Lord Asterisk had returned that evening from London, where he’d attended a dinner at the House of Lords. The dinner had been in honour of General Smuts (for whom I must parenthetically testify my admiration). This name made me think of Joe Dottrell, who was fond of relating how, in the Boer War, he had been with a raiding party which had nocturnally surprised and almost captured the Headquarters of General Smuts. I wondered whether the anecdote would interest Lord Asterisk; but (the ladies having left the table) he was embarking on his customary after-dinner oratory, while the young officer guests sipped their port and coffee and occasionally put in a respectful remark. The old fellow was getting very feeble, I thought, as I watched the wreckage of his fine and benevolent face. He sat with his chin on his chest; his brow and nose were still firm and authoritative. Sometimes his voice became weak and querulous, but he appeared to enjoy rolling out his deliberate parliamentary periods. Talking about the War, he surprised me by asserting the futility of waiting for a definite military decision. Although he had been a Colonial Governor, he was “profoundly convinced of the uselessness of some of our Colonies,” which, he said, might just as well be handed over to the Germans. He turned to the most articulate officer at the table. “I declare to you, my dear fellow” (voice sinking to a mumble), “I declare to you” (louder), “have you any predominating awareness” (pause) “of—Sierra Leone?”
As for Belgium, he invoked the evidence of history to support him in his assertion that its “redemption” by the Allies was merely a manifestation of patriotic obliquity. The inhabitants of Belgium would be just as happy as a German Subject-State. To the vast majority of them their national autonomy meant nothing. While I was trying to remember the exact meaning of the word “autonomy,” he ended the discussion by remarking, “But I’m only an old dotard!” and we pretended to laugh naturally, as if it were quite a good joke. Then he reverted to a favourite subject of his, viz., the ineffectiveness of ecclesiastical administrative bodies. “Oh what worlds of dreary (mumble) are hidden by the hats of our episcopal dignitaries! I declare to you, my dear fellow, that it is my profound conviction that the preponderance of mankind is entirely—yes, most grievously indifferent to the deliberations of that well-intentioned but obtuse body of men, the Ecclesiastical Commissioners!” Slightly sententious, perhaps; but no one could doubt that he was a dear old chap who had done his level best to leave the world in better order than he’d found it.
There were times when I felt perversely indignant at the “cushiness” of my convalescent existence. These reactions were mostly caused by the few letters which came to me from the front. One of Joe Dottrell’s hastily pencilled notes could make me unreasonably hostile to the cheerful voices of croquet players and inarticulately unfriendly to the elegant student of Italian when she was putting her pearl necklace out in the sun, “because pearls do adore the sun so!”
It wasn’t easy to feel animosity against the pleasant-mannered neighbours who dropped in to tea. Nibbling cucumber sandwiches, they conceded full military honours to any officer who had been wounded. They discussed gardening and joked about domestic difficulties; they talked about war-work and public affairs; but they appeared to be refusing to recognize the realities which were implied by a letter from an indomitable Quartermaster in France. “The Battalion has been hard at it again and had a rough time, but as usual kept their end up well—much to the joy of the Staff, who have been round here today like flies round a jam-pot, congratulating the Colonel and all others concerned. I am sorry to say that the Padre got killed. … He was up with the lads in the very front and got sniped in the stomach and died immediately. I haven’t much room for his crowd as a rule, but he was the finest parson I’ve ever known, absolutely indifferent to danger. Young Brock (bombing officer—he said he knew you at Clitherland) was engaging the Boche single-handed when he was badly hit in the arm, side, and leg. They amputated his left leg, but he was too far gone and we buried him today. Two other officers killed and three wounded. Poor Sergeant Blaxton was killed. All the best get knocked over. … The boys are now trying to get to Amiens to do a bit of courting.” Morosely I regarded the Clematis Room. What earthly use was it, ordering boxes of kippers to be sent to people who were all getting done in, while everyone at home humbugged about with polite platitudes? … Birdie Mansfield wrote from Yorkshire; he had been invalided out of the Army. “I’m fed to the teeth with wandering around in mufti and getting black looks from people who pass remarks to the effect that it’s about time I joined up. Meanwhile I exist on my provisional pension (3s. a day). A few days’ touring round these munition areas would give you food for thought. The average conversation is about the high cost of beer and the ability to evade military service by bluffing the Tribunals.”
I looked at another letter. It was from my servant (to whom I’d sent a photograph of myself and a small gramophone). “Thank you very much for the photo, which is like life itself, and the men in the Company say it is just like him. The gramophone is much enjoyed by all. I hope you will pardon my neglect in not packing the groundsheet with your kit.” What could one do about it? Nothing short of stopping the War could alter the inadequacy of kippers and gramophones or sustain my sense of
