My best love and all the good wishes of the season to you and Lambert and Sadie, and, of course, to John and Margaret and Junior.
Your affectionate old friend,
HONORIA DENVER
2. From Mr. Paul Delagardie to his nephew, Lord Peter Wimsey, somewhere abroad.
EUROPEAN CLUB,
PICCADILLY, W.
13th November, 1939.
My dear Peter,
I do not, of course, know what you are doing (wherever you are) and am ready to believe that it is of the utmost national importance. Unless, however, someone contrives to inject a little common sense into the headquarters staff on the home front, there will soon be no nation for armies to defend or diplomatists to argue about. I enclose a cutting from The Times, giving the number of civilian casualties during the ten weeks of the black-out. If you have any influence at all, you had better write a letter to somebody behind the scenes, because the leading comedians in the limelight seem disinclined to take any action. I do not accuse them of indifference to the slaughter of their countrymen, but merely of ignorance and stupidity, those very destructive sins which the English persist in mistaking for virtues. If these people would occasionally walk about London on foot, or make the experiment of attempting to board an ombnibus, or would enter into conversation with such valuable citizens as charwomen and taxi-drivers (a race of men whom I find to be exceptionally conversable and intelligent), they would notably increase the efficiency of their departments.
I lunched last week at the House of Lords with your brother Gerald and his wife. Since she is in the Ministry of Instruction and Morale — Dieu sait pourquoi! — I suggested to her that some attempt be made by that body to instruct the urban population in the science of walking in the dark. Needless to say, I got no satisfaction — I do not suppose that any man has ever got satisfaction out of Helen, least of all her husband. (As I warned him thirty years ago, she has neither the figure nor the temperament.) On this occasion she replied that the Ministry saw no need to issue propaganda; the public was accepting the black-out very well, and the spirit of the nation was excellent. I replied that I was not concerned for its spirit, but for its body and brain, of which the one was being mutilated and the other neglected. Scrampole (of the Ministry of Redistribution) was with us, and said that avenues towards mitigating the severity of the black-out were being carefully explored. I told him my objection was not to the black-out (which provides a refreshing relief from the vulgarity which normally disfigures the streets of the metropolis), but only to the accidents. I added that the spirit of any nation, however good, was liable to be depressed by an expectation of death, which at present stood higher in Great Britain than on the Western Front.
Gerald said he saw no difficulty about crossing a street in the dark. "My dear boy," said I, "of course you don't. You were brought up in the country. There, you have a black-out every night, and take your precautions accordingly. You are aware of the ditch on your right, the quickset hedge on your left, the unfenced pond on the corner, and the possibility of an unlit cow straying through a gap. But the town-dweller is accustomed to lighted streets; there are men and women born since 1918 who never saw the dark in their lives until last September. They are as much bewildered as a Nubian savage on Epsom Downs on Derby Day."
At this point we were joined by Bleatworthy, who, as you know, has an idèe fixe about motorists. He suggested that any driver who killed a pedestrian should be hanged for murder. I begged him not to talk nonsense. I pointed out to him that the black-out had destroyed his case against the motorist. The trouble cannot be due to fast driving, since speed is almost impossible in the dark. Nor can it be due to careless driving, otherwise the list of collisions with structural objects and other cars would be very much higher than it is. It is the pedestrian who is in error and needs instruction and assistance. He imagines that in normal times he stops to look before crossing the road. The black-out proves that he does no such thing. If he looked, he could not fail to see the car, since under present conditions it is the only thing to be seen, and is as conspicuous as a film-star at a mothers' meeting.
No; what happens normally is that, at most, the pedestrian allows the motorist to see him. He is saved from destruction by the driver's sight and skill. Now observe what happens in the black-out. The pedestrian can see better than ever; it is the motorist who is deprived of the use of his lights and eyes. As a taxi-driver said to me the other day, "Gets on your nerves it does" (I quote his exact words), "it's nothing but things a-looming up at you." I thought this expression vivid and apt. The pedestrian does not realise this; he supposes that since he can see the driver, the driver can see him; but this is not the case. To him, the driver is a moving light; to the driver, he is a looming shadow.
We conversed for some time, at the end of which Helen suggested that I should write a letter to the Ministry. I did so. It has not yet been acknowledged. In a month's time it may be acknowledged. In six months' time I shall be informed that the Ministry cannot see their way to do propaganda on these lines and that the spirit of the nation is excellent. I have now written to the B.B.C, the respectable newspapers, and even the regrettable newspapers. I do not suppose they will do anything, because the pedestrian has the sympathy of the public which buys the papers. I have written to the motoring associations; they are, naturally, sympathetic, and suggest that I should write to the papers.
Briefly, I have asked for an intense and extensive advertising campaign (one broadcast, by nobody in particular, at a time when few people can listen, is useless). The aim is to inform the pedestrian public of the driver's difficult (which they do not in the least understand) and to place before them my own trifling precautions which keep me safe when I take my little dog for his nightly constitutional. (He is very well, by the way, but has taken a violent dislike to all his persons in tin hats, which makes his company tant soit peu embarassing.) My rules are very simple.
1. Take a torch. (If you cannot get batteries, wear some white thing about you.)
2. Before crossing the road, look to see what is coming, remembering that unless you carry a lighted torch, the driver will not be able to see you till you are practically under his wheels.
3. When you decide it is safe to cross, switch on your torch and keep it on till you reach the opposite kerb. No driver can fail to see that moving pool of light. (If you have no torch, agitate some white object — it is better than nothing.)
4. If you have a torch, direct the light on the ground, and not into the driver's eyes, to deprive him of such light as he has.
5. Never walk in the roadway, except to cross the street.
6. Cross as the pedestrian crossing, if you can identify it; the driver expects to find you there.
Vous voyes, ce n'est pas sorcier! My manservant, who makes use of the omnibus service, desires me to add that if the London Passenger Transport Board would place the route-number at the side of the vehicle, as well as in front and behind, it might be possible to discover which omnibus has arrived at the stop without darting out before it as before an oncoming juggernaut. He informs me that this all-important number is placed so high from the ground as to be invisible to any passenger but an eagle (he himself is slightly myopic), and that moreover the number varies in position and style of design from one omnibus to another. I have checked his statement by personal observation and find that it is so.
If, my dear Peter, you can bring these matters in any way to the attention of someone with real influence and active imagination, you will be instrumental in saving civilian lives to the number of a small army by the time the war is over.