"What more could there be?" says Miss Herrick with a sigh. "What more is there to say? It is Life."
"Life! How true!" says the hostess. "But won't you give us something else? That one ended so very suddenly."
After much inward (and outward) wrestling Miss Herrick announces:
A THOUGHT
The music falls across the vale From nightingale to nightingale; The owl within the ivied tree Makes love to me, makes love to me; But all the tadpoles in the pond Are dumb—however fond.
"I begin to think that there is something in a tadpole after all," murmurs Lord Poldoodle to himself, as the author wriggles her way out.
"After all," says one guest to another, "why shouldn't a tadpole make love as much as anybody else?"
"I think," says her neighbour, "that the idea is of youth trying vainly to express itself—or am I thinking of caterpillars? Lord Poldoodle, what is a tadpole exactly?"
"A tadpole," he answers decisively, "is an extremely immature wriggling creature, which is, quite rightly, dumb."
Now steps forward Mr. Horatio Bullfinch, full of simple enthusiasm, one of the London school. He gives us his famous poem, "Berkeley Square."
The men who come from the north country Are tall and very fair, The men who come from the south country Have hardly any hair, But the only men in the world for me Are the men of Berkeley Square.
The sun may shine at Colchester, The rain may rain at Penge; From low–hung skies the dawn may rise Broodingly on Stonehenge. Knee–deep in clover the lambs at Dover Nibble awhile and stare; But there's only one place in the world for me, Berkeley—Berkeley Square.
And so on, down to that magnificent last verse:
The skylark triumphs from the blue, Above the barley fields at Loo, The blackbird whistles loud and clear Upon the hills at Windermere; But oh, I simply LOVE the way Our organ–grinder plays all day!
Lord Poldoodle rises to introduce Mr. Montagu Mott.
"Mr. Mott," he says, "is, I am told, our leading exponent of what is called vers libre, which means—well, you will see what it means directly."
Mr. Mott, a very ugly little man, who tries to give you the impression that he is being ugly on purpose, and could easily be beautiful if he were not above all that sort of thing, announces the title of his masterpiece. It is called "Why Is the Fat Woman's Face So Red?" Well, what else could you call it?
Why is the fat woman's face so red? Is it because her stays are too tight? Or because she wants to sneeze and has lost her pocket handkerchief? Or only because her second son (The engineer) Is dying of cancer. I cannot be certain. Yet I sit here and ask myself Wonderingly Why is the fat woman's face so red?
It is generally recognized that, in Mr. Mott, we have a real poet. There are loud cries of "Encore!" Mr. Mott shakes his head.
"I have written no more," he says in a deep voice. "I have given you the result of three years' work. Perhaps—in another three years—" He shrugs his shoulders and walks gloomingly out.
"Such a sweet idea," says Lady Poldoodle. "I sit here and ask myself—wonderingly! How true! How very true!"
"I couldn't quite follow it, dear," says her neighbour frankly. "Did he marry her after all?"
Lord Poldoodle, looking slightly more cheerful, gets once more on to his legs.
"You will all be very glad to hear—ah—you will all be sorry to hear that we have only one more poet on our list this afternoon. Mr. Cecil Willow, the well–known—er—poet."
Mr. Willow, a well–dressed young man, fair and rather stout, and a credit to any drawing–room, announces the subject of his poem—Liberty.
"Liberty, what crimes have been committed in thy name!" murmurs Lord Poldoodle to himself.
LIBERTY
There were two thrushes in a tree, The one was tamed, the other free. Because his wings were clipped so small The tame one did not fly at all, But sang to Heaven all the day— The other (shortly after) flew away.
There were two women in a town, The one was blonde, the other brown. The brown one pleased a Viscount's son (Not Richard, but the other one) He gave her a delightful flat— The blonde one loved a man called Alfred Spratt.
There were two Kings on thrones of gold, The one was young, the other old. The young one's laws were wisely made Till someone took a hand–grenade And threw it, shouting, "Down with Kings!"— The old one laid foundation stones and things.
"How delightful," says everybody. "How very delightful. Thank you, Lady Poldoodle, for such a delightful afternoon."
THE PERILS OF REVIEWING
A most unfortunate thing has happened to a friend of mine called ― to a friend of ― to a ―. Well, I suppose the truth will have to come out. It happened to me. Only don't tell anybody.
I reviewed a book the other day. It is not often I do this, because before one can review a book one has to, or is supposed to, read it, which wastes a good deal of time. Even that isn't an end of the trouble. The article which follows is not really one's own, for the wretched fellow who wrote the book is always trying to push his way in with his views on matrimony, or the Sussex downs, or whatever his ridiculous subject is. He expects one to say, "Mr. Blank's treatment of Hilda's relations with her husband is masterly," whereas what one wants to say is, "Putting Mr. Blank's book on one side, we may consider the larger question, whether—" and so consider it (alone) to the end of the column.
Well, I reviewed Mr. Blank's book, "Rotundity." As I expected, the first draft had to be re–headed "A Corner of old London," and used elsewhere; Mr. Blank didn't get into it at all. I kept promising myself a sentence: "Take 'Rotundity,' for instance, the new novel by William Blank, which, etc." but before I was ready for it the article was finished. In my second draft, realizing the dangers of delay, I began at once, "This remarkable novel," and continued so for a couple of sentences. But on reading it through afterwards I saw at once that the first two sentences were out of place in an article that obviously ought to be called "The Last Swallow"; so I cut them out, sent "The Last Swallow: A Reverie" to another Editor, and began again. The third time I was successful.
Of course in my review I said all the usual things. I said that Mr. Blank's attitude to life was "subjective rather than objective" … and a little lower down that it was "objective rather than subjective." I pointed out that in his treatment of the major theme he was a neo–romanticist, but I suggested that, on the other hand, he had nothing to learn from the Russians—or the Russians had nothing to learn from him; I forget which. And finally I said (and this is the cause of the whole trouble) that Antoine Vaurelle's world–famous classic—and I looked it up in the encyclopedia—world–renowned classic, "Je Comprends Tout," had been not without its influence on Mr. Blank. It was a good review, and the editor was pleased about it.
A few days later Mr. Blank wrote to say that, curiously enough, he had never read "Je Comprends Tout." It didn't seem to me very curious, because I had never read it either, but I thought it rather odd of him to confess as much to a stranger. The only book of Vaurelle's which I had read was "Consolatrice," in an English translation. However, one doesn't say these things in a review.
Now I have a French friend, Henri, one of those annoying Frenchmen who talk English much better than I do, and Henri, for some extraordinary reason, had seen my review. He has to live in London now, but his heart is in Paris; and I imagine that every word of his beloved language which appears, however casually, in an English paper mysteriously catches his eye and brings the scent and sounds of the boulevards to him across the coffee–cups. So, the next time I met him, he shook me warmly by the hand, and told me how glad he was that I was an admirer of Antoine Vaurelle's novels.