top of that, prices gone up. Bar a couple of slices and cups of coffee, you're the only customers I've 'ad to- night. But am I down'earted ? " " N-o-oo," respond my friend and myself, raising our cups of bitter coffee, in the mist, chill and darkness. It was not until yesterday that Church Street and Bell Street — narrow, shabby little turnings off the Edgware Road — were " hit " by the war. Up till then life and business had gone on as usual, and the air reeked with the fumes from the naphtha lamps that violently illuminated the various barrows of fruit, vegetables, skinned rabbits, millinery, crockery and fish. In fact, the favourite cheap shopping centre of the humble 176 LONDON IN WAR-TIME housewives of the neighbourhood — stout, garru- lous ladies in seedy caps and shawls ; whilst their children played about amongst the barrows, and unshaven father, leaning against a lamp-post, clay pipe in mouth, lazily and indifferently surveyed the scene. However, war is war, and even the barrows off Edgware Road have now become involved in it. Not that tlity have been com- mandeered for service at the front. Nor yet that the dubious fish and ghastly rabbits have been impounded by the Officer of Health. What has happened is this : By order of the police, as a measure against Zeppelins, out and away with the flaming and flaring naphtha lamps. Now, without naphtha, a street market not only loses its picturesqueness, but finds itself despoiled of its customers. At least, the customers are reluctant to buy goods in the semi- darkness. They want to examine them lengthily and exhaustively, under a strong light. When Mrs Briggs, of Church Street, goes shopping, it takes her at least five minutes to select a cucumber, then another five minutes about a cabbage, and a third over a cauliflower — and all three objects she closely holds up to the lamp, eyeing and sounding and pinching them all over. As for rabbits " Nothing doing, enuf to make yer cry," a rabbit CABBAGES AND RABBITS 177 merchant informs me. " Nice and 'ealthy they are, but you carn't get the old women to buy 'em. All becos they carn't 'ave a good look at 'em ! Sick of it, I am. Why don't they turn the lights out altogether and bloomin' well 'ave done with it! " Although dark and dejected. Church and Bell streets are by no means deserted. Nor is trade entirely at a standstill. Some of the barrows are dimly lighted by battered old bicycle lamps, and the lamps are being constantly removed from the nail on which they hang and swept across and pointed down upon the food -stuffs. Heavens, the lengthy inspection of this cabbage ! In one hand a stout housewife holds a bicycle lamp, and with the other hand she pulls aside every leaf of the cabbage and peers down into the very depths of its heart. Another housewife overhauls at least twenty bananas before she finally selects three at the cost of a penny. And a third carries off a cauliflower for examination under the nearest gas- lamp, some twenty yards away. " Don't forgit to come back," the costermonger cries after her. Then, turning to me : " Four cabbages I never saw again last night, becos I let 'em be took as far as the gas-lamp." " And wot about me ? " exclaims his neigh- bour, the rabbit merchant. " Up comes an old M 178 LONDON IN WAR-TIME woman, messes about with the rabbits, carn't make up 'er mind, so I lets 'er take two of the finest up to the gas-lamp and — — " " Done a guy, of course," his colleague inter- rupts. " That there gas -lamp wants watching by the perlice. A bit of Scotland Yard round it, that's wot it wants." Then, most caustically to a passing constable : " Any objection against me lighting a match for my pipe ? " I grieve to relate that, through the darkness, I dimly but positively behold little boys surrep- titiously helping themselves to apples and nuts, and it furthermore pains me to announce that a small girl deftly and illegally obtains possession of a banana, which, however, she generously shares in a doorway with two friends. But, on the whole, the people of Church and Bell streets do not take excessive advantage of the darkness. Only a few rabbits and cabbages " missing " ; the majority of the housewives who make the pilgrimage to the gas -lamp return in good time. On the other hand, it has incoherently got into the heads of these ladies that the lowering of London's lights should be accompanied by a corresponding reduction in prices. A rabbit in the darkness should be worth less than a rabbit in a strong naphtha light. CABBAGES AND RABBITS 179 '" Becos," one of the housewives confusedly in- forms me, " becos rabbits, like everything else, is tricky and deceptive. You can't tell the time from the clock when it's dark : and the same applies to rabbits. So if I buys rabbits in the darkness, I takes a risk : and expects them to go down a penny a pound." VII FOURTH AND FIFTH MONTHS, No. 2. THE LORD MAYOR'S SHOW. THE CATHEDRAL. THE CHURCHES ONLY a few months have elapsed since the retiring Lord Mayor, the Aldermen and Sheriffs, the famous State Chariot, and the equally celebrated Coachman, were all of them on their way to Brussels and Paris. In both cities, an enthusiastic welcome : crowds, cheers, speeches, bouquets and banquets. Among the smaller classes the strangest and most extrava- gant statements were made about his Lordship of London. He was — after the King — the mightiest personage in the realm. He was also the Governor of the Tower, of " grim " and " sinister " renown ; indeed (whispered the gossips), the Lor Maire still had the power to cast " political " adversaries into its terrible dungeons. On the other hand, the King, who kept his jewellery in the cellars of the Tower, was still legally entitled to chop off the illustrious head of the Lor Maire if ever a single diamond or ruby were missing. Another thrilling i8o THE LORD MAYOR'S SHOW 181 rumour — the King was jealous of the Lor Maire's massive and magnificent coachman. " My Lor Maire, in return for your coachman I will give you a dozen of my own," his Britannic Majesty was alleged to have declared : but his Lordship of London steadily declined. All this, and much more, only a few months ago — and photographs of the period represented Sir Vansittart Bowater shaking hands warmly with M. Max, the Burgo- master of Brussels, and chatting and laughing in a group of the Municipal Councillors of Paris. But to-day — only a few months later — genial and heroic M. Max is a prisoner in Germany, most of the vivacious Paris Municipal Councillors are fighting desperately in the trenches : and the dominating colour in the Lord Mayor's Procession is not scarlet and gold, but the khaki of war. A tolerable crowd in Northumberland Avenue, where I station myself behind a party of French ladies and gentlemen. Refugees, of course, but of the more prosperous kind. Both sexes wear miniature flags and carry programmes of the procession — the first they have yet witnessed. Running and darting about the outskirts of the crowd, all kinds of hawkers ; and girls and ladies rattle money-boxes and sell French and Belgian newspapers. Cheers in the distance, the strains 182 LONDON IN WAR-TIME of a military band — into Northumberland Avenue rides a detachment of City Police — and the memorable Lord Mayor's Show of the terrific year 1914 marches, swings, tramps and drives by. All its usual picturesque (and sometimes ridi- culous) elements missing. It is nearly a Colonial demonstration — enthusiastic cheers for the Canadian, New Zealand and Newfoundland con- tingents. It is almost a sheer exhibition of khaki ; renewed stirring cheering for every successive battalion and regiment ; and loudest cheering of all — and frantic waving of handker- chiefs and hats — for the 14th Reserve Battalion of the now world-famous London Scottish. Then a pause. And when He appears, massive, mag- nificent and majestically imperturbable, on the box of the State Chariot, the Lord Mayor's one and only Coachman receives his usual ovation, and the Lord Mayor himself, as he bows at the windows, also evokes a great deal of enthusiasm. However, amongst the French spectators the Coachman is decisively the plum of the show. " No wonder," a Parisienne exclaims to her friends, " no wonder the King wants him." A far vaster crowd round and about the Mansion House — at night. Through the de- pressing and perilous semi-darkness, thousands THE LORD MAYOR'S BANQUET 183 and thousands of Londoners have besieged the city in the hope of catching just a glimpse of the famous personages who have promised to attend this entirely unprecedented Mayoral banquet. But the City Police, in full, relentless force, keep the crowd back — more and more backwards. However high we stand on tiptoe, however desper- ately we strain our eyes and our necks, no more than the glint of a uniform or the frill of a lady's opera cloak. Still the crowd sways to and fro, and peers eagerly through the gloom, always hoping and longing for the passage of Mr Asquith, of Mr Winston Churchill, of Mr Balfour, and, above all, of Lord Kitchener. " You won't see none of them. Gone in long ago. 'Aving dinner by now," says a friendly constable. " But I've come all the way from Highgate to see Mr Asquith," complains a lady. " Can't 'elp it," replies the constable. " Take my word for it : dinner is Hon." But still the crowd remains closely packed together in the semi-darkness, whilst within the brilliantly illuminated banqueting-hall of the Mansion House England's most distinguished statesmen are assembled, and historic speeches are being made. 184 LONDON IN WAR-TIME It could scarcely be a chillier, or a rainier, or a murkier, or a more wholly miserable and deplor- able afternoon. Indeed, one of those villainous November afternoons that might strike us down with influenza, bronchitis or pneumonia, and then it's the doctor and bed, and it's fever, delirium, and pain, and sometimes it is death, and a coffin, and a grave, and the end of it all. However, on this perilous Thursday afternoon, thousands and thousands of all kinds and conditions of Londoners stand closely packed together on the wet, greasy pavement of Newgate Street, and the rain patters and beats down on their umbrellas, and the cold brings tears into their eyes, and causes their ears and their noses to tingle and turn pink, and almost frozen are their hands, and numb are their feet. No matter. Little by little (as a fact, about ten every five minutes) the crowd, four abreast, advances through the rain and the mist towards Cheapside and — St Paul's. A fine target for rain, the dome of the Cathedral ; what a wet mass it is ! Rain and mud ; splashed, also, are the railings to which have been affixed the Call to Arms, and boards that bear the eloquent invita- tion : "This Way To The Recruiting Office." Rain streaming down the capes of the City Police. Rain blurring the windows of the famous drapery THE CATHEDRAL 185 establishments in St Paul's Churchyard. Rain spoiling the silk hats of gentlemen and soddening the enormous muffs of ladies. Rain swelling the gutters and becoming an evil yellow in colour as it hurries along. Rain, chill mist and gloom. The very atmospheric conditions for influenza, bronchitis and pneumonia. Nothing but peril. Almost self-suicide. But no matter. " This was the kind of weather that killed Lord Roberts in France," says an elderly lady in the damp, interminable queue. " He would go — he insisted upon going, in spite of all Lady Roberts could say. I have heard, for a fact, that Lord Kitchener himself begged him not to go. But he would go. Yes — he would go and say a cheering word to the Indian soldiers." In the spring of this year, in the newspapers and from the pulpit, many an eminent ecclesi- astic scathingly or sadly affirmed that the people of London were too busy with their pleasures to attend places of worship. Empty pews in the churches, but " house full " at the music halls and theatres. As for the cinemas, already at noon — yes, actually before luncheon — London's innumerable films were dizzily " presenting " the grotesque adventures of " Bunny," the amazing 186 LONDON IN WAR-TIME exploits of cowboys, as well as love stories, burglaries, fires, railway accidents, boxing- matches and horse-races. Particularly gloomy was Dean Inge over this thirst for amusement. More than one religious newspaper opened the discussion, " Is England Decadent ? " Well — the answer came promptly and decisively with the outbreak of war. Down went the receipts of the music halls and cinemas. Scores of empty seats (in spite of reduced prices) in the theatres. And " house full " at the churches. Ask, for instance, Mr Wilfred Berridge, who is at once a chemist and a churchwarden in the busy and lively borough of Hammersmith. Both these positions he has held with admirable dis- cretion and urbanity for a number of years. Now that autumn, and coughs, and colds in the head have come on, Mr Berridge the chemist is " doing " excellently. In his capacity as churchwarden he is equally satisfied. '* A wonderful change since the war," neat, grey-haired Mr Berridge informs me. " Our congregation has at least trebled, and only last week we had to order a quantity of new Prayer Books and chairs. Lots of my customers, whom I have never seen in our church before, now go there every Sunday." Then, with an apologetic THE CHURCHES 187 cough : *' I may add that the collections are — well — positively magnificent." It was inevitable, of course, that the war should send increased numbers of Londoners to the churches. But that is not the only change in churchland that the war has occasioned. It has, if I may say so, instilled a new spirit into the Sunday sermons, many of which in the past were tedious, narrow, or unnecessarily austere. But the sermon of to-day, be it delivered in church, chapel or tabernacle, is distinguished by vigorous humanity and infinite compassion. It soothes and it stirs, it appeals to the heart and the soul — it is the most striking of all testimonies to the righteousness of this war. Not a preacher of to-day but alludes emotion- ally and eloquently to the agony of little Belgium. " The greatest crime in history," cries the Rev. F. B. Meyer ; " certainly the greatest crime within the annals of modern history. ' ' Listen to Baptists, Congregationalists, Presbyterians, Methodists, Uni- tarians — not one but extols the heroism of our soldiers and the justice of our cause. And the congregations of all these different denomina- tions ? Very prolonged are their private prayers, very fervently do they sing the hymns, very quietly do they leave the church, on the notice- 188 LONDON IN WAR-TIME board of which there very often hangs the Call to Arms. The French residents and refugees in London also flock to church. Not a vacant chair, scarcely a corner in their favourite place of worship in Leicester Square. Almost facing the altar, be- hold M. Cambon, the venerable, white-haired French ambassador, accompanied by his staff. All in black is M. Cambon ; in mourning, too, are the ladies, many of them with heavy crepe veils. Here and there the small bourgeoisie of Soho. Rare flowers on the altar, the clouds and odour of incense, the deep voice of the priest, " Dominus vobiscum," the muffled, reverent response, " Et cum spiritu tuo." The service ended, down the aisle, grave, tired- looking, but erect, walks M. Cambon, the French attaches close behind him. The candles on the altar are extinguished, but many a Frenchman, and most of the Fren ^h ladies, remain behind in the semi - darkness. Bent, kneeling figures; bowed, motionless heads. Silence in the church, save for an occasional con\T.ilsive sob. PART III PARIS OF TO-DAY April-October, 1915 THE CROSSING THE darkest of nights, with a watery moon and a few vague, tearful stars, and very melancholy sounds the swish of the sea, as I grope my way about the inky- black platform of Folkestone Harbour station in quest of the room where an official from Scotland Yard is installed. Imperative that I should find this official. For until he has inspected me and my passport, and declared both of us to be in good order, I shall not be permitted to cross the Channel en route to Dieppe. . . . Never such darkness, and the platform silent and deserted. I try a door, but it is locked. Another door ; also locked. Locked again is the entrance to the refreshment-room ; penny buns, stale sandwiches and thick cups of bitter tea have been banished from the Folkestone Harbour station of to-day. Now do I strike matches, one after the other. Then do I draw hard at my cigarette, so that it glows in the gloom. And at last, by the glow from the cigarette, I dimly discern a heavily 191 192 PARIS OF TO-DAY curtained glass door, behind which, at a massive round table and in the thickest of mufflers and overcoats, Scotland Yard is established. Friendliness, but firmness, on the part of Scot- land Yard. After I have produced my passport — a vast, formidable-looking document enclosed in a black leather case — the official takes a long, steady look at me. Why am I crossing the Channel ? I am not carrying private letters, sealed documents or contraband goods ? I sup- pose I am aware that it is easier to get into France than to get out of it ? Very well — this foreign gentleman seated at the same massive table, with the heavy woollen shawl round his shoulders, represents the Surete (or Criminal Investigation Department) of Paris : what has he to say of me and my passport ? After the Paris detective and myself have exchanged bows, again (in French) comes the singular, the even sinister question : I suppose I am aware that it is easier to get into France than to get out of it ? Tres bien. Passport and self in good order, and the former (which already bears the black and purple seals of the Foreign Office and the French Consulate in London) is furthermore decorated with the official blue stamp of the Immigration Offices, Customs and Excise of his Majesty's Port of Folkestone. THE CROSSING 193 " You won't meet any Germans. The Admir- alty will look after you," observes Scotland Yard genially. " Vive la France ! " I say to the Surete. " Et vive I'Angleterre ! " replies M. the French Detective, in the vast, comical woollen shawl. Most certainly the Admiralty " looks after " the cross-Channel passengers — "looks after" them most handsomely and most nobly — in this War of all Wars. When, after again losing my way in the darkness, I have stumbled over the damj^, slippery gangway on to the Dieppe boat, and zigzagged about the black deck, and finally found my way downstairs to the comfortable, cheerfully lighted saloon, the steward Id-has in- forms me that the steamer will not depart until the captain has received specific orders from the Admiralty, and that we shall be preceded across the Channel by a pair of Destroyers. Excellent, munificent Admiralty. Fancy a mere common steamer, imagine ordinary, quite insignificant people . . . being escorted and protected by Destroyers ! And no extra charge for the destroyers — " and they cost a bit in coal and etceteras," observes the steward, as he polishes the glasses and folds up napkins into gay, coquettish shapes. Then a clatter on the stair- 194 PARIS OF TO-DAY case, and down into the saloon troop some eighty or ninety passengers just arrived by the London boat train, and in less than no time all of them are discussing the pair of Destroyers. " Oh, father, isn't it too splendid and thrill- ing for words ! " exclaims a seventeen-year-old English girl, one of England's own particular and incomparable blondes. " When England does anything at all, she does it thoroughly," replies her father, a middle-aged, stiff -looking gentleman. " It has never been England's way to do things by halves." " You hear, my good Amelie, you hear what they say — two Destroyers to conduct us ! " cries an elderly, corpulent little Frenchman to his wife. " It is admirable, it is prodigious ; ah, nom d'un nom, que c'est beau." " Calm yourself, Hippolyte, or the blood will go to your head and you will not be able to eat any supper," retorts the practical wife. " For me, the wing of a chicken and a salad, and some Vichy water. After that, I shall repose myself." Orders from the Admiralty to depart ; orders to the stewards for cold suppers. Just as in times gone by we consume the roast beef of Old England, the ham of Old England, the chickens THE CROSSING 195 of Old England, the pickles of Old England, the bottled ale of Old England ; yes, just as though Von Th'pitz of Prussia didn't exist, and his sub- marines and torpedoes and periscopes were so many silly old myths ! The corpulent French- man mixes his wife's salad with extraordinary care. The delightful English blonde cries out vivaciously : " Father, here's to those dear Destroyers and to the splendid Allies." A grunt from "father," who is busy with cold beef; but he nevertheless supports his daughter's toast in a sip of whisky and soda. Then, from the practical French lady, the following typical speech to her corpulent husband : " Hippolyte, I now leave you to repose your- self. Repose yourself also, over there in that corner, and do not talk to your neighbours about the war, or the blood will go to your head, and you will be red and congested in the face when we reach Dieppe. Therefore, keep calm. Dors bien, mon pauvre Hippolyte. Ta salade etait excel- lente . . . peut-etre un peu trop de vinaigre . . . mais enfin. La : bon soir, mon brave Hippolyte, je te quitte." No sooner, however, has the good lady vanished than her husband promptly defies her instructions by entering into conversation with three fellow- 196 PARIS OF TO-DAY countrymen. Out comes a map of the battle- field, out come pencils and pince-nez, and, their heads close together, their arms around one another's shoulders, the four Frenchmen begin an animated conversation on military affairs. As for the English passengers, they compare pass- ports, exchange English for French money, and scribble off picture post cards. Particularly busy with post cards is England's own incomparable blonde. A third, a fourth, a fifth, yet another — and I am persuaded that the messages of our seventeen-year-old blonde run almost exactly as follows : — " Dearest Ethel, — This is written on the boat. Fancy, we are being taken across the Channel by two whole Destroyers ! Isn't it too wonderful and thrilling for anything ? Am now going to have a sleep. Best love from Enid. P.S. — I wonder if the Censor will stop this ! " Aw^ay, with her picture post cards, goes the blonde ; away disappear the other lady passengers ; closer and closer together the heads of the four French- men ; a snore from the blonde's father, now stretched on a bunk — and departure of myself up the steep little staircase, to have a look at the deck. Blacker than ever, and the moon almost melted away, and the spray from the sea occasionally THE CROSSING 179 washing over the sides of the boat. Not a sign — not a sound — of the Destroyers. Not even the shadow of our captain, although he must be on the bridge. But, as I stand in the narrow door- way that gives on to the deck, a peevish and querulous male voice exclaims from somewhere in the darkness : " Please shut that door ; there's a draught ! " Yes — although swept by the wind and sprinkled by spray — here, somewhere or other on the inky- black deck, sits a passenger who complains of a petty little draught from a half -opened door. " I say there's a draught," repeats the voice, with increased peevishness. Putting my hand to my eyes, I peer hither and thither, but so impenetrable is the darkness that it is impossible to distinguish the speaker. " If you don't close that door, I shall send for the captain," cries the voice. . . . What to do but to laugh ? And as I laugh the voice continues : " You won't find this a laughing matter in a minute. Something very serious will come of this, I can tell you." Whereupon I call out : " Where are you ? " and the voice retorts angrily : " Over here. Can't you see me ? " See him ? I can see nothing but black- ness and blackness. And so, despairing of ever 198 PARIS OF TO-DAY beholding this ridiculous, invisible passenger, J close the door with a bang, and return downstairs to the sociable, comfortable saloon. But it is no longer sociable : for it sleeps. Frenchmen and Englishmen on their backs, on their sides, wrapped up in rugs, snoring gently or sonorously, with such calm, restful counten- ances — how it would enrage savage Von Tirpitz, of submarine and torpedo notoriety, to witness these slumbers, and hear all this snoring ! Mingled with the homely, comfortable sound of snoring is the pleasant jingle of money, as the stewards count up the night's receipts. In comes a middle-aged stewardess, who, after reporting all her own particular passengers asleep, sits down to a cup of tea — " and don't forget the four lumps of sugar." The stewardess relates that a lady friend of hers has just taken a small house at Balham : rent, thirty pounds a year ; garden " back and front " ; a fire-station at the end of the street ; trams and motor buses pass the door ; a policeman " always handy " : in fact, everything that a widowed lady, with three children, could possibly desire. A steward, however, prefers Brixton to Balham. A second steward supports Notting Hill . . . daisies and wallflowers in his garden ... no THE CROSSING 199 apparent reason why he shouldn't " start " roses. The small son of a third steward has just been decked out in a new suit — bought at Denton's, High Street, Dalston— " 8s. lid. all complete." Such, the homely conversation, in spite of Germany's " blockade " of Old England. More and more sonorous becomes the snoring, in the face of the submarines. Drowsily, I see the stewardess disappear from the saloon. Still more drowsily, I wonder what is happening to that invisible, querulous and windswept passenger on deck : " Please close that door ; there's a draught. ..." Another drowsy reminiscence : ** Dors bien, mon pauvre Hippolyte. Ta salade ^tait excellente — peut-etre un peu de vinaigre — mais enfin." . . . Then, after a period of oblivion, I am awakened by a bustle and a clatter : passengers disentangling themselves from their rugs, putting on collars, smoothing down their hair, collecting their luggage, rubbing their eyes and their faces, struggling into overcoats, whilst the practical French lady, picking up her husband's handkerchief, reproachfully exclaims : " Tu vois, mon pauvre Hippolyte, comme tu oublies tout." And the incomparable English blonde takes her elderly, stiff-backed father by the arm and hurries 200 PARIS OF TO-DAY him up the steep Httle stah'case, and over the damp gangway, and into the darkened, shadowy harbour station of Dieppe. Shadowy porters, shadowy engines, shadowy cranes, pillars and trucks -nothing but shadows, phantoms, ambiguities, until we are once again ushered into the presence of the detective police. They might be the twin brothers of their colleagues at Folkestone : a vast, comical woollen shawl for the Surete ; the heaviest of mufflei-s and overcoats for Scotland Yard. The same questions, the same formalities, then coffee and rolls in the buffet, more picture post card scribbling, and a friendly little gossip with the detectives. " Why," I ask, "is it easier to get into France than to get out of it ? " And the answer is — spies. In spite of the for- midable passports, spies. No matter the pre- cautions and exertions, spies. There was a frail, silver-haired old lady — a spy. There was a stout, fussy gentleman who went about denouncing the Kaiser as a " madman " and a " murderer " — a particularly dangerous spy. Only yesterday in Dieppe, arrest of two spies. So many spies — and so audacious, and ingenious and artful — that had Scotland Yard and the Surete their own way, they would not admit a single foreign civilian into THE CROSSING 201 France. . . . Now, departure of the detectives, to make a professional tour of the station ; and then, at six o'clock in the morning, the old familiar cry of: "Messieurs les voyageurs pour Paris." Broad daylight and a blue sky when the train passes out of the station into the cobbled streets of Dieppe. The day's work has begun. As the train proceeds ever so slowly, I behold the energetic French housewives shaking pillows and mattresses out of their windows. Then (through another open window) a mother wash- ing the face of her small son, and, through a third window, an obvious old bachelor laboriously sweeping the floor. On his doorstep, in white cap and apron, stands the baker — any amount of excellent white bread, and of brioches and cakes, in his shop. Down come the shutters of the cafes. Here, in a sentinel's box, a middle-aged French- man in a shabby old uniform. Dogs sniffing the gutters, cats in a reverie— a long, silent train vividly labelled with the Red Cross — visions of the French soldier's new bluish-grey uniform— a glimpse of the khaki of Old England^ — butchers on their doorsteps — more trim, prosperous bakers — ^the last cafe in Dieppe — and our train, at last entering on the permanent way and putting on speed, makes a bold dash for Paris. II NOT A 'NEW TOWN— THE SAME CITY. THE STREETS. THE SOUP-KITCHENS. THE CHURCHES IT has been repeatedly and persistently asserted, in hastily written articles and books, that the war has created an entirely " new " Paris. Journalists and novelists have proclaimed themselves astonished at the " calm " and the " seriousness " of the Parisians, and at the " composed " and " solemn " aspect of every street, corner and stone in the city ; and how elaborately, how melodramatically i.ave they expatiated upon the abolition of absinthe, the closing of night-restaurants, the disappearance of elegant dresses, the silence of the Apaches, the hush in the demi-monde, and the increased con- gregations in the churches ! " A new, reformed Paris," our critics reiterate. " The flippancy has vanished, the danger of de- cadence has passed, and in place of extravagance and hilarity we find economy, earnestness and dignity." ao2 A NEW TO^^^^— THE SAME CITY 203 Now, with these hastily conceived reflections and criticisms I beg leave to disagree. It is not a " new " Paris that one beholds to-day, but pre- cisely the very Paris one would expect to see. No city, at heart, is more serious, more earnest, more alive to ideas and ideals : no otlier capital in the world works so hard, creates so much, feels so deeply, labours and battles so incessantly and so consistently for the supreme cause of liberty, justice and humanity. Crises, and shocks, and scandals, if you like — but what generous repara- tions, what glorious recoveries ! Stifling cabarets, lurid restaurants, rouge, and patchouli, and startling deshabille, if you please; but all those dissipations were provided for the particular pleasure and well-filled purses of Messieurs les Strangers — at least twenty foreigners to one Frenchman on the hectic hill of Montmartre ; and what a babel of English and American voices chez Maxim, until five or six in the morning, when the average Parisian was peacefully enjoying his last hour's sleep ! The statues and monuments of Paris, the free Sorbonne University, the quays of the Seine with their bookstalls, the incompar- able Comedie Frangaise, the stately French Academy, the Luxembourg Gardens, the Pantheon (with its noble motto : " Aux Grands 204 PARIS OF TO-DAY Hommes, la Patrie Reconnaissante "), the Arc de Triomphe, Notre-Dame ; do these (and innumer- able other) illustrious institutions, so cherished by the Parisians, appear compatible with "flippancy," " incoherency " and "the danger of decadence " ? And the profound, ardent patriotism of the Parisians — how else could it have manifested itself save in the noble, supreme spectacle of courage, determination and self- sacrifice which we are witnessing to-day ? No ; it is not a " new " Paris, but the very Paris one expected to see ; hushed but proud ; stricken yet self-confident ; wounded, even stabbed to the heart after eleven months of war — but, however devastating the heartaches, however scalding the tears, nowhere in heroic, indomitable Paris is there to be heard a word of complaint. Eleven months of war, and every able-bodied Frenchman, between the ages of nineteen and forty-eight, protecting the life and soul of his country. Eleven months of slaughter, so that the penalty must already be terrific. Since no casualty lists are published in the newspapers, it is impossible to estimate the extent of the losses. But an hour's sojourn on the terrace of a boule- vard cafe provides a picture of the ravages in- flicted on Paris by the War of all Wars. Here, THE STREETS 205 in the radiant sunshine, eome the new widows of Paris, widows young and old, one after anotlier . . . yes, widows and widows and widows in the deepest of mourning, their pale faces shrouded by heavy crepe veils. Here, with a dull, muffled stump, stump on the pavement, comes the muti- lated soldier on crutches. Here comes the soldier with the empty sleeve. Here comes the soldier with the sunken cheeks, and the dark and deep red-and-biue scars. Here come the soldiers with shattered nerves, who wander along aimlessly, vacantly, as though in a dream. And here comes the blind soldier, under the protection of a limp- ing brother-soldier ; or in the careful, loving charge of his mother or fiancee, who, as she guides him, and speaks to him, and presses his arm, looks up tenderly and tearfully at the extinguished, devastated eyes that will never see again. . . . Then, a motor lorry, packed with haggard, un- kempt soldiers, just back from the trenches, their uniforms tattered and blackened with mud. . . . Then, very smoothly and silently, the ambulance cars of the Red Cross, en route to the hospitals. . . . Then more widows, more blind- ness, more empty sleeves, and again that pathetic, muffled stump, stump, stump of crutches on the sunlit boulevard pavement. 206 PARIS OF TO-DAY Stout M. le Bourgeois, seated on the cafe terrace, watches this grim spectacle of human wreckage with a fixed, staring countenance. Now and again his eyes fill with tears. Con- vulsively he grips his walking-stick. In a thick voice he mutters : " Les Bodies, les Bodies ! Ah, les brigands ; ah, les bandits." Not a single motor omnibus in Paris ; every one of them is on active service at the front. In the place of them, a few rickety old brakes and chars-a-bancs, drawn by a pair of shabby, lean horses ; and the twopenny fare between the Made- leine and the Bastille is collected by a brown- faced, vigorous peasant woman in a masculine cap. Taxi-cabs in plenty, but taxis that date back to the Exhibition year of 1900, so that they shiver and rattle ; also musty, superannuated fiacres by the score, driven by deaf, rheumaticky old cockers, who, since their vehicles were replaced years ago by the taxi, have not only forgotten the art and subtleties of driving, but are misty and hazy as to the topography of Paris. " Where is it ? " the decrepit old horse-cabman inquires huskily and querulously. " I used to know where it is, but I am no longer a young man — j'ai soixante-quatre ans, nom de Dieu ! And I have sons and grandsons in the trenches. . . , THE SOUP KITCHEN 207 Well, get in, get in, and Mimi [the ancient, bony horse] and I will do our best." Not a single noisy camelot in Paris ; the evening newspapers, shrunken one-sheet affairs, are sold by women and children. And no patient, good-tempered queues outside the theatres — most of them are shut, and the Franyais opens its doors, with a strictly classical or patriotic play, but three times a week. On the other hand, "benefit " matinees^ supported by France's leading actors and actresses, constantly provide tobacco and chocolate for the soldiers, and clothes for the ragged refugees from the French Northern Provinces, and temporary pensions for stricken widows, and free meals for old Puree the painter, and old Simplon the poet, and old Davigny the composer, and old Cottin the actor. Indeed, each artistic profession has its particular " canteen." A well-cooked dinner, half a bottle of red or white wine, with gossip and music to follow — all for nothing. No less admir- ably organised, the " soupes populaires " (or soup- kitchens) for the extreme poor of Paris. Since the wife of a soldier-workman receives but one shilling a day for herself, and fifty centimes for each child under the age of fifteen, there's a rush upon the " soupes populaires " at noon, and again at six o'clock at night. Large basins of excellent, 208^ PARIS OF TO-DAY nourishing soup ; handsome portions of admirable white bread. The soup plates are distributed by Madame la Bourgeoise, Mesdemoiselles the daughters of Cabinet Ministers, the Marquise de Mauve, the Duchesse de Grandvilliers, and (let me record the fact, not in a whisper, but openly, for it is good to recognise it) by Mesdemoiselles Liane de Luneville, and Pauline Boum, and " la petite " Fifine, of what is called the half- world. All in black, these various ladies, and full of com- passion, and, what is more, of camaraderie for the bare-headed women in shawls and the children in herets and sabots. The son of Madame la Duchesse and the son of the femme de menage are both of them fighting up there in Champagne. " Some- where " near Arras are the respective sons of Madame la Bourgeoise and the wife of a cobbler. As for blonde Liane de Luneville, and brune Pauline Boum, and auburn-haired Fifine — well, well, if they haven't got actual, positive husbands up there at the front, still their hons amis have exchanged their elegant clothes for the soldier's uniform, and are fighting side by side with the husbands, sons and brothers of the poor, common women assembled in the " soupes populaires " — so not a trace of awkwardness or self-conscious- ness. A woman of the people addresses Madame THE SOUP KITCHEN 209 la Duchesse as " ma brave dame." When stout Madame la Bourgeoise invites another woman of the people to take a second plate of soup, she receives the reply : " Mais oui . . . je veux bien . . . mon petit." As for Liane, and Pauline, and la petite Fifine, once upon a time chez Giro and at Maxim's, they may have been arrogant and impudent, blasees or boisterous, glittering with jewels, wilfully wasting champagne and damaging rare fruits . . . et tout le reste. But they are not arrogant, nor boisterous, nor impudent, nor wasteful to-day : and they wear no jewels. The probabilities are that jewels have been sold for the benefit of the Red Cross Society. French- women to-day, even of the half-world, and for that even of the whole world — for the whole world, too, has its arrogance and extravagance when things go too well with it — are not pre- occupied with worldliness, the flesh and the devil, but with humanity. And in this particular virtue, since both sinners and saints are human beings, sinners and saints may share. Perhaps this is more true in France than anywhere else, because France is the most humane country in the world and the least pmdish. And who works more vigorously than la petite Fifine to-day amidst the steam of the soup- 210 PARIS OF TO-DAY kitchens ? How skilfully she cuts the bread ! What a quick eye she has for replenishing empty plates! To a child : " Viens, que je te mouche, mon petit." To a battered woman of the people : " Je viendrai vous voir demain dans Papres- midi . . . et il y aura du charbon." Steamier and steamier becomes the atmosphere. Flushed, and dishevelled, and unpowdered Fifine becomes, but how young she looks ! What reminiscences of girlhood — this spectacle of the women of the people, and of children in herets and sabots, must awaken in her heart and soul ! For the chances are considerable that Fifine herself was the daughter of a struggling woman of the people, that in her girlhood she suffered hunger and cold herself . . . not so very many years ago. Straight from the soup-kitchens, Madame la Duchesse and Madame la Bourgeoise go to their favourite churches. What a silent, pathetic assembly of women in deep mourning ! What prolonged, heartfelt prayers for the souls of the departed, the recovery of the wounded, the security of the " missing," the safe return of the uninjured ! Such a shortage of cushions and praying stools, that many a woman must kneel on the bare and cold stones. Beside her burn tapers — tall, waxen tapers — for the safe return of THE CHURCHES 211 the uninjured, the security of the " missing," the recovery of the wounded, and for rest for the souls of the departed. Not only in front of the be- flowered and brilliantly illuminated side-altars, but in the dimmest and remotest corners of the church, the women of Paris are at prayers. Ill ON THE BOULEVARDS. IN THE LUXEM- BOURG GARDENS. ON THE BANKS OF THE SEINE. "ON NE DINE PLUS A PARIS " EVERY afternoon, from four to six o'clock, behold M. Hippolyte Durand, a corpulent, warm-hearted and white- headed Frenchman, established on the terrace of one of the leading boulevard cafes. Occasionally I join him in these sittings. But whereas in times gone by M. Durand was the most sociable and most garrulous of Parisians, to-day he shakes one's hand limply, and frankly confesses himself averse from conversation, so that our meetings on the cafe terrace resolve themselves into a silent inspection of the passers-by. Straight before him, with strained eyes, looks corpulent M. Durand. Straight in front of me do I also look. A prolonged silence of twenty minutes, even of half-an-hour. Then, in a thick voice, M. Durand mutters, for at least the thousandth time since the outbreak of war : 212 ON THE BOm.EVARDS 218 ''Ah, the brigands; ah, the bandits" — and his eyes fill with tears. No need to explain that the " bandits " and the "brigands" are the " Boches." As for M. Durand's tears — well, widows young and old, one after another, yes, widows and widows and widows in the deepest of mourning, their pale faces shrouded by heavy crepe veils, constitute perhaps the most conspicuous new feature of the boulevards of to-day. Then, again and again, "the dull, muffled stump, stump on the pavement of the mutilated soldier on crutches; the soldier with the empty sleeve; the soldier with the sunken cheeks and deep and dark red-and-blue scars ; the soldiers with shattered nerves, who wander along vacantly, aimlessly, as though in a dream ; the blind soldier, under the pro- tection of a limping brother soldier, or in the careful, loving charge of his fiancee or mother, who, as she guides him and speaks to him and presses his arm, looks up tenderly and tearfully at the extinguished, devastated eyes that will never see again." Although, as I have recorded, the war has almost silenced the once-garrulous M. Durand, still he has been communicative enough to inform me that no fewer than twenty -four of his relatives joined the French colours in the month of August last. 214 PARIS OF TO-DAY His assembly of four sons. His group of three sons-in-law. His only brother, aged forty-five. Various nephews, cousins of different degrees . . . two sisters, old ladies, shut up in French provinces still in the occupation of the gentle Prussians . . . and a favourite, frail aunt, " la vieille Tante Berthe," at the mercy of the Germans in Alsace. Well, of M. Durand's many gallant relatives, two sons and a son-in-law have been killed ; a second son-in-law '* missing " since September. Nephews Rene and Jacques dead, nephew Armand a prisoner — impossible to say where. And never a syllable (for seven months) from the two sisters, or from frail, charming " Aunt Bertha." " Any news ? " I ask M. Durand this afternoon on the caf6 terrace. " No news of any kind," my companion replies, as he always replies. Without another word, M. Hippolyte Durand and I resume our inspection of the boulevards. More widows, more blindness, more empty sleeves, and again that pathetic, muffled stump, stump, stump of crutches on the sunny boulevard pavement. Here and there amongst the passers- by, clasping his mother's hand, is a small boy dressed up in a miniature imitation of the French ON THE BOULEVARDS 215 soldier's new bluish-grey uniform. Little Parisiennes wear tricolour ribbons in their hair, and then one beholds the vivid badges of the Red Cross, and the khaki of Old England, and the bright, baggy trousers of the Zouaves, and the rags of the peasant refugees from the French Northern Provinces, and the blue jersey, im- pertinent cap, and smiling, impudent face of the street gamin of Paris — Victor Hugo's incompar- able Gavroche. Yes, Gavroche from Les MisSrahles — alert, '' cheeky," irrepressible, heroic — still survives in this murderous but magnificent year of 1915. Here he is in the boulevards, whistling and grin- ning and swaggering, with his hands in his pockets, apostrophising the picture post cards displayed on the shutters of the many shops and caf^s that have been closed. " Toi, mon vieux, je te salue," exclaims Gav- roche to the picture post card of General Joffre. " Tu es chic, foi," Gavroche is graciously pleased to say to the portrait of General French. " Assassins of women and children and old men, just let me meet you with a bayonet," cries the gamin to the photograph of a group of German prisoners. Ask General Gallieni, Military Governor of 216 PARIS OF TO-DAY Paris, and he will tell you that scores of thirteen- and fourteen-year-old Gavroches have crept out of Paris, with a loaf of bread and a bottle of water, and attempted, by the aid of a newspaper man, to make their way to the trenches. Inevitably, a hush in the Latin Quarter. Not a student on the Boul' Mich', and most of the rackety cafes of yesterday shuttered down *' until the end of the war." Closed, too, are most of the amphitheatres in the Sorbonne, and the fine, scholarly old professors are to be seen sauntering in the Luxembourg Gardens, or sipping caf^ au lait and reading the newspapers in the few dim and deserted brasseries that still remain open. In one of these brasseries, enclosed in a glass case, I behold bent and battered post cards arrived direct from the trenches. The post cards of Paul and Pierre, liveliest and most warm-hearted of students, that convey all kinds of gay and ridiculous greetings to their " dear " Latin Quarter ; that express sarcastic contempt for " les Boches " ; and that invariably conclude with the cry of " Vive la France ! " Side by side with these post cards there hangs a long roll of parchment, on which are inscribed the names of those students who have " died gloriously on the field of honour for their country." In comparing IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 217 the parchment with the post cards I find that many of the authors of those confident, light- hearted messages from the trenches are included in the grim, tragical list. But, in the radiant Luxembourg Gardens, except for the eternal spectacle of widows, the scene remains unchanged. White-headed old Senators, with heavy portfolios, slowly make their way past the statues of the fountains en route to the dull and drowsy Upper Chamber ; the beating of a drum summons all healthy-minded children to watch the exploits of Guignol — and what peals of shrill laughter when grotesque, grinning Punch belabours " les Boches " ! Nor has the war stopped the wooden horses from revolving to the accompaniment of a husky old organ. Very chipped, and scarred, and weather- beaten are the horses, but they nevertheless bear the gallant names of Joffre, Pau and French ; and the small Parisians and Parisiennes who ride them affectionately stroke their shabby, thin manes, and vainly urge them onwards with shrill, eager little exhortations of : " Avances done, mon cher Joffre," and " There's a Boche, mon brave Pau." In his usual old place beside a statue stands the bent and white-headed bird- tamer of the Luxembourg, surrounded by sparrows 218 PARIS OF TO-DAY and faced by a pair of portly pigeons. The sparrows settle on the old gentleman's fingers and shoulders, but the pigeons remain motionless on the grass. " Viens, le General Joff re " — and the first pigeon advances, and is presented with crumbs. "A toi, le General Pau" — and up waddles the second stout pigeon, to receive a similar reward. Any number of nurses with perambulators, and many of the nurses are reading (for the twentieth time, I expect) the printed military post cards which laconically pro- claim their fiances to be " in good health," or to be '* slightly " or " severely " wounded, or to be " missing " since such-and-such a date. . . . Out of the Luxembourg Gardens down to the quays of the Seine ; and here, too, the scene remains unchanged. The same interminable line of battered old bookstalls, and the familiar stoop- ing form of the bookworms hovering about them. However, brand new maps and war books have made their appearance amongst the chaotic collection of scientific, philosophical and historical volumes, as well as caricatures of the Kaiser and recently published poems and songs in honour of the glorious battle of the Marne. Below, on the river-bank, sits the incorrigible, retired bourgeois with his ridiculous fishing-rod. Twenty yards ON THE BANKS OF THE SEINE 219 away, a chocolate-coloured poodle is being shaved by one of the professional dog-barbers, who hold a special police permit to pursue their singular profession on the banks of the Seine. " Sale Boche, veux tu rester tranquille," cries the barber as the poodle whimpers and struggles. " I for- bid you to call my dog a Boche," exclaims the poodle's devoted mistress. " C'est bien dit, madame. The lowest of mongrels is worth more than ten Bodies," calls out the incorrigible angler, with enthusiasm. But, as he speaks, a quantity of the poodle's shorn curls, carried away by the wind, fly straight into his face. Startled and blinded, M. le Bourgeois drops his fishing-rod. It slips into the Seine, it drifts away with the tide — whilst M. le Bourgeois gesticulates despairingly, and the dog-barber rocks with laughter. In- creased fury of the bourgeois. Shaking his fist at the barber, he cries out incoherently : " Boche — Spy — Traitor — Assassin." Up walks a police- man. " What's the matter ? " But just as the bourgeois is about to explain, a French aeroplane appears high up above the river, and M. le Bourgeois, forgetting his grievance, pulls out his handkerchief, waves it wildly at the flying-machine and, putting both hands to his mo\ith, emotionally and lustily shouts out : 220 PARIS OF TO-DAY " Vive la France ! Vive la France ! Vive la France ! " And now, night-time. Only ten o'clock ; but the cafes have closed their doors, shutters, blinds, and curtains have been drawn, and the streets are plunged into a disconcerting semi-darkness. Far darker than in London. Far more silent and deserted than London. Far more stricken and wounded than London. For let it again be recorded that every able-bodied Parisian between the ages of nineteen and forty-eight responded loyally and zealously to the call of his country eleven months ago ; and let it once more be stated that the remaining Parisians, day after day, night after night, are praying in their hearts, if not in the churches, for the souls of the departed, the recovery of the wounded, the security of the " missing," the safe return of the uninjured. At night, especially, is the suffering and the anxiety the more acute. Three — instead of four, or five, or more — chairs round the dinner-table. Dinner — how can you call it dinner when there's a photograph tied up with a crepe bow, and a vase of white flowers on either side of it, placed conspicuously on the mantelpiece ? Dinner ? — when, in spite of herself, the widow, or the be- reaved mother, or the little stricken fiancee, " ON DE DINE PLUS A PARIS " 221 suddenly bursts into tears and hastily and un- steadily leaves the room ! Dinner ? — when you have female relatives and dear friends shut up in the ten or twelve French Departments still occupied by the Prussians ! Ask Amelie, the cook, about dinner. " Mais on ne dine plus a Paris," she will reply. "One hasn't got the heart to take dinner. One has other things to think of. One will not dine again until one has driven out les Boches." IV THE HEAT-WAVE. THE NEW ENEMY. "SOLDIERS THREE" IN THE LATIN QUARTER TEN months have just elapsed since that memorable Saturday night when the official buildings of Paris were suddenly, rapidly and dramatically pasted with little strips of paper calling every able-bodied citizen to arms ; ten months have come and gone since the first trainload of French soldiers rumbled out of the Gare du Nord, at three o'clock in the morning, for a destination unknown : ten lurid and terrific months have expired since the most formidable war in history was savagely let loose — and now for, and now on and through with, the eleventh month. It has begun with a heat-wave. Indeed, as I write, Paris has been baking under a fierce sun for five days. Only the dawn of June, but it might be the middle of August, and the heat seems to be intensified by the heavy crepe veils of the innumerable widowed Parisiennes and the dull, 222 THE HEAT-WAVE 223 sombre broadcloth of M. le Bourgeois. True, the latter has discarded his waistcoat ; children have been put into cool little frocks ; curly pet poodles have been shaved, and horses have been grotesquely squeezed into straw hats and poke-bonnets. Be- yond this, however, no changes in " fashions." The only single fashion, the one solitary colour in clothing is — black. On the other hand, the aspect of Paris has undergone a decided change with the eleventh month of war. Behold the red, white and green flag of Italy fluttering here, there and everywhere. Behold, too, brand new flags of the other Allies radiantly massed together outside the Senate, the Chamber, the Ministries, the banks and the Presidential Palace of the Elysee. (It was high time to haul down the old flags of ten months ago, for they had become weatherbeaten, and wispy, and dim.) Then, behold the closing hour of the cafes hand- somely extended from eight o'clock until half- psist ten. And finally, behold the official communiques — what blows to the Boches, what successes and honours for the Allies ! No doubt about it ; Paris has suddenly taken a new lease of life. " Qa va bien, 9a va tr^s 224 PARIS OF TO-DAY bien," exclaims stout M. le Bourgeois, although, as a matter of fact, he is suffering severely from the heat. Become almost his old garrulous self, M. le Bourgeois, for the first time since the out- break of the war, may be heard gossiping away about a hundred and one trifles. He had a cutlet for lunch. He has seen admirable straw- berries at fourpence a pound. Some " sinister brigand " of a waiter has given him a bad fifty- centime piece. And — listen to this now — a fly, yes, a " bandit " of a fly, yes, an " assassin " of a fly appeared in his room at precisely seven minutes past eleven in the morning. " With a towel, also with a brush, I chased it," relates M. le Bourgeois, his eyes bolting with excitement. " Round and round the room I went, calling out, ' Sale mouche, you shall not escape me ! ' But at last it flew out of the window and, like a good citizen, I immediately reported the matter to the police." Yes — really and truly — the police. For the authorities, fearing a plague of flies from the battle-field, recently issued a manifesto calling upon all " good citizens " to wage war against these new enemies. No mercy, no quarter. And the manifesto continued : "A special powder for the speedy destruction of flies, with instructions THE NEW ENEMY 225 how to use it, will be supplied to the public free of charge." A veritable rush for that powder ! A fierce, frenzied campaign against flies ! To-day, eagerly and emotionally, Parisians ask one another : *' Have you got your powder ? " Usually the reply comes : " Three packets of it. But I can't find a fly." Thus one can smile, one can even laugh in Paris, in the eleventh month of the war. And it is the heat-wave, even more than the exhilarating co7n- muniquSSf that is responsible for this new lease of life. Until now the Parisians have remained chiefly indoors. But to-day, because of the intense sultriness, behold them resuming their sociable and charming out-of-door habits. Particularly after nightfall. Especially in narrow, humble streets. Down the dark, wind- ing staircases of the shabby, stifling houses come chairs, and workboxes, and bottles of weak wine- and-water, and there, on the pavement, the ob- scure housewives of Paris, surrounded by their children, darn stockings and mend aprons, and discuss the news of the day. Stout middle-aged greybeards, superannuated cochersy policemen and other Parisians ineligible for military service join the assembly. 226 PARIS OF TO-DAY From hand to hand pass the glasses of thin wine-and-water. A poUceman lights a match that a housewife may thread her needle. A grey- beard talks hard into the ear of a deaf, wrinkled old grandmother— they " did " the Siege of Paris together forty-four years ago. One of the super- annuated cockers relates with infinite pride — " je vous jure que c'est vrai " — that he has slaughtered no fewer than five of the battle-field flies. Emotion and sensation of the entire assembly ! " I swear it is true," reiterates the cocker. But, when he admits that it was his fist, and not the famous official new powder, that did the great deed, the excitement subsides. On goes the darning, on play the children, and out from the apron-pocket of many a house- wife comes the dingy military post card from her husband at the front. Excellent obscure Parisian housewives ! Their allowance from the Government is but one shilling and twopence a day, with an additional fourpence for every child under the age of fifteen. Out of this pittance they send their menfolk tobacco and rations. " My Ferdinand adores a smoked sausage." " When my Gustave has received his tin of sardines, ah, mon Dieu, how the pauvre gar9on will rigol6r ! " IN THE LATIN QUARTER 227 A glass of wine-and-water for a passing wounded soldier. A glass for myself — because I am an Englishman and an ally. High overhead the distant humming and buzzing of French aero- planes. Down here in the hot, narrow street, on the cracked, shabby pavement, the little conversazione continues. . . . '' Je vous jure que c'est vrai," shouts the super- annuated cocker into the ear of the deaf, wrinkled grandmother. But, with a scornful sniff, the old lady retorts that when she " did " the Siege of Paris in the days of her youth, she saw much more extraordinary things than battle-field flies. At eight o'clock at night, when the caf^s close their doors, the Paris of to-day becomes a city of shadows. And of all the darkened and deserted districts of Paris none is more shadowy or more hushed, more stricken or more lifeless, than the dear Latin Quarter. . . . Suddenly, however, when I reach the door of a small, darkened restaurant, the silence is astonishingly broken by the strains of an English music hall chorus : "Hullo, hullo, who's your lady friend, Who's the little lady by your side?" 228 PARIS OF TO-DAY Amazement of myself! I can hardly believe my ears. Sheer, undiluted Cockney ism in the hushed, shadowy Latin Quarter ! Yet the chorus continues, more vigorously than ever : " Who, who, who's your lady friend?" And, without further hesitation, I open the door of the small restaurant. A homely, cheerful spectacle. Seated all together at a table spread with liqueur-glasses and coffee-cups are a stout, elderly Frenchman, his equally portly wife, their very charming daughter and — three bronzed British soldiers. For a moment, embarrassment of the party. But when once I have declared myself an English- man there's a great deal of handshaking, and a cordial invitation to sit down, and in less than no time I learn that the names of the soldiers are Corporal Jenkins and Privates Benson and Dickens, and that they have come all the way from the trenches to the Latin Quarter on a forty- eight hours' leave. As for their French friends, they are the family Leblond— the proprietors of the restaurant. " Just been 'aving a little bit of a sing-song," states Corporal Jenkins. " The French enjoys an English tune : don't they, mother ? " "Mais oui, mon fils— vairy pretty," replies SOLDIERS THREE 229 portly Madame Leblond, patting the Corporal's arm. Certainly, a surprising state of affairs. Here is a stalwart British corporal calling a Frenchwoman his " mother," and Madame in her turn address- ing him as her " son." Nor is this all. Privates Benson and Dickens are also the " sons " of Madame Leblond, and she, too, is their " mother,'* and stout M. Leblond is " father " ; but the very charming daughter remains, respectfully and conventionally, " Mamzelle." Nor are the Leblonds and the three soldiers old friends. They have known one another exactly two hours. The restaurant door just opened and in walked the trio in khaki, and ordered a soup and a stew, and fell into conversation with the Leblonds, who insisted upon " offering " the coffee, whereupon the Corporal ordered liqueurs, and very charming " Mamzelle " asked for a real English song. " 'Er young man's at the front," Private Dickens informs me. " Mother, that speaks a bit of English, told us. Ain't 'ad a word from 'im since February. Poor little Mamzelle ! So we thought we'd cheer 'er up with a song." Simple, kind-hearted and excellent British soldiers ! Not one out of the many scores I have 280 PARIS OF TO-DAY yet met has complained of his own experiences in the trenches. Invariably he has extolled the heroism of others, sympathised with the mis- fortunes of others, deplored the death of others — knowing all the while that he himself might be the next victim to fall. No, never a thought for himself. Here in this little Latin Quarter restaurant, where Madame Leblond became tearful over the three sons she has fighting " somewhere in France," Corporal Jenkins puts his great arm around Madame Leblond 's shoulders and assures her that the " boys will come back as lively as fleas." " And your boy, just the same," says Private Dickens to " Mamzelle." *' What does he say ? " Mademoiselle Leblond asks me, and when I have translated the affirma- tion of her fiance's safe return, " Mamzelle " smiles, and shakes Private Dickens by the hand — but her eyes fill with tears. Corporal Jenkins notices the tears. And to his colleagues he says : " Let's give her another song. Wot about : 'Old Your 'And out^ Naughty Boy ? " The song goes with a swing. No sooner is it over than the Corporal calls out to Private Ben- son : " Now then. Jack, let them 'ave a look at your tit-bits from the trenches." SOLDIERS THREE 231 The " tit-bits " are war trophies, tied up in a huge spotted handkerchief, deposited under Private Benson's chair. After hoisting the swollen handkerchief on to the table, and laboriously unknotting it. Private Benson discloses to our view — four or five bullets, a few jagged bits of shell, friendly buttons from French uniforms, a sharp dart from a flying Hun, a tattered and mud- stained copy of a German newspaper, and two fat Egyptian cigarettes, piously preserved in a card- board box, which were presented to Private Benson by the Prince of Wales whilst his Royal Highness was inspecting the trenches. Of course Private Benson is tremendously proud of his cigarettes, and naturally the rest of us survey them with interest and admiration. Then, after the "tit-bits from the trenches," come photographs. The photographs of Madame Leblond's three sons and of her daughter's " missing " fiance. The photographs of the English mothers of the bronzed and heroic trio in khaki. The photo- graph of Corporal Jenkins' dog. The photograph of Private Dickens' small sister. The photograph of an aged grandfather. The photograph of a garden. Photographs and photographs — and all of them littered about amidst the liqueur- glasses and the coffee-cups, and the " tit-bits 232 PARIS OF TO-DAY from the trenches " — and all our heads and shoulders close together until the clock, striking ten, gives the signal for departure. Then do the French " mother " and her adopted English " sons " embrace one another resound- ingly on both cheeks. Then are " father " and " Mamzelle " gripped warmly by the hand. Then — whilst Madame Leblond wipes her eyes and stands smiling through her tears on the doorstep — disappearance of the three soldiers down the hushed, darkened street. V THE WOUNDED IN THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE. VANISHED PREJUDICES AT VERSAILLES. CLERICALISM AND THE REPUBLIC ONE radiant afternoon it is my privilege to take a mutilated French soldier — a young man of twenty-five, whom we will call Louis Moreau — for a drive in the Bois. As far back as September last, at the battle of the Marne, the greater part of his left leg was shot away and he was terribly wounded in the head. Since the unspeakable Huns were firing heavily on the Red Cross, it was impossible to come to the assistance of the wounded ; and young Louis Moreau lay battered and bleeding on the battle- field for a period of seventeen hours. It took another twenty-four hours to transport him to the Cochin Hospital in Paris. Thus, a prolonged and perilous delay of forty- one hours before the shattered limb and gaping forehead could be adequately attended to. To- day, nine months after, he is still an inmate of the 233 284 PARIS OF TO-DAY Cochin Hospital. But he can stump about on crutches, and the deep wound in the forehead has healed, leaving it darkened and dented with a black-and-blue scar. His crutches in front of him, Louis Moreau sits up comfortably enough in the motor car. In a month or so he hopes to be discharged from the hospital and to return to Manchester, where he resided for three years before the outbreak of the war. There, in Cottonopolis, he became engaged to an English girl. There, with her aid, he soon mastered the difficulties and eccentricities of our language. Also, he made excellent progress in the factory where he was employed. " But I can speak English no longer," Louis Moreau informs me in French, with an air of bewilderment. " It has all gone — except for a very few words. The wound in the head, I suppose." Wearily he rubs the scar on his forehead. Then, with a smile, the soldier continues : " When I get back to Manchester my fiancee will help me to learn English again. She has seen me at the hospital. I was afraid of her visit ; what would she think of me ? But ... I need not have been afraid." By now, on its way to the Bois, our motor car has reached the radiant Champs Elys^es, and it is WOUNDED IN THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE 235 charming to note the lavish hospitality that this most elegant of Parisian thoroughfares has extended to the wounded soldiers of France. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, if you like. For fashionable hotels and great private mansions have been transformed into hospitals, and the once magnificent drawing-rooms are now plain, white-washed dormitories, and into the delicate boudoirs have come medicines and bandages and grim surgical instruments ; and the balconies and vast open windows overlooking the brilliant Elysees are crowded with jaded, damaged soldiers in dressing-gowns, overcoats or cool flannel suits. Not so jaded and damaged, however, but that they exchange a wave of the hand with Louis Moreau as our motor car passes by, and more waves of the hand with other convalescent colleagues who are also being driven out to the Bois. Indeed, a veritable procession of con- valescents in motors. Legless, like Moreau, or armless, or bandaged, or blind — and all of them in the compassionate charge of Parisians who have not the slightest acquaintance with their poor, stricken guests, but have simply driven to the military hospitals and inquired : " Have you any soldiers who would like to spend an afternoon in the Bois ? " 286 PARIS OF TO-DAY Very shabby and weather-stained are the uniforms of the convalescents. They might have seen service in 1870. For, of course, the new bluish -grey uniform, of which there is a shortage, is reserved exclusively for the fit, and any old uniform will do for the incapable crippled. Yes, dingy, battered old uniforms. Never before have these luxurious, elegant motors carried such shabbiness ! But the police stop the traffic to make way for the cars : and the ten-year-old Parisian, after a word from his nurse or his mother, rises hastily from his chair or his bench and gives the mutilated convalescents the official military salute. Thus shabbily, but triumphantly, into the heart of the Bois, to no less fashionable a restaurant than the Armenonville, where, at this same season last year, *' le Tout Paris " was assembled at afternoon tea, the red-coated tziganists were playing languorous valses, and the grave, pompous mattre d^hotel was picking up the fallen handkerchief of the Marquise de Mauve or reverently lighting the cigarette of M. le Due. The tziganists have vanished, but the grey- headed ma/tre d'hotel remains — and it is his chief business to attend to the coffee, and the cakes, and the liqueurs, and the cigarettes of the con- WOUNDED IN THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE 237 valescents. Fancy cripples and shabbiness chez expensive, elegant Armenonville ! But there they are, thirty or forty of them, with their no-arms, and no-legs, and no-eyes, with their bandages and crutches, sipping coffee or tea, consuming sugared cakes, and gaily and whole-heartedly enjoying themselves — yes, actually laughing and laughing. Heavens — gracious heavens — the courage and cheerfulness of these heroes ! Here are two young soldiers, fellow-patients at the Cochin Hospital of my companion, Louis Moreau, both of them totally blind — yet chattering and laughing. Over to them, on his crutches, stumps Corporal Moreau. A few moments later, hilarity of all three of them. Never such a spectacle ! I like to observe that the grey-headed maitre d'hotel, although portly and gouty, is more assiduous in his attentions to the convalescents than even he w^as to Madame le Marquise or M. le Due ; and it is equally pleasant to behold the quite unlimited hospitality of the owners of the motor cars (many of them promi- nent members of " le Tout Paris "), who have brought out the convalescents on this " joy-ride." After the tea and petits fours, all kinds of ices. Boxes of sweets as well as of cigarettes. Picture post cards of the restaurant, the cascade and the 238 PARIS OF TO-DAY lake. And, all the time, the muffled stumping of the cripples as they visit the different tables — and their chatter and their laughter. Radiantly the sun shines down upon the blind and the mutilated. From time to time the buzz of an aeroplane. Then the scent of lilac and of pink and white may. Then the belated arrival in the sylvan Bois of the official three-o'clock communique, which announces an important cap- ture of German prisoners and trenches. Then, of course, increased chatter and laughter of our battered convalescents. Let us leave them here, in the green and beflowered garden of fashion, and observe how other wounded soldiers, British this time, com- mand the friendly sympathy and attentions of aristocrats at Versailles. Versailles ? Before the war the ghosts of old persuasions and of anti-Republican sympathies haunted the place. Although the palace of the Kings of France has been turned into a show place, and the park of their late illustrious Majesties has also been vulgarly thrown open to the people, and walls and buildings have been indelibly marked with the sinister Republican motto of " Liberty, Equality, VANISHED PREJUDICES 239 Fraternity," and Paris, the Democratic, lies only fourteen miles away — a great number of the residents of Versailles had remained obstinately and incorrigibly Royalist. Nothing magnificent, however, about their Royalism. Lengthy, highly aristocratic pedi- grees, without doubt ; counts by the score, marquises also plentiful, aristocrats in abundance. But, alas ! it is an embarrassed, an even impover- ished aristocracy. Not a chateau or a motor car amongst them. Only plain, moderate-sized villas, and a seedy, pathetic old carriage for Madame la Marquise, and bath-chairs at so much an hour for the dowagers. Also, apart from the dowagers, it is a super- annuated nobility. Sexagenarian counts, septua- genarian marquises, stiff, reserved old gentlemen who only become animated when they get an opportunity of attacking the Republican regime. Plenty of these opportunities : for the Royalists of Versailles frequently meet in one another's drawing-rooms, where a large, handsome photo- graph of the Duke of Orleans holds the place of honour on the mantelpiece, and sometimes the precious portrait has been signed by " Monseigneur's " own hand, and on either side of it is stationed a vase of fresh flowers. 240 PARIS OF TO-DAY Then in these drawing-rooms (redeemed only from mediocrity by an occasional rare bibelot^ a tapestry or two, a wonderful old table or cabinet or chair) — then, whilst the ladies nod approval and the faithful, shabby old man-servant is allowed to lurk and listen admiringly by the door — then, I say, what a hot, what a sultry, what an appallingly scorching time for the Third French Republic ! " A last word," announces M. le Marquis. " As usual, when the next Presidential Election takes place in the Palace of Versailles, we Royalists will pull down the blinds in our homes and remain proudly and disdainfully indoors." Such (as Anatole France has recorded in M. Bergeret a Paris) was the uncompromising attitude of the Versaillais Royalists — until the outbreak of the war. But when their country was invaded, when their own sons and grandsons hastened off to the front and fought side by side with ''rascally " Republicans and "infamous" Socialists — down broke the reserve, away went the prejudices, and warmly and humanely beat the hearts of the once incorrigible old aristocrats. Indeed, one would not recognise them to-day in the fourteenth month of the war. No longer do they keep to their small gardens and faded salons ; they go into public, they actually salute VANISHED PREJUDICES 241 the Republican Mayor, they positively gossip with tradesmen and policemen and postmen ; and the sexagenarian Comte de Bellevue and the seventy- seven-year-old Marquis de Mo have called in person and together on M. Jules Dubois, a stout Socialist charcutier, to condole with him on the loss of young Ernest his son — " mort glorieuse- ment pour la patrie "... decorated heroically with both the Military Cross and the Military Medal. Admirable old aristocrats of Versailles ! If from time to time the blinds are drawn in their homes, it is not now out of rancour against the Republic : but because Royalism has been stricken, just like Socialist Dubois, the stout ham-and-beef merchant. Equally transformed, Madame la Marquise, Madame la Comtesse and the abundance of dowagers. I positively know that one of these ladies sold her carriage and horse, both of them the limit of decrepitude and shabbiness, for two hundred francs — yes, eight English pounds — in order that she might subscribe to the " Fund for the Mutilated." Then dowagers have parted with precious laces, bibelots, and jewels, and if the age of these ladies does not permit them to dispense with bath-chairs, 242 PARIS OF TO-DAY Mesdames les Douairi^res turn the old chairs to excellent account by appearing in them every fine afternoon in the beautiful park. An extraordinary occurrence, an incredible event ! For cheap refreshment stalls now stand about in the incomparable grounds of their late illustrious Majesties of France — and the public may wander to and fro as they please — and children play games around the Trianon and the moss-grown but still smiling statues of famous Court beauties : never such sacrilege, such vandalism ! What an unspeakable Republic ! Yet . . . there the dowagers are. There, too, are the old counts and the old marquises. Has Royalism in Versailles lost its senses ? It looks like it, when the bath-chair of a dowager stops at one of the vulgar refreshment stalls, and the white- headed lady aristocrat spends two or three francs on biscuits, chocolates, pears, apples and bananas. It more than looks it when, from another plebeian refreshment stall, M. le Comte carries off no fewer than twenty madeleines (a species of sponge-cake) in a low paper bag. Well, well, the truth is, of course, that the fruit, chocolate and madeleines have been bought for the wounded and mutilated, and the deaf and blind soldiers who sit about here, there and VANISHED PREJUDICES 243 everywhere in the vast Versailles park every fine afternoon. Pale faces, haunted faces, scarred faces, heavily bandaged faces, but, in spite of all, appetites excellent. Leaning forward in their bath-chairs, the dowagers hold out, with trembling old hands, their collection of chocolate, biscuits and fiiiit. " Une madeleine, mes braves," suggests M. le Comte, tearing off the top of his paper bag. " Des cigarettes," announces M. le Marquis, producing a variety of brands. As I have said, most excel- lent appetites. Plalf an apple in one bite. A madeleine in a mouthful. Banana-eating, extra- ordinary. Deep chocolate-stained lips. Particularly hearty, I fancy, are the appetites of the British wounded soldiers, for whom, of course, Versailles has provided the most admirable of hospitals. Clumsily, and yet charmingly, does Mr Thomas Atkins bow to the dowagers, but, when questioned by M. le Comte, Mr Atkins, after scratching his head and searching hard for words, desperately replies : " Non parlay beaucoupe. . . . Very 'ot, that's all I knows. . . . Go on, Jim : you talks French : 'ave a go at the old gentleman." Then, incoherent eloquence of " Jim." Never such awful mutilation of the French language. 244 PARIS OF TO-DAY never in his life has M. le Comte been more bewildered or dismayed. Not a word does he comprehend. At last he checks " Jim's " incoherencies by shaking hands. A few minutes later, when the sun begins to sink and the chill of autumn falls, the bath-chairs of the dowagers slowly disappear, the old counts and marquises in attendance upon them ; the vulgar refreshment stalls creak and rumble off, and the wounded and mutilated, and the deaf and blind victims of the German Emperor's war make their way back as best they can. . . . When everyone in France is ready to die for her sake, how should old political prejudices and differences of opinion divide Frenchmen ? Once upon a time the Republic and the Church were bitter antagonists. " Le clericalisme c'est I'ennemi. ..." Yes, but now that France is invaded, who is thinking about " Clericalism " ? How heroically has many a French priest given his life for his country ! How devoutly does many an " Anti-Clerical " pour out his hopes and fears to God, in the ancient, historical churches, where his ancestors, in times past, offered up entreaties for the safety and triumph of France in earlier seasons of peril and struggle. From early morning, until evening fills the CLERICALISM AND THE REPUBLIC 245 aisles with dimness, the Paris churches are crowded, and silent. It is the same in every quarter of the city. Does this mean a revival of Clericalism ? Victor Hugo was no Clerical, yet he wrote : "II faut bien ceux qui prient toujours pour ceux qui ne prient jamais." Had he been alive to-day, the great Romantic, would he not have recognised that when science devotes all its energies to cultivate frightfulness, to fabricate engines for destroying and torturing mankind, and to evolve a superman whose chief virtue is to be a monster incapable of pity, it is time to ask God of His grace to begin to work miracles again : to keep sentiment alive in us, and the love of beauty, and the desire of the strong, not to oppress, but to help the weak — and the humble desire in all of us not to become inhuman monsters, at any cost, nor for any price ? I would point out that Voltaire, like Victor Hugo, w^ould have sanctioned this petition ; that Voltaire, as well as Victor Hugo, would have shared with sympathy and emotion in the prayer for victory now being offered in French churches over the evil spirits of arrogance, cruelty and rapacity — prayers that, whether the tapers help the case or no, are going to be answered. Let me 246 PARIS OF TO-DAY quote Victor Hugo again as to the present situation, regarded as a religious revival : " Ne retirons rien a Tesprit humain : sup- primer est mauvais. II faut reformer et trans- former. Certaines facultes de I'homme sont dirigees vers I'lnconnu : la pensee, la reverie, la pri^re. ... La grandeur de la democratie, c'est de ne rien nier et de ne rien renier de I'humanite. Pres du droit de Phomme, au moins a cote, il y a le droit de I'Ame." I Three weeks after the publication of the last sketch he wrote, ''The Aristocrats of Versailles''' (in " The Evening News,'' SOth October 1915), John F. Macdonaldy who had contracted consumption during the last seven months he spent in France (probably as a result of his assiduity in visiting sick and wounded soldiers in different hospitals), was brought back from Paris to London to die. F. M. 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