War-time Silhouettes Part 14

As time went on Baxendale's nerves grew worse, and it was thought he must have been badly hit financially by the War, till Peter Knott told us that he had invested most of his wife's and his own money in shipping companies and coal-mine debentures which had done nothing but rise ever since the War began. On the strength of this satisfactory information Baxendale was occasionally approached for subscriptions; but his response was generally evasive, or the amount offered so minute that he felt compelled to explain it by expressing his apprehensions about new taxation and the insane extravagance of the Government.

After a time Baxendale told us he could hardly bear to open a paper; he never knew what he might read next, and he felt he could not stand any more shocks. That made us suppose he had a brother or some near relative at the Front, and for some days we were rather apologetic in our att.i.tude towards him, as, what with the War and our own anxieties, we had shown some indifference to Baxendale's nerves.

But one day Jack Barnard turned up as a major in khaki, and said something so rude to his brother-in-law, who was sitting in the corner with Funkelstein, that the latter turned pale and left the room hurriedly. It appeared afterwards that Jack had got his back up against "that blighter Gilbert" because he hadn't done a thing for d.i.c.k, who had been at Sandhurst, and was now with his regiment in France. "It wasn't as though the selfish swine had kids of his own or some one else's whom he cared about. Not a soul. Sickening, I call it. He didn't even say good-bye to him or ask after him."

Later on Baxendale developed a habit of questioning every one as to what they were doing. On one occasion he asked Postlethwaite, who runs a convalescent home at Margate, if there was anything he could do down there. Postlethwaite suggested that he might drive wounded soldiers down to Margate in his car if he liked. Baxendale said he'd think it over, but when Postlethwaite had gone he asked Peter Knott in confidence if he didn't think it was taking advantage of people to mess up their cars like that.

Another time he tackled old Colonel Bridge, who had been up all night doing special constable duty, and was not in the sweetest of tempers.

When Baxendale asked him what he was doing he told him he'd better come round to the police-station at three the next morning and see for himself.

Baxendale has not turned up at the club since, and we were all hoping he had found suitable employment. This happens to nearly every one sooner or later except to us seniors. But it had not happened to Baxendale; for Freddy Catchpole, who has managed to get a job at the War Office, dined one evening with Mrs. Baxendale, and she told him poor Gilbert had got so bad with his nerves that he had to go to a nursing-home in the country to take a cure. And there, for all I know, he will stay till the War is over.

VII. DULCE ET DECORUM

David Saunderson lived on the top floor of one of the few lofty buildings in Chelsea, and as his years increased, the ascent of the five flights of stairs became a serious matter. His heart was none too sound, and the three minutes he once needed to reach his attic from the ground floor had already become five when the War began.

With the first shock of battles the emaciated remains of his bedridden brother were borne down the steep stairs and out of the little flat he had not left for the last five years of his life.

The two had lived together since Philip had returned from India as a man of fifty, with the reasonable hope of enjoying his pensioned retirement.

Philip had spent his energy freely in the Indian Civil Service, and the two middle-aged brothers, either too poor to marry, too shy, or both, determined to combine resources with companionship and keep house together.

For a time they sailed contentedly downstream. Philip's public spirit and industrious habits would not permit of what he called "a life of indolent ease." He rose early and put in a good eight hours' day at various unpaid labours. He became churchwarden of the parish, joined the vestry, and was a much valued unit of that obscure element in the population which does a great part of the public work for which individuals of a less modest type get the recognition.

David earned his living as a journalist and literary hack. He had never done or been anything else in his life, although to his small circle he loved, in a guileless way, to convey the impression that his youthful performances had been of no little brilliance.

He would mention the names of the celebrated editors by whom he had been employed as literary or dramatic critic, and was never tired of eulogizing these and other lettered heroes for whom he had slaved in the distant past. He insisted on the appreciation that these forgotten lions had shown of his work; but, however that might be, its manifestation had certainly never been translated into terms of cash, for within no one's memory had David's pecuniary resources been other than exiguous.

He was a great lover of the Arts, but his tastes were catholic and he worshipped at many shrines. He had no great patience with those who admire the modern to the exclusion of the old, or whose allegiance to one school precludes acceptance of another. He held his arms wide open and embraced Art in all its manifestations.

He was a great hero-worshipper; there was no sort of achievement he did not admire, but he had his special favourites; generally these were successful playwrights or novelists whose work he revised for publication at a minimum rate and whose additional recognition, in the form of a back seat for a first night or a signed presentation copy, produced in him a quite inordinate grat.i.tude.

David Saunderson was the embodiment of ponderousness; he spoke as slowly as he moved his c.u.mbersome limbs. So gradual were his mental processes that his friends forbore to ask him questions, knowing that they would not have time to wait for his replies. For these reasons the agile in body and mind avoided encounters with him, but if he chanced to meet them where there was no escape they would evade him by cunning or invent transparent excuses which only one so artless as he would have believed.

Now and then he paid visits to old friends who were sometimes caught unawares. Then he would settle his huge bulk in an arm-chair, and his head, bald except for a fringe of grey hair about the ears, seemed to sink into his chest, upon which the bearded chin reposed as though the whole affair were too heavy to support. At such times he gave one the impression of a ma.s.sive fixture which could be about as easily moved as a grand piano, and his hosts would resign themselves to their fate.

If any one had the temerity to provoke him to discussion, he would wait patiently for an opening, and once he secured it, would maintain his opinion steadily, the even, dispa.s.sionate voice slowly wearing down all opposition.

He was not without humour and a certain shrewdness in judging men and things, and would smile tolerantly when views were advanced with which he disagreed. It was not difficult to make merry at his expense, for he suspected no one, and only those who spoke ill of their neighbours disturbed his equanimity. Towards cynics his att.i.tude was compa.s.sionate.

Directly war broke out David enrolled himself in the special volunteer corps of artists raised by an eminent Academician. He took his duties very seriously, and was at great pains to master the intricacies of squad-drill. He never admitted that some of the exercises, especially the one that consists in lying on the ground face downwards and raising yourself several times in succession by your arms, were trying to a man of his weight and proportions, but about the time he was beginning to pride himself on his military proficiency Philip's death occurred. He said little about it and quietly occupied himself with the funeral and with settling his dead brother's small affairs, but the battalion were little surprised when shortly afterwards his resignation followed on medical grounds.

The Saundersons were connected with a family of some distinction, the head of which, knowing that Philip's pension died with him and that David's earnings were smaller than ever since the War, would gladly have offered him some pecuniary a.s.sistance. But David's pride equalled his modesty, and Peter Knott had to be charged with the mission of approaching him.

One afternoon Peter found David in his attic going through his dead brother's papers and smoking a pipe. Peter knew his man too well to attempt direct interrogation. He felt his way by inquiries as to the general situation of Art, and David was soon enlarging on the merits of sundry unknown but gifted painters and craftsmen whose work he hoped Peter might bring to the notice of his wealthy friends.

"The poor fellows are starving, Knott," he said in his leisurely way as he raised himself painfully from his chair and walked heavily to a corner where lay a portfolio.

Every piece of furniture in the small sitting-room was littered with a heterogeneous collection of ma.n.u.scripts and books; the latter were piled up everywhere. David slowly removed some from a table and laid the folio upon it.

"Now, here's--a charming--etching." He had a way of saying a word or two and then pausing as though to take breath, which demanded great patience of a listener.

Peter stood by him and examined it, David meanwhile puffing at his pipe.

"The man--who did that--is one of our best line engravers--his name is Macma.n.u.s--he's dreadfully hard up--look at this."

He held another before his visitor.

"That's by Plimsoll--a silver point--isn't it a beautiful thing?"

"Delightful," replied Peter.

"Well, do you know--Knott--that--" David's pipe had gone out. He moved slowly towards his chair and began looking for the matches. "Do you know, Plimsoll is one of the most gifted"--he was holding a match to his pipe as he spoke--"gifted young artists in the country--and two days ago--he--was literally hungry--" David took his pipe from his mouth and looked at Peter to see the effect of his words.

"It's very sad, very"--Peter Knott's tone was sympathetic--"but after all, they're young; they could enlist, couldn't they?"

David sat down in his chair and pulled at his pipe reflectively before answering.

"They're--neither of them--strong, Knott. They'd--be laid up in a week."

"Um--hard luck that," Peter Knott agreed. "But what's to be done?

Everybody's in the same boat. The writers now, I wager they're just as badly hit, aren't they?"

"That depends--" David paused, and Peter gave him time to finish his sentence. "The occasional--er--contributors--are having a bad time--but the regular journalists--the people on the staffs--are all right--of course I know cases--there's a man called--er, let me see--I've got a letter from him somewhere--Wyatt's his name--now, he's--" David's huge body began to rise again gradually. Peter Knott stopped him.

"By the way," he remarked briskly, "I saw your friend Seaford yesterday."

David had subsided, and once more began relighting his pipe; he looked up at the name.

"Frank Seaford--oh, did you? How is he? I haven't seen him for some time--"

"So I gathered," Peter remarked dryly. "He seems to be getting on very well since Ringsmith took him up."

"Ah! Ringsmith's right. He's a beautiful--artist. Did you--see--"

Peter interrupted. "I think I've seen all Seaford's work. Anyhow he owes his recognition entirely to you. I introduced him to Ringsmith entirely on your recommendation two years ago. He's sold a lot of pictures during that time. When did you see him last, Saunderson?"

David stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"Let me see--some time before the War--it must have been--more than a year ago."

"Not very grateful," Peter could not help rapping out.

David stopped smoking, and seemed to rouse himself.