 CHAPTER 1 THE SINGING BIRD AND THE BAROMETER Sicily-Yoville sat in a low-swing chair, alternately looking at herself in a mirror and at the other occupant of the room in the flesh. Both prospects gave her undisguised satisfaction. Without being vain she was duly appreciative of good looks, whether in herself or in another, and the reflection that she saw in the mirror, and the young man whom she saw seated at the piano, would have come with credit out of a more severely critical inspection. Probably she looked longer and with greater appreciation at the piano player than at her own image. Her good looks were an inherited possession that had been with her more or less all her life, while Ronnie's door was a comparatively new acquisition, discovered and achieved, so to speak, by her own enterprise, selected by her own good taste. Fate had given her adorable eyelashes and an excellent profile. Ronnie was an indulgence she had bestowed on herself. Sicily had long ago planned out for herself a complete philosophy of life, and had resolutely set to work to carry her philosophy into practice. When love is over, how little of love even the lover understands, she quoted to herself from one of her favourite poets, and transposed the saying into, while life is with us, how little of life even the materialist understands. Most people that she knew took endless pains and precautions to preserve and prolong their lives, and keep their powers of enjoyment unimpaired. Few, very few, seemed to make any intelligent effort at understanding what they really wanted in the way of enjoying their lives, or to ascertain what were the best means for satisfying those wants. Fewer still bent their whole energies to the one paramount aim of getting what they wanted in the fullest possible measure. Her scheme of life was not a wholly selfish one. No one could understand what she wanted as well as she did herself. Therefore, she felt that she was the best person to pursue her own ends, and cater for her own wants. To have others thinking and acting for one merely meant that one had to be perpetually grateful for a lot of well- meant and usually unsatisfactory services. It was like the case of a rich man giving a community a free library, when probably the community only wanted free fishing or reduced tram fares. Cicely studied her own wins and wishes, experimented in the best method of carrying them into effect, compared the accumulated results of her experiments, and gradually arrived at a very clear idea of what she wanted in life, and how best to achieve it. She was not by disposition a self-centered soul, therefore she did not make the mistake of supposing that one can live successfully and gracefully in a crowded world without taking due notice of other human elements around one. She was instinctively far more thoughtful for others than many a person who is genuinely but unseeingly addicted to unselfishness. Also, she kept in her armory the weapon which can be so mightily effective if used sparingly by a rarely sincere individual, the knowledge of when to be a humbug. Ambition entered to a certain extent into her life, and she governed it perhaps rather more than she knew. She desired to escape from the doom of being an an entity, but the escape would have to be affected in her own way and in her own time. To be governed by ambition was only a shade or two better than being governed by convention. The drawing-room in which she and Ronnie were sitting was of such proportions that one hardly knew whether it was intended to be one room or several, and it had the merit of being moderately cool at two o'clock on a particularly hot July afternoon. In the coolest of its many alcoves, servants had noiselessly set out an improvised luncheon table, a tempting array of caviar, crab and mushroom salads, cold asparagus, slender hot-bottles, and high-stemmed wine-goblets peeped out from amid the setting of Charlotte Clem roses. Cicely rose from her seat and went over to the piano. Come!" she said, touching the young man lightly with a fingertip on top of his very sleek copper-hued head. We're going to have picnic lunch up here today. It's so much cooler than any of the downstairs rooms, and we shan't be bothered with the servants trotting in and out all the time. Rather a good idea of mine, wasn't it? Ronnie, after looking anxiously to see that the word picnic did not portend tongue sandwiches and biscuits, gave the idea his blessing. What is young Stahl's profession, someone had once asked concerning him? He has a great many friends who have independent incomes, had been the answer. The meal was begun in appreciative silence, a picnic in which three kinds of red pepper were available, for the caviar demanded a certain amount of respectful attention. My heart ought to be like a singing bird today, I suppose, said Cicely presently. Because your good man is coming home, asked Ronnie. Cicely nodded. He's expected some time this afternoon, though I'm rather vague as to which train he arrives by. Rather a stifling day for railway travelling. And is your heart doing the singing-bird business? asked Ronnie. There depends, said Cicely, if I may choose the bird. A missile-thrush would do, perhaps. It sings loudest in stormy weather, I believe. Ronnie disposed of two or three stems of asparagus, before making any comment on this remark. Is there going to be stormy weather? he asked. The domestic barometer said rather that way, said Cicely. You see, Murray has been away for ever so long, and of course there'll be lots of things he won't be used to, and I'm afraid matters may be rather strained and uncomfortable for a time. Do you mean that he will object to me? asked Ronnie. Not in the least, said Cicely. He's quite broad-minded on most subjects, and he realizes this is an age in which sensible people know thoroughly well what they want, and are determined to get what they want. It pleases me to see a lot of you, and to spoil you, and to pay you extravagant compliments about your good looks and your music, and to imagine at times that I am in danger of getting fond of you. I don't see any harm in it, and I don't suppose Murray will either. In fact I shouldn't be surprised if he takes rather liking to you. No, it's the general situation that will trouble and exasperate him. He's not had time to get accustomed to the feta completely like we have. It will break on him with horrible sadness. He was somewhere in Russia when the war broke out, wasn't he? said Ronnie. Somewhere in the wilds of eastern Siberia, shooting and bird-collecting miles away from a railway or telegraph line, and it was all over before he knew anything about it. It didn't last very long when you come to think of it. He was due home somewhere about that time, and when the weeks slipped by without my hearing from him I quite thought he'd been captured in the Baltic or somewhere on the way back. It turned out he was down with marsh fever and some out of the way spot, and everything was over and finished with before he got back to civilisation and newspapers. It must have been a bit of a shock, said Ronnie, busy with a well devised salad. Still, I don't see why there should be domestic storms when he comes back. You're hardly responsible for the catastrophe that has happened. No, said Sicily. But he'll come back naturally feeling sore and savage with everything he sees around him, and he won't realise just at once that we've been through all that ourselves and have reached the stage of sullen acquiescence in what can't be helped. He won't understand, for instance, how we can be enthusiastic and excited over Gaul and Musselford's debut and things of that sort. He'll think we're a set of callate bevelers fiddling while Rome is burning. In this case, said Ronnie, Rome isn't burning. It's burnt. All that remains to be done is to rebuild it, when possible. Exactly, and he'll say we're not doing much to helping at that. But, protested Ronnie, the whole thing has only just happened. Rome wasn't built in a day, and we can't rebuild our Rome in a day. I know, said Sicily. But so many of our friends, and especially Murray's friends, have taken the thing in a tragical fashion and cleared off to the colonies or shut themselves up in their country houses, as there was a sort of moral leprosy infecting London. I don't see what good that does, said Ronnie. It doesn't do any good, but it's what a lot of them have done, because they felt like doing it, and Murray will feel like doing it too, and that's where I foresee trouble and disagreement. Ronnie shrugged his shoulders. I would take things tragically if I saw the good of it, he said. As matter stand, it's too late in the day, and too early to be anything but philosophical about what one can't help. For the present, we've just got to make the best of things. Besides, you can't very well turn down Gauler at the last moment. I'm not going to turn down Gauler or anybody, said Sicily, with a decision. I think it would be silly, and silliness doesn't appeal to me. That is why I foresee storms on the domestic horizon. After all, Gauler has her career to think of. Do you know, she added, with a change of tone, I rather wish you'd fall in love with Gauler. It would make me horribly jealous, and a little jealousy is such a good tonic for any woman who knows how to dress well. Also, Ronnie, it would prove that you are capable of falling in love with someone, of which I've graved doubts up to the present. Love is one of the few things in which the make-believe is superior to the genuine, said Ronnie. It lasts longer, and you get more fun out of it, and it's easier to replace when you've done with it. Still, it's rather like playing with coloured paper instead of playing with fire, objected Sicily. A footman came round the corner, with the trained silence that tactfully contrives to make itself felt. A Mr. Luton to see you, madam, he announced, Shall I say you're in? Mr. Luton? Oh, yes, said Sicily, he'll probably have something to tell us about Gauler's concert, she added, turning to Ronnie. Turning Luton was a young man who had sprung from the people, and had taken care that there should be no recoil. He was scarcely twenty years of age, but a tightly packed chronicle of vicissitudes lay behind his sprightly insouciant appearance. Since his fifteenth year he had lived, heaven knew how, getting sometimes a minor engagement at some minor music-hall, sometimes a temporary job as a secretary-valid companion to a roving invalid, dining now then on plover's eggs and asparagus at one of the smarter West End restaurants, at other times devouring a kipper or a sausage in some stuffy edge-where-road eating-house, always seemingly amused by life, and always amusing. It is possible that somewhere in such heart as he possessed there lurked a rankling bitterness against the hard things of life, or a scrap of gratitude towards the one or two friends who had helped him disinterestedly, but his most intimate associates could not have guessed at the existence of such feelings. Tony Luton was just a merry-eyed dancing fawn whom fate had surrounded with streets instead of woods, and it would have been in the highest degree in artistic to have sounded him for a heart or a heartache. The dancing of the fawn took one day a livelier and more assured turn. The joyousness became more real, and the worst of the vicissitudes seemed suddenly over. A musical friend, gifted with mediocre but marketable abilities, supplied Tony with a song for which he obtained a trial performance at an East End Hall. Dressed as a jockey, for no particular reason except that the costume suited him, he sang, they quaffed the gay bubbly in Eccleston Square to an appreciative audience which included the manager of a famous West End theatre of varieties. Tony and his song won the magisterial favour, and were immediately transplanted to the West End house where they scored a success of which the drooping music-hall industry was at the moment badly in need. It was just after the great catastrophe, and men of the London world were in no humour to think. They had witnessed the inconceivable before them. They had nothing but political ruin to stare at, and they were anxious to look the other way. The words of Tony's song were more or less meaningless, no he sang them remarkably well, but the tune, with its air of slinus and furtive joyousness, appealed in some unaccountable manner to people who were furtively unhappy and who were trying to appear stoically cheerful. What must be must be, and it's a poor heart that never rejoices were the popular expressions of the London public at that moment, and the men who had to cater for that public were thankful when they were able to stumble across anything that fitted in with the prevailing mood. For the first time in his life Tony Luton discovered that agents and managers were a leisured class, and that office boys had manners. He entered Sicily's drawing-room, with the air of want to whom assurance of manner had become a sheathed weapon, a court-accessory rather than a trade-implement. He was more quietly dressed than the usual run of music-hall successes. He had looked critically at life from too many angles, not to know that, though clothes cannot make a man, they can certainly damn him. Thank you, I have lunched already," he said in answer to a question from Sicily. Thank you! he said again in a cheerful affirmative, as the question of hawk in a tall ice-gold goblet was propounded to him. I've come to tell you the latest about the Gauler muscle for the evening, he continued. Old Laurence is putting his back into it, and it's really going to be rather a big affair. She's going to outrush on the Russians. Of course she hasn't their technique, nor a tenth of their training, but she's having tons of advertisement. The name Gauler is almost an advertisement in itself. And then there's the fact that she's the daughter of a peer. She has temperament," said Sicily, with the decision of one who makes a vague statement in a good cause. So Laurence says, observed Tony. He discovers temperament in everyone that he intends to boom. He told me that I had temperament to the fingertips, and I was too polite to contradict him. But I haven't told you the really important thing about the muscle for debut. It's a profound secret, more or less, so you must promise not to breathe a word about it till half past four, when it will appear in all the six o'clock newspapers. Tony paused for dramatic effect, while he drained his goblet, and then made his announcement. Majesty is going to be present, informally and unofficially, but still present in the flesh, a sort of casual dropping in, carefully heralded by unconfirmed rumor a week ahead. Heavens," exclaimed Sicily in genuine excitement. What a bold stroke! Lady Shalem has worked that, I bet. I suppose it will go down all right. Trust Laurence to see to that," said Tony. He knows how to fill his house with the right sort of people, and he's not the one to risk a fiasco. He knows what he's about. I tell you it's going to be a big evening. I say," exclaimed Ronnie suddenly, give us up a party here for Gauler on the night, and ask the Shalem woman and all her crowd. It'll be awful fun. Sicily caught at the suggestion with some enthusiasm. She did not particularly care for Lady Shalem, but she thought it would be just as well to care for her, as far as outward appearances went. Grace, Lady Shalem, was a woman who had blossomed into sudden importance by constituting herself a sort of foster-mother to the feta complie. At a moment when London was denuded of most of its a four-time social leaders, she had seen her opportunity and made the most of it. She had not contented herself with bowing to the inevitable, she had stretched out her hand to it, and forced herself to smile graciously at it, and her polite attentions had been reciprocated. Lady Shalem, without being a beauty or a wit, or a grand lady in the traditional sense of the word, was in a fair way to becoming a power in the land. Others, more capable, and with stronger claims to social recognition, would doubtless overshadow her, and displace her in due course, but for the moment she was a person whose good graces counted for something, and Sicily was quite alive to the advantage of being in those good graces. It would be rather fun, she said, running over in her mind the possibilities of the suggested supper-party. It would be jolly useful, but in Ronnie eagerly, you could get all sorts of interesting people together, and it would be an excellent advertisement for Gaula. Ronnie approved of supper-parties on principle, but he was also thinking of the advantage which might accrue to the drawing-room concert which Sicily had projected, with himself as the chief performer, if he could be brought into contact with a wider circle of music patrons. I know it would be useful, said Sicily, it would be almost historical. There's no knowing who might not come to it, and things are dreadfully slack in the entertaining line just now. The ambitious note in her character was making itself felt at that moment. Let's go down to the library, and work out a list of people to invite, said Ronnie. A servant entered the room, and made a brief announcement. A Mr. Yovill has arrived, madam. Father, said Ronnie, sulkily, now you'll cool off about that supper-party and turn down Gaula and the rest of us. It was certainly true that the supper had already seemed a more difficult proposition in Sicily's eyes than it had a moment or two ago. You'll not forget my only daughter, Ian, though sapphire has crossed the sea, quoted Tony, with mocking laughter in his voice and eyes. Sicily went down to greet her husband. She felt that she was probably very glad that he was at home once more. She was angry with herself for not feeling great a certainty on the point. Even the well-beloved, however, can select the wrong moment for return. If Sicily Yovill's heart was like a singing bird, it was of a kind that has frequent lapses into silence. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of When William Came by Sarky This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Reading by Andy Minter When William Came by Sarky Chapter 2 The Homecoming Murray Yovill got out of the boat train at Victoria Station, and stood waiting in an attitude something between listlessness and impatience, while a porter dragged his light traveling kit out of the railway carriage, and went in search of his heavier baggage with a hand-truck. Yovill was a grey-faced young man with restless eyes and a rather wistful mouth, and an air of lassitude that was evidently only a temporary characteristic. The hot, dusty station, with its blended crowds of dawdling and scurrying people, its little streams of suburban passengers pouring out every now and then from this or that platform, like ants swarming across a garden path, made aware of some climax, to what had been a rather wearer some journey. Yovill glanced quickly, almost furtively, around him in all directions, with the air of a man who is constrained by morbid curiosity, to look for things that he would rather not see. The announcements, placed in German, alternatively with English, over the booking office, left luggage office, refreshment buffets, and so forth, the crowned eagle and monogram displayed on the post boxes, caught his eye in quick succession. He turned to help the porter to shepherd his belongings onto the truck, and followed him to the outer yard of the station, where a string of taxi cabs was being slowly absorbed by an outpouring crowd of travellers. Portmanteur, wraps, and a trunk or two, much belabelled and travel worn, were stowed into a taxi, and Yovill turned to give the direction to the driver. 28 Barkshire Street Barkshire Strasse 88 Schwadzig echoed the man, a bulky, spectacular individual of unmistakable Teuton type. 28 Barkshire Street, repeated Yovill, and got into the cab, leaving the driver to retranslate the direction into his own language. A succession of cabs leaving the station blocked the roadway for a moment or two, and Yovill had leisure to observe the fact that Victoria Strasse was lettered side by side with the familiar English name of the street. A notice directing the public to the neighbouring swimming-bars was also written up in both languages. London had become a bilingual city, even as Warsaw. The cab threaded its way swiftly along Buckingham Palace Road towards the Mall. As they passed the long front of the palace, the traveller turned his head resolutely away, that he might not see the alien uniforms at the gate, and the eagle standard flapping in the sunlight. The taxi driver, who seemed to have combative instincts, slowed down as he was turning into the Mall, and pointed to the white pile of memorial statuary in front of the palace gates. He announced, and resumed his journey. Arrived at his destination, Yovill stood on the steps of his house and pressed the bell with an odd sense of forlornness, as though he were a stranger drifting from nowhere into a land that had no cognizance of him. A moment later he was standing in his own hall, the object of respectful solicitude and detention, sprucely garbed and groomed lackeys busied themselves with his battered travel-soil baggage. The door closed on the guttural-voiced taxi driver and the glaring July sunshine. The weir of some journey was over. "'Poor dear, how dreadfully pulled down you look,' said Settlede, when the first greetings had been exchanged. "'It's been a slow business, getting well,' said Yovill. "'I'm only three-quarter way there yet.' He looked at his reference, and said, "'You should have seen what I looked like five or six weeks ago,' he added. "'You ought to have let me come out and nurse you,' said Settlede. "'You know I wanted to.' "'Oh, they nursed me well enough,' said Yovill. "'And it would have been a shame dragging you out there. A small, finished health resort, out of the season, is not a very amusing place. And it would have been worse for anyone who didn't talk Russian.' "'You must have been very ashamed,' said Yovill. "'You must have been buried alive there,' said Settlede, with commiseration in her voice. "'I wanted to be buried alive,' said Yovill. The news from the outer world was not of a kind that helped to despondent invalid towards convalescence. They spoke to me as little as possible about what was happening, and I was grateful for your letters, because they also told me very little. When one is abroad among foreigners, one's country's misfortunes cause one an acuter, more personal distress than they would at home even. "'Well, you're at home now anyway,' said Settlede, and you can jog along the road to complete recovery at your own pace. A little quiet shooting this autumn, and a little hunting, just enough to keep you fit and not to over-tire you. You mustn't over-tax your strength.' "'I am getting my strength back, all right,' said Yovill. "'This journey hasn't tired me half as much as one might have expected. It's the awful drag of listlessness, mental and physical, that is the worst after-effect of these marsh-fevers, and they drain the energy out of you in bucketfuls, and it trickles back again in teaspoonfuls. Just now, untiring energy is what I shall need, even more than strength. I don't want to degenerate into a slacker.' "'Look here, Murray,' said Settlede. "'After we've had dinner together to-night, I'm going to do a seemingly unwifely thing. I'm going to go out and leave you alone with an old friend. Dr. Holm is coming in to drink coffee and smoke with you. I arranged this because I knew it was what you would like. Men can talk these things over best by themselves, and Holm can tell you everything that's happened, since you went away. It will be a dreary story, I'm afraid, but you will want to hear it all.' It was a nightmare time, but now one sees it in a calmer perspective.' "'I feel in a nightmare still,' said Joville. "'We all felt like that,' said Settlede, rather with the air of an elder person, who tells the child that it will understand things better when it grows up. Time is always something for narcotic, you know. Things seem absolutely unbearable, and then, bit by bit, we find out that we're bearing them. And now, dear, I'll fill up your notification paper and leave you to superintend your unpacking. Robert will give you any help you want.' "'What's the notification paper?' asked Joville. "'Oh, a stupid form to be filled up when anyone arrives to say where they've come from and their business and their nationality and religion and all that sort of thing. We're rather more bureaucratic than we used to be, you know.' Joville said nothing, but into the sallow grayness of his face there crept a dark flush that faded presently, and left his colour more gray and bloodless than before. The journey seemed suddenly to have recommenced. He was under his own roof, his servants were waiting on him, his familiar possessions were in evidence around him, but the sense of being at home had vanished. It was as though he had arrived at some wayside hotel, and been asked to register his name and status and destination. Other things of disgust and irritation he had foreseen in the London he was coming to—the alterations on stamps and coinage, the intrusive Teuton element, the alien uniforms cropping up everywhere, the new orientation of social life. Such things he was prepared for, but this personal evidence of his subject state came on him unawares, at a moment when he had, so to speak, laid his armour aside. Sicily spoke lightly of the hateful formality that had been forced on them. Would he too come to regard things in the same acquiescent spirit? When William came, by Sarky, Chapter 3 The Metzgesar I was in the early stages of my fever when I got the first inkling of what was going on, said Yovil to the doctor, as they sat over their coffee in the recess of the big smoking-room. Just able to potter about a bit in the daytime, fighting against depression and inertia, feverish as the evening came on and delirious in the light. My game-tracker and my attendant were both Buryats, and spoke very little Russian, and that was the only language we had in common to converse in. In matters concerning food and sport, we soon got to understand each other. But on other subjects, we were not easily able to exchange ideas. One day my tracker had been to a distant trading-store to get some things of which we were in need. The store was eighty miles from the nearest point of railroad. Eighty miles over terribly bad roads. But it was, in its way, a centre and transmitter of news from the outside world. The tracker brought back with him vague tidings of a conflict of some sort between the Metzgesar and the Anglisgesar, and kept repeating the Russian word for Diff-Eat. The Anglisgesar I recognised, of course, as the King of England, but my brain was too sick and dull to read any further meaning into the man's reiterated gamble. I grew so ill just then that I had to give up the struggle against fever and make my way as best I could towards the nearest point where nursing and doctoring could be had. It was one evening in a lonely rest hut on the edge of a huge forest, as I was waiting for my boy to bring the meal for which I was feverishly impatient, and which I knew I should load as soon as it was brought. And the explanation of the word Metzge flashed on me. I had thought of it as referring to some oriental potentate, some rebellious rager, perhaps, who was giving trouble, and whose followers had possibly discomforted a nice related British force in some out-of-the-way corner of our empire. And all of a sudden I knew that Nemetzgesar, German Emperor, had been the name that the man had been trying to convey to me. I shouted for the tracker, put him through a breathless cross-examination. He confirmed what my fears had told me. The Metzgesar was a big European ruler. He had been in conflict with the Anglisgesar, and the latter had been defeated, swept away. The man spoke the word that he used for ships, and made an energetic pantomime to express the sinking of a fleet. Holland, though, was nothing for it, but a hope that this was a false, groundless rumour that had somehow crept to the confines of civilisation. In my saner, balanced moment it was possible to disbelieve it. But if you have ever suffered from delirium, you will know what raging torment of agony I went through in the nights, and my brain fought and re-forced that rumoured disaster. The doctor gave a murmur of sympathetic understanding. Then, continued Joville, I reached the small Siberian town towards which I had been struggling. There was a little colony of Russians there, traders, officials, a doctor or two, and some army officers. I put up at the primitive hotel restaurant, which was the general gathering place of the community. I knew quickly that the news was true. Russians are the most tactful of any European race that I've ever met. They did not stare with insolent or pity and curiosity. But there was something changed in their attitude, which told me that the travelling Britain was no longer in their eyes the interesting, respect-commanding personality that he had been in past days. I went to my own room, where the Samovar was bubbling its familiar tune, and a smiling red-shirted Russian boy was helping my Buryat servant to unpack my wardrobe, and I asked for any back numbers of newspapers that could be supplied at a moment's notice. I was given a bundle of well-thumbed sheets, odd pieces of the Novorimia, the Moskviy Vyadonsky, one or two complete numbers of local papers published at Perm and Tavosk. I don't read Russian well, though I speak it fairly readily. But from the fragments of disconnected telegrams that I pieced together, I gathered enough information to acquaint me with the extent of the tragedy that had been worked out in a few crowded hours in the corner of northwestern Europe. I searched frantically for telegrams of later dates that would put a better complexion on the matter that would retrieve something from the ruin. Presently I came across a page of the illustrated supplement that the Novorimia publishes once a week. There was a photograph of a long-fronted building with a flag flying over it, labelled the new standard floating over Buckingham Palace. The picture was not much more than a smudge, but the flag, possibly touched up, was unmistakable. It was the eagle of the Nemetsky Tsar. I have a vivid recollection of that plainly furnished little room, with the inevitable gilt icon in one corner, and the Samovar hissing and gurgling on the table, and the thrumming music of a Balalaika orchestra coming up from the restaurant below. The next coherent thing I can remember was weeks and weeks later discussing in an impersonal detached manner whether I was strong enough to stand the fatigue of the long railway journey to Finland. Since then, Holm, I have been encouraged to keep my mind as much off the war and public affairs as possible, and I have been glad to do so. I knew the worst, and there was no particular use in deepening my despondency by dragging out the details. But now I am more or less a live man again, and I want to fill in the gaps in my knowledge of what happened. You know how much I know, and how little. Those fragments of Russian newspapers were about all the information that I had. I don't even know clearly how the whole thing started. Joville settled himself back in his chair, with the air of a man who has done some necessary talking, and now assumes the role of listener. It started, said the doctor, with a wholly unimportant disagreement about some frontier business in East Africa. There was a slight attack of nerves in the stock markets, and then the whole thing seemed in a fair way to being settled. Then the negotiations of the fair began to drag unduly, and there was a further flutter of nervousness in the money world. And then one morning the papers reported a highly menacing speech by one of the German ministers, and the situation began to look black indeed. He would be disavowed, everyone said over here, but in less than twenty-four hours those who knew anything knew that the crisis was on us. Only that knowledge came too late. War between two such civilised and enlightened nations is an impossibility. One of our leaders of public opinion had declared on the Saturday. By the following Friday the war had indeed become an impossibility, because we could no longer carry it on. It burst on us with calculated suddenness, and we were just not enough everywhere where the pressure came. Our ships were good against their ships, our seamen were better than their seamen. But our ships were not able to cope with their ships, plus their superiority in aircraft. Our trained men were good against their trained men, but they could not be in several places at once, and the enemy could. Our half-trained men and our untrained men could not master the signs of war at a moment's notice. And a moment's notice was all they got. The enemy were a nation apprenticed in arms. We were not even the idle apprentice. We had not deemed apprenticeship worthwhile. That was courage enough running loose on the land, but it was like on harness electricity. They controlled no forces. It struck no blows. There was no time for the heroism and the devotion which had drawn out struggle, however hopeless can produce. The war was over almost as soon as it had begun. After the reverses, which armed with lightning rapidity in the first three days of warfare, the newspapers made no effort to pretend that the situation could be retrieved. Editors and public alike recognized that these were blows over the heart, and that it was a matter of moments before we were counted out. One might liken the whole affair to a snap checkmate early in a game of chess. One side had thought out the moves and brought the requisite pieces into play. The other side was hampered and helpless, but its resources unavailable. It started to discount it in advance. That, in a nutshell, is the history of the war. Yeovil was silent for a moment or two, and then he asked, and the sequel? The Beast? Their collapse was so complete that I fancy even the enemy were heartily prepared for the consequences of their victory. No one had quite realized what one disastrous campaign would mean for an either-nation with a closely packed population. The conquerors were in a position to dictate what terms they pleased, and it was not wonderful that their ideas of a grandest month expanded in the hour of intoxication. There was no European combination ready to say them nay. Certainly no one power was going to be rash enough to step in to contest the terms of the treaty that they imposed on the conquered. An excation had probably never been a dream before the war. After the war it suddenly became temptingly practical. Varum nicht became the theme of leader-writers in the German press. They pointed out that both defeated and humiliated, but with enormous powers of recuperation, would be a dangerous and inevitable enemy for the German if tomorrow. Britain, incorporated within the whole and solid empire, would merely be a disaffected province without a navy to make its disaffection a serious menace, and with great tax-paying capabilities, which would be available for relieving the burdens of the other imperial states. Wherefore, why not Enix? The Varum nicht party prevailed. Our king, as you know, retired with his court to Delhi, a emperor in the east, with most of his overseas dominions still subject to his sway. The British islands came under the German crown as Reichsland, a sort of Alsace-Lorraine washed by the North Sea instead of the Rhine. We still retain our parliament, but it is a clipped and pruned down shadow of its former self, with most of its functions and bans. When elections were held it was difficult to get decent candidates to come forward or to get people to vote. It makes one smile bitterly to think that a year or two ago we were seriously squabbling as to who should have votes. Of course the old party divisions are more or less crumbled away. The Liberals naturally are under the blackest of clouds for having steered the country to disaster, and to do them justice was no more therefore than the fault of any other party. In a democracy such as ours was, the government of the day must more or less reflect the ideas and temperament of the nation in all vital matters, and the British nation in those days could not have been persuaded of the urgent need for military apprenticeship or of the deadly nature of its danger. It was willing now and then to be half frightened and to have half measures, or one might better say quarter measures taken to reassure it, and the governments of the day were willing to take them. But any political party or group of statesmen that had said that danger is enormous and immediate, the sacrifices and burdens must be enormous and immediate, but met with certain defeat at the polls. Still, of course the Liberals, as the party that held office for nearly a decade, incurred the odium of a people maddened by defeat and humiliation. One minister, who had less responsibility for military organisation than perhaps any of them, was attacked and nearly killed at Newcastle. Another was hiding for three days on X-War and escaped in disguise. And the Conservatives? They are also under eclipse, but it's more or less voluntary in their case. But generations they had taken their standard supporters of throne and constitution, and when they suddenly found the constitution gone and the throne filled by an alien dynasty, their political orientation had vanished, and in much the same position as the Jacobites occupied after they had a birian accession. Many of the leading Tory families have immigrated to the British lands beyond the seas. Others are shut up in their country houses, retrenching their expenses, selling their acres, and investing their money abroad. The labour faction, again, are almost in as bad odour as the Liberals, because of having hobnob too effusively and ostentatiously with the German democratic parties on the eve of the war, exploiting an evangel of universal brotherhood, which did not blunt a single Teuton ban at when the hour came. I suppose in time, party divisions will reassert themselves in some form or other. There will be a socialist party, and the mercantile and manufacturing interests will evolve a sort of bourgeoisie party, and the different religious bodies will try to get themselves represented. The Ovil made a movement of impatience. All these things that you forecast, he said, must take time, considerable time. Is this nightmare, then, to go on forever? It's not a nightmare, unfortunately, said the doctor. It is a reality. But surely a nation such as ours, a very highly civilised nation with an age-long tradition of mastery behind it, cannot be held under forever by a few thousand bandits and machine-guns. We must surely rise up one day and drive them out. Dear man, said the doctor, we might, of course, at some given moment overpower the garrison that is maintained here, and seize the forts. Perhaps we might be able to mine the harbours, but what then? In a fortnight or so we could be starved into unconditional submission. Remember all the advantages of isolated position that told in our favour while we had the sea dominion. Tell against us, now that the sea dominion is in other hands. The enemy would not need to mobilise a single army corps, or to bring a single battleship into action. The fleet of nimble cruisers and destroyers circling round our coasts would be sufficient to shut out our food supplies. Are you trying to tell me that this is a final overthrow? Said Joville in the shaking voice. Are we to remain a subject race like the Poles? Let us hope for a better fate, said the doctor. Our opportunity may come if the master power is ever involved in an unsuccessful naval war with some other nation, or perhaps in some time of European crisis when everything hung in the balance. Our latent hostility might have to be squared by a concession of independence. That's what we have to hope for and watch for. On the other hand, the conquerors have to count on time and tact to weaken and finally obliterate the old feelings of machinality. The middle age of today will grow old and acquiescent in the changed state of things. The young generations will grow up never having known anything different. It's a far greater deli, as the old Indian proverb says, and the strange half European half Asiatic court out there will see more and more a thing exotic and unreal. The king across the water was a rallying cry once upon a time in our history. When the king on the farthest side of the Indian Ocean was a shadowy competitor for one who alternates between Potsdam and Winsor, I want you to tell me everything, said Yoville, after another pause. Tell me, Holland, how far has this obliterating process of time and tact gone? Seems to be pretty fairly started already. I bought a newspaper as soon as I landed, I read it in the train coming up, and I read things that puzzled and disgusted me. There were announcements of concerts and plays and first nights of private views, some even small dances. There were advertisements of house-boats, weekend cottages, and string bands for garden parties. It struck me that it was rather like merry-making with a dead body lying in the house. Yoville, said the doctor, you must bear in mind two things. First, the necessity for the life of the country going on as if nothing had happened. It's true that many thousands who are working men and women have emigrated, and thousands who are upper and middle class too. They were the people who were not tied down by business or who could afford to cut those ties. But those represent comparatively a few out of the many. The great businesses and the small businesses must go on. People must be fed, and clothed, and housed, and medically treated, and that a thousand of them want once a necessity supplied. Look at me, for instance. However much I loathe coming under a foreign domination and paying taxes to an alien government. I can't abandon my practice and my patience, and set up anew in Toronto, or Allahabad. If I could, some other doctor would have to take my place here. I, or that other doctor, must have our servants, and mortars, and food, and furniture, and newspapers, even our sport. The golf-links and the hunting-fields have been well-nigh deserted since the war. Well, they're beginning to get back their mortars, because outdoor sport has become a necessity, and a very rational necessity, with numbers of men who have to work otherwise in unnatural and exciting conditions. That is one factor of the situation. The other affects London more especially. But through London it influences the rest of the country to a certain extent. You'll see around you here, much that will strike you as indications of heartless indifference to the calamity that has befallen our nation. Well, you must remember that many things in modern life, especially in the big cities, are not national but international. In the world of music and art and drama, for instance, the foreign names are legion. They confront you at every turn, and some of our British devotees of such answer are more acclimatised to the ways of Munich and Moscow than they are familiar with the life, say, of Sterling or York. For years they have lived and thought and spoken in an atmosphere and jargon of denationalised culture, even those of them who never left our shores. They would take pains to be intimately familiar with the domestic affairs and views of some Gillesian gypsy dramatist, and gravely court and discuss his opinions on deaths and mistresses and cookery, when they would shudder at Joaquin John Peel as a piece of uncoast barbarity. You cannot expect a world of that sort to be permanently concerned or downcast, because the Crown of Charlemagne takes its place now on top of the royal box at the theatres, throughout the head of programmes and state concerts, and in rather Jews. There are many in the land, or at least in London, said Jo-Will. There are even more of them now than there used to be, said Holland, and to a great extent a disliker of Jews myself. But I'll be fair to them and admit that those of them who were in any genuine sense British will remain British, and have stuck by us loyally in our misfortune all honour to them. But of the others, the men who by temperament and everything else were far more Teutonal, Polish or Latin than they were British. It was not to be expected that they would be half-broken, because London had suddenly lost its place among the political capitals of the world, and become a cosmopolitan city. They had appreciated the free and easy liberty of the old days under British rule, but there was a stiff insularity in the ruling race that they chafed against. Now, burning aside some petty government restrictions that Teutonic bureaucracy has brought in, there is rarely in their eyes more licence and social adaptability in London than before. It has taken on some of the aspects of a no-man's land, and the Jew, if he likes, may almost consider himself as the dominant race, but in your rate is ubiquitous. Pleasure of the café and cabaret and boulevard kind, the sort of thing that gave Berlin the aspect of the gayest capital in Europe within the last decade, that is the insidious leaven that will help to de-nationalise London. Berlin will probably climb back to some of its old austerity and simplicity, a world ruling city with the great sense of its position and its responsibilities, while London will become more and more the centre of what these people understand by life. Yeovil made a movement of impatience and disgust. I know, I know, said the doctors, empathetically. Life and enjoyment mean to you the howl of the wolf in a forest, the cold of a wild swan on the frozen tundras, the smell of a wood fire in some little inn among the mountains. There's more music to you in the quick thud of hooves on desert mud, as a free-stepping horse is laid up near a dent door, and in all the dronings and farrishing that a highly-paid orchestra can reel out to an expensively fed audience, but the tastes of London and London, as we see them, crystallise around us, lie in a very different direction. People of the world that I am speaking of, our dominant world at the present moment, heard together as closely packed to the square yard as possible, doing nothing worth doing and saying nothing worth saying, but doing and saying it over and over again, listening to the same melodies, watching the same artists, echoing the same catch words, ordering the same dishes in the same restaurants, suffering each other's cigarette smoke and perfumes and conversation feverishly, anxiously making arrangements to meet each other again to-morrow, next week and the week after next, and repeat the same rigorous experience. If they were not herded together in a corner of western London, watching each other with restless intelligent eyes, they'd be herded together at Brighton or Dieppe doing the same thing. Well, you will find that life of that sort goes forward just as usual, only it's even more prominent and noticeable now, because there's less public life of other kinds. Yovill said something, which was possibly the bariatric word for the nearer world. Outside, in the neighbouring square, a band had been playing at intervals during the evening. Now it struck up an air that Yovill had already heard whistle several times since his landing, an air with a captivating suggestion of slinus and furtive joyousness running through it. He rose and walked across the window, opening it a little wider. He listened till the last notes had died away. What is that, you, and they've just paid? He asked. You'll hear it often enough, said the doctor. A Frenchman writing in Matta the other day called it the National Anthem of the Fateh Kompli. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 of When William Came by Sarky This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Reading by Andy Minter. When William Came by Sarky Chapter 4. Esist Verboton Yovill wakened next morning to the pleasant sensation of being in a household where elaborate machinery for the smooth achievements of one's daily life was noiselessly and unceasingly at work. Fever and the long weariness of convalescence in indifferently comfortable surroundings had given luxury a new value in his eyes. Money had not always been plentiful with him in his younger days. In his twenty-eighth year he had inherited a fairly substantial fortune, and he had married a wealthy woman a few months later. It was characteristic of the man and his breed that the chief use to which he put his newly acquired wealth had been inceasingly opportunity which it gave him for indulging in unlimited travel in wild, out-of-the-way regions where the comforts of life were meagrely represented. Sicily occasionally accompanied him to the threshold of his expeditions, such as Cairo or St. Petersburg or Constantinople, but her own tastes in the matter of roving were more or less condensed within an area that comprised Cannes, Homburg, the Scottish Highlands and the Norwegian Fjords. Things outlandish and barbaric appealed to her chiefly when presented under artistic but highly civilised stage management on the boards of Covent Garden, and if she wanted to look at wolves or sand-grouse, she preferred doing so in the company of an intelligent fellow of the Zoological Society on some fine Sunday afternoon in Regent's Park. It was one of the bonds of union and good fellowship between her husband and herself that each understood and sympathised with the other's tastes, without in the least wanting to share them. They went their own ways and were pleased and comrade-like when the ways happened to run together for a span, without self-reproach or heart-searching when the ways diverged. Moreover, they had separate and adequate banking accounts, which constitute, if not the keys of the matrimonial heaven, at least the oil that lubricates them. Yeovil found Sicily and breakfast waiting for him in the cool breakfast room, and enjoyed, with the appreciation of a recent invalid, the comfort and resources of a meal that had not to be ordered or thought about in advance, but seemed as though it were there for ordain from the beginning of time in its smallest detail. Each desire of the breakfasting mind seemed to have its realisation in some dish, lurking unobtrusively in hidden corners until asked for. Did one want grilled mushrooms, English fashion? They were there, black and moist and sizzling and extremely edible. Did one desire mushrooms allarus? They appeared, blanched and cool and toothsome under their white blanketing of sauce. At once bidding was a service of coffee, prepared with rather more foresight and circumspection than would go to the preparation of a revolution in a South American Republic. The exotic blooms that reigned in profusion over the other parts of the house must scrupulously banished from the breakfast room. Bowls of wild thyme and other flowering weeds of the meadow and hedgerow gave it an atmosphere of country freshness that was in keeping with the morning meal. You looked dreadfully tired still, said Sicily critically, otherwise I would recommend a ride in the park before it gets too hot. There's a new cob in the stable that you'll just love, but he's rather lively and you'd better content yourself for the present with some more sedate exercise than he's likely to give you. He's apt to try and jump out of his skin when the flies tease him. The park's rather jolly for a walk just now. I think that will be about my form after my long journey, said Joville. An hour's stroll before lunch under the trees, mad or not to fatigue me unduly. In the afternoon I'll look up one or two people. Don't count on finding too many of your old set, said Sicily rather hurriedly. I dare say some of them will find their way back some time, but at present there's been rather an exodus. The breeds, said Joville, are they here? No, the breeds are in Scotland at their place in Sutherlandshire. They don't come south now, and the ricards are farming somewhere in East Africa. The whole lot of them. Valom has got an appointment of some sort in the straight settlement and has taken his family with him. The collards are down at their mother's place in Norfolk. A German banker has bought their house in Manchester Square. And the headways, asked Joville. Dick headways in India, said Sicily, but his mother lives in Paris. Poor Hugo you know was killed in the war. My friends the Allensons are in Paris too. It's rather a clearance, isn't it? However there are some left, and I expect others will come back in time. Pithub is here. He's one of those who are trying to make the best of things under the new regime. He would be, said Joville shortly. It's a difficult question, said Sicily. Whether one should stay at home and face the music, go away and live a transplanted life under the British flag. Either attitude might be dictated by patriotism. It's one thing to face the music. It's another to dance to it, said Joville. Sicily poured out some more coffee for herself and changed the conversation. You'll be into lunch, I suppose. The clubs are not very attractive just now, I believe. And the restaurants are mostly hot in the middle of the day. Ronnie's store is coming in. He's here pretty often these days. A rather good-looking young animal, with something midway between talent and genius in the piano playing line. Not long-haired and Semitic or Czech or anything of that sort, I suppose. Asked Joville. Sicily laughed at the vision of Ronnie, conjured up by her husband's words. No, beautifully groomed and clipped and Anglo-Saxon. I expect you'll like him. He plays bridge almost as well as he plays the piano. I suppose you wonder at any one who can play bridge well, wanting to play the piano. I'm not quite so intolerant as all that, said Joville. Anyhow, I promise to like Ronnie. Is anyone else coming to lunch? Joan Mardle will probably drop in. In fact, I'm afraid she's a certainty. She invited herself in that way of hers that brooks of no refusal. On the other hand, as a mitigating circumstance, there will be a Pont d'Asperge omelette, such as few kitchens could turn out, so don't be late. Joville set out for his morning walk, with the curious sensation of one who starts on a voyage of discovery in a land that is well known to him. He turned into the park at Hyde Park Corner, and made his way along the familiar paths and alleys that bordered the row. The familiarity vanished when he left the region of fenced in-lawns and rhododendron bushes, and came to the open space that stretched away beyond the bandstand. The bandstand was still there, and a military band, in sky blue Saxon uniform, was executing the first item in the forenoon programme of music. Around it, instead of the serried rows of green chairs that Joville remembered, was spread out an acre or so of small round tables, most of which had their quota of customers engaged in a steady consumption of lager beer, coffee, lemonade and syrups. Further in the background, but well within earshot of the band, a gaily-painted pagoda restaurant sheltered a number of more commodious tables under its awnings, and gave a hint of convenient indoor accommodation for wet or windy weather. Move-all screens of trellis-trained foliage and climbing roses formed little hedges, by means of which any particular table could be shut off from its neighbours if semi-privacy were desired. One or two decorative advertisements of popularised brands of champagne and rind wines adorned the outside walls of the building, and under the central gable of its upper story was a flamboyant portrait of a stern-faced man whose image and superscription might also be found on the newer coinage of the land. A mass of bunting hung in folds round the flag-pole on the gable, and blew out now and then on the favouring breeze, a long three-coloured strip, black, white and scarlet, and over the whole scene the elm-trees towered with an absurd sardonic air of nothing having changed around their roots. Joville stood for a minute or two, taking in every detail of the unfamiliar spectacle. They've certainly accomplished something that we never attempted, he muttered to himself. Then he turned on his heel and made his way to the shady walk that ran alongside the row. At first sight little was changed in the aspect of the well-known exercising ground. One or two riding-masters cantered up and down as of yore with their attendant broods of anxious-faced young girls and awkwardly bumping women pupils, while horsey-looking men put marketable animals through their paces, or drew up to the rails for long conversations with horsey-looking friends on foot, sportingly attired young women, sitting astride of their horses, careered by at intervals, as though an extremely game fox were leading hounds a merry chase, a short way ahead of them. It all seemed much as usual. Presently, from the middle distance a bright patch of colour set in a whirl of dust to drew rapidly nearer, and resolved itself into a group of cavalry officers extending their chargers in a smart gallop. They were well-mounted, and sat their horses to perfection, and they made a brave show as they raced past yoville with a clink and clatter and rhythmic thud, thud of hooves, and became once more a patch of colour in a whirl of dust. An answering glow of colour seemed to have burnt itself into the grey face of the young man who had seen them pass, without appearing to look at them, a stinging rush of blood accompanied by a choking catch in the throat and a hot white blindness across the eyes. The weakness of fever broke down at times the rampart of outward indifference that a man of yoville's temperament builds coldly round his heartstrings. The row and its riders had become suddenly detestable to the wanderer. He would not run the risk of seeing that insolently joyous cavalcade come galloping past again. Beyond a narrow stretch of tree-shaded grass lay the placid, sunlit water of the serpentine, and yoville made a shortcut across the turf to reach its graveled bank. Gorge would read either English or German, asked a policeman who confronted him as he stepped off the turf. Yoville stared at the man, and then turned to look at a small, neatly printed notice to which the official was imperiously pointing. In two languages it was made known that it was forbidden and verboten, punishable, and shtarafbar to walk on the grass. Three shilling fine, said the policeman, extending his hand for the money. Do I pay you? asked yoville, feeling almost inclined to laugh. I'm rather a stranger to the new order of things. You pay me, said the policeman, and you receive acquittance for the sum paid. And he proceeded to tear a counter-foil receipt for a three shilling fine from a small pocket-book. May I ask, said yoville, as he handed over the sun demanded and received his acquittance, what the red and white band on your sleeve stands for? Bilingual, said the constable, with an air of importance. Preference is given to members of the force who qualify both languages. Nearly all the police engaged on park duties here by lingual. About as many foreigners as English use the parks nowadays. In fact, on a fine Sunday afternoon you'll find three foreigners to every two English. The park's habit is more continental than British, I take it. And are there many Germans in the police force? asked yoville. Well, yes, a good few there had to be, said the constable. There were such a lot of resignations when the change came, and they had to be filled up somehow. Lots of men, what used to be in the force, emigrated, or found work of some other kind. But everybody couldn't take that line. Wives and children had to be thought of. It is never ahead of a family that can chuck up a job on the chance of finding another. Starvation has been a lot of a good many than what went out. Those of us that stayed on got better pay than we did before. But then, of course, the duties are much more multitudinous. There must be, said yoville, fingering his three-filling state document. By the way, he asked, are all the green plots in park out of bounds for human feet? Everywhere where you see the notices, said the policeman. And that's about three-quarters the whole grass-space. There's been a lot of new gravel walks out and up in all directions. People don't want to walk on the grass when they've got clean paths to walk on. And with this parting reproof, the bilingual constable strode heavily away. His loss of consideration and self-esteem as a unit to a sometime ruling race evidently compensated for, to some extent, by his enhanced importance as an official. The women and children thought yoville as he looked after the retreating figure. Yes, that's one side of the problem. The children that have to be fed and schooled. The women folk that have to be cared for. An old mother, perhaps, in the home that cannot be broken up. The old case of giving hostages. He followed the path alongside the serpentine, passing under the archway of the bridge and continuing his walk into Kensington Gardens. In another moment he was within view of the Peter Pan statue, and at once observed that it had companions. On one side was a group representing a scene from one of the grim fairy stories. On the other was Alice in conversation with Griffin and Mock Turtle, the episode looking distressingly stiff and meaningless in its sculptured form. Two other spaces had been cleared in the neighbouring turf, evidently for the reception of further statue groups, which yoville mentally assigned to Struel Peter and little Lord Fauntleroy. German middle-class taste, he commented. But in this matter we certainly gave them a lead. I suppose the idea is that childish fancy is dead. And it is only decent to erect some sort of memorial to it. The day was growing hotter, and the park had ceased to seem a desirable place to loiter in. Yoville turned his steps homeward, passing on his way the van stand with its surrounding acreage of tables. It was now nearly one o'clock, and luncheon parties were beginning to assemble under the awnings of the restaurant. Lighter refreshments in the shape of sausages and potato salads were being carried out by scurrying waiters to the drinkers of lager beer at the small tables. A park orchestra in brilliant trappings had taken the place of the military band. As yoville passed, the musicians launched out into the tune which the doctor had truly predicted he would hear at a repletion before he had been many days in London, the national anthem of the fitter comply. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of When William Came by Sarky This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Reading by Andy Minter. When William Came by Sarky Chapter 5 La Dettre Cuisine Joan Nardle had reached 40 in the leisurely, untroubled fashion of a woman who intends to be comely and attractive at 50. She cultivated a jovial, almost joyous manner with the top dressing of hearty goodwill and good nature which disarmed strangers and recent acquaintances. On getting to know her better they hastily re-armed themselves. Someone had once aptly described her as a hedgehog with the protective mimicry of a puffball. If there was an awkward remark to be made as an inconvenient moment before undesired listeners, Joan invariably made it, and when the occasion did not present itself, she was usually capable of creating it. She was not without a certain popularity, the sort of popularity that a dashing highwayman sometimes achieved among those who were not in the habit of traveling on his particular highway. The great aunt on her mother's side of the family had married so often that Joan imagined herself justified in claiming cousinship with a large circle of disconnected houses and treating them all on a relationship footing, which theoretical kinship enabled her to extract luncheons and other accommodations under the plea of keeping the lamp of family life aglow. I felt I simply had to come to-day. She chuckled at Joville. I was just dying to see the return traveller. Of course I know perfectly well that neither of you want me, when you haven't seen each other for so long, and must have heaps and heaps to say to one another. But I thought I would risk the odium of being the third person on an occasion when two accompany and three are a nuisance. Wasn't it brave of me? She spoke in the full knowledge of the fact that the luncheon party would not in any case have been restricted to Joville and his wife, having seen Ronnie arrive in the hall as she was being shown upstairs. Ronnie's store is coming, I believe, said Cecily, so you're not breaking into a tate-atate. Ronnie, oh, I don't count him, said Joan Gayley. He's just a boy who looks nice and eats asparagus. I hear he's getting to play the piano really well. Such a pity. He will grow fat. Musicians always do, and it will ruin him. I speak feelingly because I'm gravitating towards Plumpness myself. The divine architect turns us out fearfully and wonderfully built, and the result is charming to the eye, and then he adds another chin and two or three extra inches round the waist and the effect is ruined. Fortunately you can always find another Ronnie when this one grows fat and uninteresting. The supply of boys who look nice and eat asparagus is unlimited. Hello, Mr. Store. We were all talking about you. There's nothing very damaging, I hope, said Ronnie, who had just entered the room. No, we were merely deciding that whatever you may do with your life, your chin must remain single. When one's chin begins to lead a double life, one's own opportunities for depravity are insensibly narrowed. You needn't tell me that you haven't any hankerings of depravity. People with your coloured eyes and hair are always depraved. Let me introduce you to my husband, Ronnie. Said Sicily, and then let's go and begin lunch. You two must almost feel as if you were honeymooning again, said Joan, as they sat down. You must have quite forgotten each other's tastes and peculiarities since you last met. Old Emily Fronley was talking about you yesterday when I mentioned that Murray was expected home. Curious sort of marriage tie, she said, in that stupid staring way of hers, when husband and wife spend most of their time in different consonants, I don't call it marriage at all. Nonsense, I said. It's the best way of doing things. The ovals will be a united and devoted couple long after heaps of their married contemporaries have trundled through the divorce court. I forgot at the moment that her youngest girl had divorced her husband last year, and that her second girl is rumoured to be contemplating a similar step. One can't remember everything. Joan Mardal was remarkable for being able to remember the smallest details in the family in lives of two or three hundred acquaintances. From personal matters, she went with a bound to the political small talk at the moment. The official declaration as to the House of Lords is out at last, she said. I bought a paper just before coming here, but I left it in the tube. All existing titles are to lapse. If three successive holders, including the present ones, fail to take the oath of allegiance. Have any taken it up to the present? Asked you will. There are only about nineteen so far, and none of them representing very leading families. Of course, others will come in gradually, as the change of dynasty becomes more and more an accepted fact. Then, of course, there will be lots of new creations to fill out the gaps. I hear for certain that Pitha B is to get a title of some sort in recognition of his literary labours. He has written a short history of the House of Hohenzollern, for use in schools, you know, and he is bringing out a popular life Frederick the Great. At least he hopes it will be popular. I didn't know that writing was much in his line, said you will, beyond the occasional editing of a company prospectus. I understand that his historical researchers have given every satisfaction in exalted quarters, said Joan. Something may be lacking in the style, perhaps, but the august approval can make good that defect with the style of Baron. Pitha B has such a kind heart, and kind hearts are more than coronets, we all know, but the two go quite well together, and the dear man is not content with his services to literature. He is blossoming forth as a liberal patron of the arts. He has taken quite a lot of tickets for dear Gaulers' debut, half the second row of the chess circle. Do you mean Garlum Musselford? Asked you will, catching at the name. What on earth is she having a debut about? What! cried Joan in loud-voiced amazement. Haven't you heard? Hasn't Sicily told you how funny that you shouldn't have heard why it's going to be one of the events of the season. Everybody's talking about it. She's going to do suggestion dancing at the Caravansary Theatre. What heavens! What is suggestion dancing? asked you will. Oh! something quite new! explained Joan. At any rate the name is quite new, and Gaulers is new as far as the public are concerned, and that's enough to establish the novelty of the thing. Amongst other things she does a dance suggesting the life of a fern. I saw one of the rehearsals, and to me it would equally well have suggested the life of John Wesley. However, it is probably the fault of my imagination. I've either got too much or too little. Anyhow it's an understood thing that she's to take London by storm. When I last saw Gaul and Musselford, observed you, she was rather serious flapper who thought the world was in urgent need of regeneration, and was not certain whether she would regenerate it or take up miniature painting. I forget which she attempted ultimately. She's quite serious about her art. But in Sicily she's studied a good deal abroad and worked hard at mastering the technique of her profession. She's not at mere amateur with the hankering of the footlights. I fancy she will do well. But what do her people say about it? asked Joville. Oh! they're simply furious about it! answered Joan. The idea of a daughter of the house of Musselford prancing and twisting about the stage for Prussian officers and Hamburg Jews to gaze at is a dreadful cup of humiliation for them. It's unfortunate, of course, that they should feel so acutely about it, but still one can understand their point of view. I don't see what other point of view they could possibly take. Said Joville sharply, if Gaul thinks that the necessities of art or her own inclination demand that she should dance in public, why can't she do it in Paris or even Vienna? Anywhere would be better one would think than in London under the present conditions. He had given Joan the indication that she was looking for as to his attitude towards the feta complie. Without asking a question, she had discovered that husband and wife were divided on the fundamental issue that underlay all others at the present moment. Sicily was weaving social schemes for the future. Joville had come home in a frame of mind that threatened the destruction of those schemes, or at any rate a serious hindrance to their execution. The situation presented itself to Joan's mind with an alluring pecancy. You're giving a grand supper party for Gaul on the night of her debut, aren't you? she asked Sicily. Several people spoke to me about it, so I suppose it must be true. Tony Luton and Young Store had taken care to spread the news of the projected supper function in order to ensure against a change of plans on Sicily's part. Gaul is a great friend of mine, said Sicily, trying to talk as if the conversation had taken a perfectly indifferent turn. Also, I think she deserves a little encouragement after the hard work she's been through. I thought it would be doing her a kindness to arrange a supper party for her on the first night. There was a moment's silence. Joville said nothing, and Joan understood the value of being occasionally tongue-tied. The whole question is, continued Sicily, as the silence became oppressive, whether one is to mope and hold a loop from the national life or take our share in it. The life has got to go on, whether we participate in it or not. It seems to me to be more patriotic to come down into the dust of the marketplace than to withdraw oneself beyond walls or beyond the seas. Of course, the industrial life of the country has to go on, said Joville. No one could criticise Gauler if she interested herself in organising cottage industries or anything of that sort, in which she would be helping her own people. That one could understand. But I don't think that a cosmopolitan concern like the music-hall business calls for personal sacrifices from young women of good family at a moment like the present. It's just at a moment like the present that the people want something to interest them and take them out of themselves, said Sicily argumentatively, what has happened has happened, and we can't undo it or escape the consequences. What we can do or attempt to do is to make things less dreary and make people less unhappy. In a word, more contented, said Joville. If I were a German statesman, that is the end I would lay before, and encourage others to lay before, to make the people forget that they were discontented. All this work of recalvanising the social side of London life, maybe some love in the phrase, travail pour le roi de bruce. I don't think there's any use in discussing the matter further, said Sicily. I can see that grand supper-party not coming off, said Joan provocatively. Ronnie looked anxiously at Sicily. You can see it coming on if you're gifted with the prophetic vision of a reliable kind, said Sicily. Of course, as Murray doesn't take kindly to the idea of Gauler's enterprise, I won't have the party here. I'll give it at a restaurant, that's all. I can see Murray's point of view and sympathise with it, but I'm not going to throw Gauler over. There was another pause of uncomfortably protected duration. I say this is a top-hole omelet, said Ronnie. It was his only contribution to the conversation, but it was a valuable one. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of When William Came by Sarky This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information, or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Reading by Andy Minter When William Came by Sarky Chapter 6 Hervon Quale Hervon Quale sat at his favourite table in the Brandenburg Cafe, the new building that made such an imposing show, and did such thriving business, at the lower end of what most of its patrons called the Dredgenstrasse. Though the establishment was new, it had already achieved its unwritten code of customs, and the sanctity of Hervon Quale's special reserved table had acquired the authority of a tradition. A set of chessmen, a copy of the Croit Saitung and the Times, and a slim-necked bottle of relish wine, ice-cooled from the cellar, were always to be found there early in the forenoon, and the honoured guest for whom these preparations were made usually arrived on the scene shortly after eleven o'clock. For an hour or so he would read and silently digest the contents of his two newspapers, and then, at the first sign of flagging interest on his part, another of the cafe's regular customers would march across the floor, exchange a word or two on the affairs of the day, and bebidden with a wave of the hand into the opposite seat. A waiter would instantly place the chessboard with its marshaled ranks of competence in the required position, and the contest would begin. Hervon Quale was a heavily built man of mature middle age of the blonde North German type, with a facial aspect that suggested stupidity and brutality. The stupidity of his mean masked an ability and a shrewdness that was distinctly above the average, and the suggestion of brutality was belied by the fact that Von Quale was as kind-hearted a man as one could meet with in a day's journey. Early in life, almost before he was in his teens, Fritz Von Quale had made up his mind to accept the world as it was, and to that philosophical resolution, steadfastly adhered to, he attributed his excellent digestion and his unruffled happiness. Perhaps he confused cause and effect, the excellent digestion may have been responsible for at least some of the philosophical serenity. He was a bachelor of the type that is called confirmed, and which might better be labelled consecrated. From his early youth onward to his present age, he had never had the faintest flickering intention of marriage. Children and animals he adored, women and plants he accounted somewhat of a nuisance. A world without women and roses and asparagus, would, he admitted, be robbed of much of its charm. But with all their charm these things were tiresome and thorny and capricious, always wanting to climb or creep in places where they were not wanted, and resolutely drooping and fading away when they were desired to flourish. Animals, on the other hand, accepted the world as it was and made the best of it, and children, at least nice children, uncontaminated by grown-up influences, lived in worlds of their own making. Von Quale held no acknowledged official position in the country of his residence, but it was an open secret that those responsible for the real direction of affairs sought his counsel on nearly every step that they meditated, and that his counsel was very rarely disregarded. Some of the shrewdest and most successful enactments of the ruling power were believed to have originated in the brain cells of the bovine-fronted Sztangast of the Brandenburg Cafe. Around the wood-panelled walls of the cafe were set at intervals well-mounted heads of boar, elk, stag, robuck, and other game-beasts of a northern forest, while in between were carved our moral escutcheons of the principal cities of the lately expanded realm, Magdeburg, Manchester, Hamburg, Bremen, Bristol, and so forth. Below these came shelves on which stood a wonderful array of stone beer mugs, each decorated with some fantastic device or motto, and most of them pertaining individually and sacredly to some regular and unfailing customer. In one particular corner of the highest shelf, greatly at his ease and in no wise to be disturbed, slept Votan, the huge grey house-cat, dreaming doubtless of certain nimble and audacious mice down in the cellar, three floors below, whose nimbleness and audacity were as precious to him as the forwardness of the birds as to a skilled gun on a grouse-mour. Once every day, Votan came marching in stately fashion across the polished floor, halted midway to resume an unfinished toilet operation, and then proceeded to pay his leisurely respects to his friend Von Qual. The latter was said to be prouder of this daily demonstration of esteem than of his many coveted orders of merit. Several of his friends and acquaintances shared with him the distinction of having achieved the Black Eagle, but not one of them had ever succeeded in obtaining the slightest recognition of their existence from Votan. The daily greeting had been exchanged, and the proud grey beast had marched away to the music of a slumberous pur. The croased sighting and the times underwent a final scrutiny and were pushed aside, and Von Qual gazed aimlessly out of the July sunshine bathing the walls and windows of the Piccadilly Hotel. Herre binoc, the plump little Pomeranian banker, stepped across the floor almost as noiselessly as Votan had done, though with considerably less grace, and some half a minute later it was engaged in sliding pawns and knights and bishops to and fro on the chessboard in a series of lightning moves bewildering to look on. Neither he nor his opponent played with the skill that they severally brought to bear on banking and statecraft, nor did they conduct their game with the politeness that they punctiliously observed in other affairs of life. A running fire of contemptuous remarks and aggressive satire accompanied each move, and the mere record of the conversation would have given an uninitiated onlooker the puzzling impression that an easy and crushing victory was assured to both players. He is puzzled, poor man. He doesn't know what to do. He thinks he will move there, does he? Much good that will do him. Never have I seen such a mess as he is in. He cannot do anything. He is absolutely helpless, helpless. Oh, you'll take my bishop, do you? Much I care for that. Nothing. See, I give you a check. Ah, no, he isn't afraid. He doesn't know where to go. What a mess he is in. So the game proceeded. With a brisk exchange of pieces and incivilities and a fluctuation of fortunes, till the little banker lost his queen as a result of an unconscious move, and after several woe-begone contortions of his shoulders and hands declined further contest. A sleek-haired piccolo rushed forward to remove the board, and the erstwhile combatants resumed the courteous dignity that they discarded in their chess-playing moments. Have you seen Zaganmania today? Asked Harry Abinoc, as soon as the boy had receded to a respectful distance. No, said Vanquale. I never see Zaganmania. A count on you'll tell me if there is anything noteworthy in it. It has an article today headed Occupation or Assimilation, said the banker. It is of some importance and very reason. It is very pessimistic. Catholic papers are always pessimistic about things of this world, said Vanquale. Just as they are unduly optimistic about things of the next world. What line does it take? It's thus that our conquest of Britain can only result in a temporary occupation with a notice to quit always hanging over our heads, that we can never hope to assimilate the people of these islands in our empires, a sort of maritime Saxony or Bavaria. All the teaching of history is against it. Saxony and Bavaria are part of the empire because of their past history. England is being bound into the empire in spite of her past history and so forth. The writer of the article has not studied history very deeply, said Vanquale. The impossible thing that he speaks of has been done before and done in these very islands, too. The Norman conquest became an assimilation in comparatively few generations. Ah, in those days, yes, said the banker, but the conditions were altogether different. There was not the rapid transmission of news in the means of keeping the public mind instructed in what was happening. In fact, one could scarcely say that the public mind was there to instruct. There was not the same bond of brotherhood between men of the same nation that exists now. North Thumbelon was almost as far into Devon or Kent as Normandy was. And the church in those days was a great international factor. And the Crusades bound men together, fighting under one leader for a common cause. Also, there was not a great national past to be forgotten, sir, is in this case. There are many factors, certainly, that are against us, conceded the statesman. But you must also take into account those that will help us. In most cases in recent history where the conquered have stood out against all attempts at assimilation there has been a religious difference to add to the racial one. Like Poland, for instance, and the Catholic parts of Ireland. If the Bretons ever seriously begin to assert their nationality as against the French, it will be because they have remained more Catholic in practice and sentiment other than their neighbors. Here there is no such complication. We are in the bulk of protestant nation with the Catholic minority. And the same may be said of the British. Then in modern days there is the alchemy of sport and the drama to bring men of different races amicably together. One or two sportsmen like Germans in a London football team will do more to break down racial antagonism than anything the governments or councils can effect. As for the state, it had long been international in its tendencies. You can see that every day. The banker nodded his head. London is not our greatest difficulty. Continued von Kvar? You must remember the steady influx of Germans since the war. Whole districts are changing the complexion of their inhabitants. And in some streets you might almost fancy yourself in a German town. We can scarcely hope to make much impression on the country districts and the provincial towns at present. But you must remember the thousands and thousands of the more virile and restless sold men have emigrated and thousands more will follow their example. We shall fill up their places with our own surplus population. As the Teuton races colonised England in the old pre-Christian days, that is better is it not to people the fat meadows of the Thames Valley and the healthy downs and uplands of Sussex and the Berkshire than to go hunting for elbow room among the flies and fevers of the tropics. We have somewhere to go to now, better than the scrub and the belts and the thorn jungles. Of course, of course, assented her Rabinock. But via this desirable process of infiltration and assimilation goes on, how are you going to provide against hostility as a concatenation? That people with a right tradition behind them and the ruling instinct strongly developed. Won't sit with their eyes closed and their hands folded while you carry on the process of Germanization? What will keep them quiet? The hopelessness of the situation. For centuries Britain has ruled the seas and been able to dictate her half the world in consequence. Then she let slip the mastery of the seas as something too costly on earth to keep up, something which aroused too much jealousy and uneasiness in others. And now the seas rule her. Every wave that breaks on her shore rattles the keys of her prison. I am no fire eater here, Rabinock, but I confess that when I am at Dover, say, or Southampton, and see those dark blots on the sea and those grey specks in the sky, our battleships and cruises are there craft and realize what they mean to us. My heart beats just a little quicker. If every German was slung out of England tomorrow, in three weeks' time we shall be coming in again on our own terms. With our seascouts and the airscouts spread in organized network around, not a shipload of foodstuff could reach the country. They know that. They can calculate how many days of independence and starvation they could endure, and they will make no attempt to bring about such a certain fiasco. Brave men fight for it for no one hope, but the bravest do not fight for an issue they know to be hopeless. That is so, said Herr Rabinock. As things are at present, they can do nothing from within. Absolutely nothing. We have weighed all that beforehand. But as the Germania points out, there is another Britain beyond the seas. Supposing, of course, a Delhi where to engine a league. A league? A league with whom? Interrupted the statesman. Rush there, we could watch and hold. We were rather nearer to its western frontier than Delhi's, and we could throttle its Baltic trade at five hours' notice. For once in Holland, or not inclined to provoke a hostility, they would have everything to lose by such a course. There are other forces in the world that might be ruined against us, argued the banker. The United States, Japan, Italy, they all have navies. Does the teaching of history show you that it is a strong power, armed and ready, that has to suffer from the hostility of the world? Ask von Qual. As far as the sentiment goes, perhaps, but not in practice. The danger has always been for the weak, dismembered nation. Thank you for a moment. As the enfeebled, scattered British environs overseas, no undefended territories that are a temptation to her neighbours, as Japan nothing to glean where we have harvested. Hard to know North American possessions which might slip into other keeping, as Russia herself no traditional temptations beyond the oxes. Mind you, we are not making the mistake Napoleon made. When he forced all Europe to be for him or against him, we threaten no world aggression. We all satis right where he was insatiable. We have cast down one overshadowing power from the face of the world because it stood in our way. But we have made no attempt to spread our branches all over the space that is covered. We have not tried to set up a tributary Canadian republic or to partition South Africa. We have dreamed no dream of making ourselves lords of Hindustan. On the contrary, we have given proof of our friendly intentions towards our neighbours. We have backed France up the other day in her squabble with Spain over the Moroccan boundaries, and proclaimed our opinion that the republic has as indisputable a mission on the North African coast as we have in the North Sea. That is not the action or the language of aggression. No, continued bonquale after a moment's silence. The world may fear us and dislike us, but for the present at any rate, there will be no leagues against us. No, there is one rock on which our attempt at our simulation will founder or find firm anchorage. And that is the youth of the country, the generation that is at the threshold now. It is them that we must capture. We must teach them to learn and coax them to forget. In course of time, Anglo-Saxon may blend with German, as the Elvis-Saxons and the Vavarians and the Shavians have blended with the Prussians into a loyal united people under the scepter of the Horned Zollands. Then we should be doubly strong. Roman Carthage rolled into one, an empire of the West greater than Shilomine ever knew. Then we could look Slav and Latin and Asiatic in the face, and keep our place as the central dominant force of their civilized world. The speaker paused for a moment and drank a deep draft of wine, as though he were invoking the prosperity of that future world power. Then he resumed in a more level tone. On the other hand, the younger generation of Britons may grow up in hereditary hatred, repulsing all our overtures, forgetting nothing and forgiving nothing, waiting and watching for the time when some weakness assails us, when some crisis entangles us, when we cannot be everywhere at once. Then our work will be imperiled, perhaps undone. There lies the danger. There lies the hope. The younger generation. There is another danger, said the banker, after he had pondered over Bonkvaal's remarks for a moment or two, amid the incense-clouds of a fat cigar. A danger that I foresee in the immediate future. Perhaps not so much a danger as an element of exasperation which may ultimately defeat your plans. The door as to military service will have to be promulgated shortly, and that cannot fail to be bitterly unpopular. The people of these islands will have to be brought into line with the rest of the empire in the matter of military training and military service. And how will they like that? Will not the enforcing of such a measure infuriate them against us? Remember, they have made great sacrifices to avoid the burden of military service. Dear God, exclaimed Herr Bonkvaal, as you say, they have made sacrifices on that altar. End of Chapter 6, Chapter 7 of When William Came by Sarky This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Reading by Andy Minter When William Came by Sarky Chapter 7, The Lure Cicely had successfully insisted on having her own way concerning the projected supper-party. Yeovil had said nothing further in opposition to it, whatever his feelings on the subject might be. Having gained her point, however, she was anxious to give her husband the impression of having been consulted and to put her victory as far as possible on the footing of a compromise. It was also rather a relief to be able to discuss the matter out of range of Joan's disconcerting tongue and observant eyes. I hope you're not really annoyed about this silly supper-party, she said, on the morning before the much-talked-off first night. I had pledged myself to give it, so I couldn't back out without seeming mean to gawler, and in any case it would have been impolitic to cry off. Why impolitic? asked Yeovil coldly. It would give a fence in quarters where I don't want to give a fence, said Cicely. In quarters where the fate of conflict is an object of solicitude, said Yeovil. Look here, said Cicely, in her most disarming manner. It's just as well to be perfectly frank about the whole matter. If one wants to live in the London of the present day, one must make up one's mind to accept the fate accompli, with as good a grace as possible. I do want to live in London, and I don't want to change my way of living, and start under different conditions in some other place. I can't face the prospect of tearing up my life by the roots. I feel certain I shouldn't bear transplanting. I can't imagine myself recreating my circle of interest in some foreign town or colonial centre, or even in a country town in England. India, I couldn't stand. London is not merely a home to me. It's a world. And it happens to be just the world that suits me, and that I'm suited to. The German occupation, or whatever one likes to call it, is a calamity. But it's not like a molten deluge from Vesuvius that needs send us all scuttling away from another Pompeii. Of course, she added, there are things that jar horribly on one, even when one has got more or less accustomed to them. But one must just learn to be philosophical and bear them. Surprising they're not bearable, said Joville. During the few days that I've been in the land, I've seen things that I cannot imagine will ever be bearable. That is because they're new to you, said Sicily. I don't wish that they should ever come to seem bearable, retorted Joville. I've been bred and reared as a unit of a ruling race. I don't want to find myself settling down resignedly as a member of an enslaved one. There's no need to make things out worse than they are, protested Sicily. We've had a military disaster on a big scale, and there's been a great political dislocation in consequence. But there's no reason why everything shouldn't write itself in time, as it has done after other similar disasters in the history of nations. We are not scattered to the winds, or wiped off the face of the earth. We are still an important racial unit. A racial unit in a foreign empire, commented Joville. We may arrive at the position of being the dominant factor in that empire, said Sicily, impressing our national characteristics on it, and perhaps dictating its dynastic future and a whole trend of its policy. Such things have happened in history. Or we may become strong enough to throw off the foreign connection at a moment when it can be done effectually and advantageously. But, meanwhile, it is necessary to preserve our industrial life and our social life. And for that reason, we must accommodate ourselves to present the circumstances, however distasteful they may be. Immigration to some colonial wilderness, or holding ourselves rigidly aloof from the life of the capital, won't help matters. Really, Murray, if you will think things over a bit. You will see that the course I am following is the one dictated by Saint patriotism. Whom the gods wished to rend the harmless, they first afflict with sanity, said Joville Bitterly. You may be content to wait for a hundred years or so for this national revival to creep and crawl us back into assemblance of independence and world importance. I'm afraid I haven't the patience or the philosophy to sit down comfortably and wait for a change of fortune that won't come in my time, if it comes at all. Cicely changed the drift of the conversation. She had only introduced the argument for the purpose of defining her point of view and the customing Joville to it, as one leads a nervous horse up to an unfamiliar barrier that he is required eventually to jump. In any case, she said, From the immediately practical standpoint, England is the best place for you. Toad, you've shaken off all traces of that fever. Pass the time away somehow till the hunting begins, and then go down to the East Wessex country. They're looking out for a new master after this season, and if you were strong enough, you might take it on for a while. You could go to Norway for fishing in the summer and hunt the East Wessex in the winter. I'll come down and do a bit of hunting, too, and we'll have house parties and get a little golf in between my house. It will be like old times. Joville looked at his wife and laughed. Her was that old fellow who used to hunt his hounds regularly throughout the fiercest times of the Great Civil War. There's a picture of him by Kate and Woodville, I think, leading his back between King Charles's army and the Parliament forces, just as some battle was going to begin. I've often thought that the King must have disliked him rather more than he disliked the men who were in arms against him. They at least cared, one way or the other. I fancy that old chap would have a great many imitators nowadays, though, when it comes to question of sport against soldiering. I don't know whether anyone has said it, but one might almost assert that the German victory was one on the golf links of Bitten. I don't see why you should have had a one particular form of sport with a special responsibility, protested Sicily. Of course not, said Joville, except that it absorbed perhaps more of the energy and detention of the leisure class than other sports did, and in this country the leisure class was the only bulwark we had against official indifference. The working classes had a big share of the apathy, and indirectly a greater share of the responsibility, because the voting power was in their hands. They had not the leisure, however, to sit down and think clearly what the danger was. Their own industrial warfare was more real to them than anything that was threatening from the nation that they only knew from samples of German clerks and German waiters. In any case, said Sicily, as regards the hunting, there is no civil war or national war raging just now, and there is no immediate likelihood of one. For good, many hunting seasons will have to come and go before we can think of a war of independence as even a distant possibility. And in the meantime, hunting and horse breeding and country sports generally are the things most likely to keep Englishmen together on the land. That's why so many men who hate the German occupation are trying to keep field sports alive and in the right hands. However, I won't go on arguing. You and I always think things out for ourselves and decide for ourselves, which is much the best in the long run. Sicily slipped away to her writing room to make final arrangements over the telephone for the all-important supper-party, leaving Yeovils turn over in his mind the suggestion that she had thrown out. It was an obvious lure, a lure to draw him away from the fret and fury that possessed him so inconveniently. But its obvious nature did not detract from its effectiveness. Yeovil had pleasant recollections of the East Wessex, a cheery little hunt that afforded good sport in an unpretentious manner, a joyous thread of life running through a rather sleepy countryside, like a merry brook careering through a placid valley. For a man coming slowly and yet eagerly back to the activities of life, from the weariness of a long fever, the prospect of a leisurely season with the East Wessex was singularly attractive, and side by side with its attractiveness, there was a tempting argument in favour of yielding to its attractions. Among the small squires and yeoman farmers, doctors, country tradesmen, auctioneers, and so forth, who would gather at the covert side and at the hunt breakfasts, there might be a local nucleus of revolt against the enslavement of the land, a discouraged and leaderless band waiting for someone to mould their resistance into effective shape and keep their loyalty to the old dynasty and the old national cause steadily burning. Yeovil could see himself taking up that position, stimulating the spirit of hostility to the feta comply, organising stubborn opposition to every Germanising influence that was brought into play, schooling the youth of the countryside to look steadily deli-wood. That was the bait that Yeovil threw out to his conscience, while slowly considering the other bait that was appealing so strongly to his senses. The dry, warm scent of the stable, the nip of the morning air, the pleasant squelch-squelch of the saddle-leather, the moist, earthy fragrance of the autumn woods and wet fallows, the cold, white mists of winter days, the whimper of hounds and the hot, restless pushing of the pack through ditch and hedgerow and undergrowth, the birds that flew up and clucked and chattered as you passed, the hearty greeting and pleasant gossip in farmhouse kitchens and market-day bar parlours. All these remembered delights of the chase, marshalled themselves in the brain, and made a cumulative appeal that came with special intensity to a man who was a little tired of his wanderings, more than a little drawn away from the jarring senses of life. The hot, London sunshine, baking the soot-grimmed walls, and the ugly, incessant hoots and grunt of the motor-traffic, gave an added charm to the vision of hill and hollow and cops that flickered in Yeovil's mind. Slowly, with the sensuous lingering over detail, his imagination carried him down to a small, sleepy, yet with all pleasantly bustling market-town, and placed him unerringly in a wide, straw-lettered yard, half full of men and quarter full of horses, with a bob-tailed sheep-dog or two trying not to get in everybody's way, but insisting on being in the thicker things. The horses gradually detached themselves from the crowd of unimportant men, and came one by one into momentary prominence, to be discussed and appraised for their good points and bad points, and finally to be bid for. And always there was one horse that detached itself conspicuously from the rest, the Ideal Hunter, or at any rate Yeovil's Ideal of the Ideal Hunter. Mentally it was put through its paces before him, its pedigree and brief history recounted to him. Mentally he saw a stable lad put it over a jump or two, with credit to all concerned, and inevitably he saw himself outbidding less discerning rivals and securing the desired piece of horse-flesh, to be the chief glory and mainstay of his hunting-stable, to carry him well and truly and cleverly through many a joyous long-to-be-remembered run. That scene had been one of the recurring, half-waking dreams of his long days of weakness in the faraway Finnish nursing-home, a dream sometimes of tantalising mockery, sometimes of pleasure in the foretaste of a joy to come, and now it needs scarcely be a dream any longer. He had only to go down at the right moment and take an actual part in his oft-rehearsed vision. Everything would be there exactly as his imagination had placed it, even down to the Bob-Tale Cheap Dogs. The horse of his imagining would be there waiting for him, or if not absolutely the Ideal Animal, something very like it. He might even go beyond the limits of his dream and pick up a couple of desirable animals. There would probably be fewer purchasers for good-class hunters in these days, don't have you? And with the coming of this reflection his dream faded suddenly, and his mind came back with a throb of pain to the things he had for the moment forgotten, the weary, hateful things that were symbolised for him by the standard that floated yellow and black over the frontage of Buckingham Palace. Yeovil wandered down to his snuggery, a mood of listless dejection possessing him. He fidgeted aimlessly with one or two books and papers, filled the pipe and half filled the waste-paper-basket with torn circulars and accumulating writing-table litter. Then he lit the pipe and settled down in his most comfortable armchair, with an old notebook in his hand. It was a sort of disjointed diary, running fitfully through the winter months of some past years, and recording noteworthy days with the East Wessex. And over the telephone, Cecily talked and arranged and consulted with men and women, to whom the joys of a good gala, or the love of a stricken fatherland, were as letters in an unknown alphabet. End of Chapter 7