Very delicately I moved the–thing–you–move–up–and–down to its next notch. Still the bar stayed at the top. I had put on at least another ounce of flesh!
I continued to put on more ounces. Still the bar remained up! I was eight–stone–thirteen…. Good heavens, I was eight–stone–fourteen!
I pushed the–thing–you–move–up–and–down back to the zero position, and exchanged the half–stone weight for a stone one. Excited but a trifle cold, for it was a fresh morning, and the upper part of the window was wide open, I went up from nine stone ounce by ounce….
At nine–stone–twelve I jumped off for a moment and shut the window….
At eleven–stone–eight I had to get off again in order to attend to the bath, which was in danger of overflowing….
At fifteen–stone–eleven the breakfast gong went….
At nineteen–stone–nine I realized that I had overdone it. However I decided to know the worst. The worst that the machine could tell me was twenty–stone–seven. At twenty–stone–seven I left it.
Celia, who had nearly finished breakfast, looked up eagerly as I came in.
"Well?" she said.
"I am sorry I am late," I apologized, "but I have been putting on flesh."
"Have you really gone up?" she asked excitedly.
"Yes." I began mechanically to help myself to porridge, and then stopped. "No, perhaps not," I said thoughtfully.
"Have you gone up much?"
"Much," I said. "Quite much."
"How much? Quick!"
"Celia," I said sadly, "I am twenty–stone–seven. I may be more; the weighing–machine gave out then."
"Oh, but, darling, that's much too much."
"Still, it's what we came here for," I pointed out. "No, no bacon, thanks; a small piece of dry toast."
"I suppose the machine couldn't have made a mistake?"
"It seemed very decided about it. It didn't hesitate at all."
"Just try again after breakfast to make sure."
"Perhaps I'd better try now," I said, getting up, "because if I turned out to be only twenty–stone–six I might venture on a little porridge after all. I shan't be long."
I went upstairs. I didn't dare face that weighing–machine in my clothes after the way in which I had already strained it without them. I took them off hurriedly and stepped on. To my joy the bar stayed in its downward position. I took off an ounce … then another ounce. The bar remained down….
At eighteen–stone–two I jumped off for a moment in order to shut the window, which some careless housemaid had opened again….
At twelve–stone–seven I shouted through the door to Celia that I shouldn't be long, and that I should want the porridge after all….
At four–stone–six I said that I had better have an egg or two as well.
At three ounces I stepped off, feeling rather shaken.
I have not used the weighing–machine since; partly because I do not believe it is trustworthy, partly because I spent the rest of my leave in bed with a severe cold. We are now in London again, where I am putting on flesh. At least the doctor who slapped me about yesterday said that I must, and I promised him that I would.
The Patriot
This is a true story. Unless you promise to believe me, it is not much good my going on … You promise? Very well.
Years ago I bought a pianola. I went into the shop to buy a gramophone record, and I came out with a pianola—so golden–tongued was the manager. You would think that one could then retire into private life for a little, but it is only the beginning. There is the music–stool to be purchased, the library subscription, the tuner's fee (four visits a year, if you please), the cabinet for the rolls, the man to oil the pedals, the—However, one gets out of the shop at last. Nor do I regret my venture. It is common talk that my pianola was the chief thing about me which attracted Celia. "I must marry a man with a pianola," she said … and there was I … and here, in fact, we are. My blessings, then, on the golden tongue of the manager.
Now there is something very charming in a proper modesty about one's attainments, but it is necessary that the attainments should be generally recognized first. It was admirable in Stephenson to have said (as I am sure he did), when they congratulated him on his first steam–engine, "Tut–tut, it's nothing"; but he could only say this so long as the others were in a position to offer the congratulations. In order to place you in that position I must let you know how extraordinarily well I played the pianola. I brought to my interpretation of different Ops an élan, a verve, a je ne sais quoi—and several other French words—which were the astonishment of all who listened to me. But chiefly I was famous for my playing of one piece: "The Charge of the Uhlans," by Karl Bohm. Others may have seen Venice by moonlight, or heard the Vicar's daughter recite "Little Jim," but the favoured few who have been present when Bohm and I were collaborating are the ones who have really lived. Indeed, even the coldest professional critic would have spoken of it as "a noteworthy rendition."
"The Charge of the Uhlans." If you came to see me, you had to hear it. As arranged for the pianola, it was marked to be played throughout at a lightning pace and with the loudest pedal on. So one would play it if one wished to annoy the man in the flat below; but a true musician has, I take it, a higher aim. I disregarded the "FF.'s" and the other sign–posts on the way, and gave it my own interpretation. As played by me, "The Charge of the Uhlans" became a whole battle scene. Indeed, it was necessary, before I began, that I should turn to my audience and describe the scene to them—in the manner, but not in the words, of a Queen's Hall programme:—
"Er—first of all you hear the cavalry galloping past, and then there's a short hymn before action while they form up, and then comes the charge, and then there's a slow bit while they—er—pick up the wounded, and then they trot slowly back again. And if you listen carefully to the last bit you'll actually hear the horses limping."
Something like that I would say; and it might happen that an insufferable guest (who never got asked again) would object that the hymn part was unusual in real warfare.
"They sang it in this piece, anyhow," I would say stiffly, and turn my back on him and begin.
But the war put a stop to music, as to many other things. For years the pianola was not played by either of us. We had other things to do. And in our case, curiously enough, absence from the pianola did not make the heart grow fonder. On the contrary, we seemed to lose our taste for music, and when at last we were restored to our pianola, we found that we had grown out of it.
"It's very ugly," announced Celia.
"We can't help our looks," I said in my grandmother's voice.
"A book–case would be much prettier there."
"But not so tuneful."
"A pianola isn't tuneful if you never play it."
"True," I said.
Celia then became very alluring, and suggested that I might find somebody who would like to be lent a delightful pianola by somebody whose delightful wife had her eye on a delightful bookcase.
"I might," I said.
"Somebody," said Celia, "who isn't supplied with music from below."
I found John. He was quite pleased with the idea, and promised to return the pianola when he got sick of it.
So on Wednesday it went. I was not sorry, because in its silence it was far from beautiful, and we wanted another book–case badly. But on Tuesday evening—its last hours with us—I had to confess to a certain melancholy. It is sad to part with an old and well–tried friend, particularly when that friend is almost entirely responsible for your marriage. I looked at the pianola and then I said to Celia, "I must play it once again."