The Sunny Side Part 28

"It's too good to wait," said Celia excitedly. "Bulgaria has surrendered."

Celia may be a good patriot, but she lacks the artistic temperament.

"Oh, has she?" I said bitterly. "Then she's jolly well spoilt my story."

"The one about the wattles?"

"Yes."

"Tut-tuttles," said Celia frivolously.

Well, I wasn't going to waste my wattles. With great presence of mind I decided to transfer my story to the Palestine Front.

Under a hard blue sky of intense brilliance the old clay hut stood among the wattles. A _wadi_ ran by the side of it; not a small Turkish dog, as Celia thought, but--well, everybody knows what a _wadi_ is. The battle went on much as before, except that the Turks were naturally more outspoken than the Bulgars, calling freely upon Allah at the beginning of the fight, and reconciling themselves to the end of it with "Kismet."

I also turned some of the horses into camels, and (for the sake of the Indian troops) several pairs of puttees into _chupaties_. It was a good story while it lasted.

However, n.o.body seems to care about art nowadays.

"What do you think?" cried Celia, bursting into my room.

I held up a delaying hand. I had suddenly thought of the word "adobe." My story seemed to need it somewhere. If possible, among the wattles.

"But listen!" She read out the headline: "'Turkey Surrenders at Discretion.'"

"Discretion!" I said indignantly. "I have never heard of anything so tactless. And it isn't as though I could even move on to Mesopotamia."

"Couldn't there be a little local rising in Persia?" suggested Celia.

"I doubt it, I doubt it," I said thoughtfully. "You can't do much with just wattles and a little sherbet--I mean you can't expect the public to be interested in Persia at such a moment as this. No, we shall have to step westward. We must see what we can do with the Italian Front."

But I had very little hope. A curious foreboding of evil came over me as I placed those wattles tenderly along the west bank of the Piave. The old clay hut still stood proudly amid them; the Bersaglieri advanced impetuously with cries of "_En avant_!"--no, that's wrong--with cries of--well, anyhow they advanced.

They advanced....

And as I shut my eyes I seemed to see--no, not that old clay hut amid the wattles, nor yet the adobe edifice on the heights of Asiago, but Celia coming into the library with another paper announcing that yet another country was deaf to the call of art.

If anybody wants a really good story about the Peninsular War and will drop me a line, I shall be glad to enter into negotiations with him. The scene is laid in the neighbourhood of Badajoz, and the chief interest centres round an old--yes, you have guessed it--an old clay hut in the wattles.

THE TWO VISITS,

1888, 1919

("_Dispersal Areas, 10a, 10b, 10c--Crystal Palace_.")

It was, I think, in '88 That Luck or Providence or Fate a.s.sumed the more material state Of Aunt (or Great-Aunt) Alice, And took (the weather being fine, And Bill, the eldest, only nine) Three of us by the Brighton line To see the Crystal Palace.

Observe us, then, an eager four Advancing on the Western Door, Or possibly the Northern, or-- Well, anyhow, advancing; Aunt Alice bending from the hips, And Bill in little runs and trips, And John with frequent hops and skips, While I was fairly dancing.

Aunt Alice pays; the turnstile clicks, And with the happy crowds we mix To gaze upon--well, I was six, Say, getting on for seven; And, looking back on it to-day, The memories have pa.s.sed away-- I find that I can only say (Roughly) to gaze on heaven.

Heaven it was which came to pa.s.s Within those magic walls of gla.s.s (Though William, like a silly a.s.s, Had lost my bag of bull's-eyes).

The wonders of that wonder-hall!

The--all the things I can't recall, And, dominating over all, The statues, more than full-size.

Adam and Niobe were there, Disraeli much the worse for wear, Samson before he'd cut his hair, Lord Byron and Apollo; A female group surrounded by A camel (though I don't know why)-- And all of them were ten feet high And all, I think, were hollow.

These G.o.ds looked down on us and smiled To see how utterly a child By simple things may be beguiled To happiness and laughter; It warmed their kindly hearts to see The joy of Bill and John and me From ten to lunch, from lunch to tea, From tea to six or after.

That evening, when the day was dead, They tucked a babe of six in bed, Arranged the pillows for his head, And saw the lights were shaded; Too sleepy for the Good-night kiss His only conscious thought was this: "No man shall ever taste the bliss That I this blessed day did."

When one is six one cannot tell; And John, who at the Palace fell A victim to the Blondin Belle, Is wedded to another; And I, my intimates allow, Have lost the taste for bull's-eyes now, And baldness decorates the brow Of Bill, our elder brother.

Well, more than thirty years have pa.s.sed...

But all the same on Thursday last My heart was beating just as fast Within that Hall of Wonder; My bliss was every bit as great As what it was in '88-- Impossible to look sedate Or keep my feelings under.

The G.o.ds of old still gazed upon The scene where, thirty years agone, The lines of Bill and me and John Were cast in pleasant places; And "Friends," I murmured, "what's the odds If you are rather battered G.o.ds?

This is no time for Ichabods And _eheu_--er--_fugaces_."

Ah, no; I did not mourn the years'

Fell work upon those poor old dears, Nor Pitt nor Venus drew my tears And set me slowly sobbing; I hailed them with a happy laugh And slapped old Samson on the calf, And asked a member of the staff For "Officers Demobbing."

That evening, being then dispersed I swore (as I had sworn it first When three of us went on the burst With Aunt, or Great-Aunt, Alice), "Although one finds, as man or boy, A thousand pleasures to enjoy, For happiness without alloy Give me the Crystal Palace!"

V. HOME NOTES

THE WAY DOWN

Sydney Smith, or Napoleon or Marcus Aurelius (somebody about that time) said that after ten days any letter would answer itself. You see what he meant. Left to itself your invitation from the d.u.c.h.ess to lunch next Tuesday is no longer a matter to worry about by Wednesday morning. You were either there or not there; it is unnecessary to write now and say that a previous invitation from the Prime Minister--and so on. It was Napoleon's idea (or Dr. Johnson's or Mark Antony's--one of that circle) that all correspondence can be treated in this manner.

I have followed these early Masters (or whichever one it was) to the best of my ability. At any given moment in the last few years there have been ten letters that I absolutely _must_ write, thirty which I _ought_ to write, and fifty which any other person in my position _would_ have written. Probably I have written two. After all, when your profession is writing, you have some excuse for demanding a change of occupation in your leisure hours. No doubt if I were a coal-heaver by day, my wife would see to the fire after dinner while I wrote letters. As it is, she does the correspondence, while I gaze into the fire and think about things.

You will say, no doubt, that this was all very well before the War, but that in the Army a little writing would be a pleasant change after the day's duties. Allow me to disillusion you. If, years ago, I had ever conceived a glorious future in which my autograph might be of value to the more promiscuous collectors, that conception has now been shattered.

Four years in the Army has absolutely spoilt the market. Even were I revered in the year 2000 A.D. as Shakespeare is revered now, my half-million autographs, scattered so lavishly on charge-sheets, pa.s.ses, chits, requisitions, indents and applications would keep the price at a dead level of about ten a penny. No, I have had enough of writing in the Army and I never want to sign my own name again. "Yours sincerely, Herbert Asquith," "Faithfully yours, J. Jellicoe"--these by all means; but not my own.

However, I wrote a letter in the third year of the war; it was to the bank. It informed the Manager that I had arrived in London from France and should be troubling them again shortly, London being to all appearances an expensive place. It also called attention to my new address--a small furnished flat in which Celia and I could just turn round if we did it separately. When it was written, then came the question of posting it. I was all for waiting till the next morning, but Celia explained that there was actually a letterbox on our own floor, twenty yards down the pa.s.sage. I took the letter along and dropped it into the slit.

Then a wonderful thing happened. It went