CIRCULAR SAWS

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Verse

LONDON SONNETS SHYLOCK REASONS WITH MR. CHESTERTON

CIRCULAR SAWS

By Humbert Wolfe

LONDON CHAPMAN & HALL LTD. 1923

Printed in England at The Westminster Press 411a Harrow Road, London, W.9

THREE or four of these tales have appeared in The Weekly Westminster Gazette and The Chapbook. The author’s thanks are due for permission to reprint them here. Thanks are also due to the Editor of The Saturday Review for permission to republish the verses in the story called “Dis Aliter Visum.”

[vi]

I WASTE NOT, WANT NOT

WHEN Haroun-al-Raschid (of whom I have told you before, and if I haven’t it is only because I have forgotten) was having a bath they wouldn’t let him splash. “By the beard of Allah,” he observed mildly to the Vizier, who was standing by with his favourite celluloid duck (guaranteed to float), “this is preposterous. Cannot the Commander of the Faithful splash a little water? What’s the good of being a King, that’s what I say?” “Sire,” replied the Vizier, handing him the celluloid duck, “the higher, the fewer the pleasures of life. And remember in season the saying, ‘Waste not, want not.’”

The following day torrential rains of unprecedented severity visited Bagdad, sweeping away houses and gardens and drowning, among others, in circumstances of peculiar discomfort, the Grand Vizier. “Well,” said Haroun, splashing in his bath (and hitting the opposite wall, mind you), “that only shows.”

II LOOKING FOR A NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK

MR. ARTHUR BENACRES—the celebrated philanthropist—suffered in private life the inconvenience of being an ostrich. This was due to the act of a rather deaf fairy friend of the family, who mistook an observation on the weather (addressed to him by a conversational curate at the christening) for a request for feathers.

This, as you suppose, caused Mr. Benacres some difficulty, and led him to consider methods of escape. For though it was agreeable to be able to subsist on odd scraps of broken rubbish, and to dig with his head (instead of a spade) in the nice clean sand, people did make a fuss on the Underground and at parties.

Till at last another fairy friend of the family, who was neither deaf or blind, said: “Why don’t you go into Parliament? Then nobody will notice.” And they didn’t.

III ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

ONCE upon a time there was a princess whose mother would not buy her an umbrella. This was due to the wicked incompetence of the Prime Minister of that country, who, having no children of his own, spent all his money on swords instead of umbrellas. (Yes, I know swords are nicer generally, but these weren’t; besides they were two-edged.) Moreover, her mother went and bought her a most unbecoming mackintosh—the sort that cuts your chin. And so, as it was raining all the time (for this princess lived at Kilcreggan in Dumbartonshire), she asked to be turned into a frog or a toad, because they didn’t need umbrellas, and their mackintoshes fit at the neck.

Well, she was, and then she found that being a frog she couldn’t use her scooter, or read “Antony and Cleopatra” to her mother, or go into Kensington Gardens with her father. (No! Kensington Gardens isn’t at Kilcreggan, but this is a fairy princess, and so it doesn’t matter.) So she unwished[4] herself, and she was a princess, and she had no umbrella and a mackintosh that didn’t fit at the neck. But it was a drought.[A] So all’s well that ends well.

[A] A drought is when it doesn’t rain at all. The scene of the story has been shifted from Scotland.

IV FAINT HEART NEVER WON FAIR LADY

MISS JUNE MORTIFEX was most beautiful—yes, and more beautiful than that. So that when she looked out of the window the Meteorological Department in Exhibition Road, Kensington, over the Post Office, said: “The westerly depression over London is now moving rapidly northward with a southern twist,” which means nothing, and only shows how excited they all were.

But on account of her very exceptional beauty everybody was afraid of marrying her because they said “She would cost a King’s Hansom,” and owing to the increase in the number of motor taxicabs nobody had one about them.

So one day she blacked her face and assuming a Mid-Victorian Cockney accent went down Piccadilly singing the well-known ditty:

[6]

As may be supposed, this remarkable revival aroused the interest of a distinguished literary critic, who, recognising merit, even under an unpromising exterior, offered his hand, shortly after followed by his heart. “But, Edward,” whispered June, “I am not what I seem.” “You couldn’t be,” he answered triumphantly, “the Victorians never were.”

And with that he walked into St. George’s, Hanover Square, and ordered three of the best banns they had. And he gave her as a bridal gift the collected works of Mr. Edmund Gosse, for he was not faint-hearted.

V TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION

IT’S no good pretending that Petronella Gibbs was a good princess. For one thing, she was always asking questions. And if the nurses didn’t know the answer they were instantly beheaded. With the result that there was an unprecedented shortage in the supply of domestic labour. The Queen, her mother, indeed remarked to a friend of hers, another Queen living in the palace opposite, that “she never.” You may suppose therefore that things had reached a crisis.

But did Petronella care? She did not care. She could do without nurses, thank you. On the contrary, she decided to start answering questions. For instance. For a long time all the best people had wanted to know “Who’s Who.” And a very large and important book had been written about it. Petronella wrote as follows:

[8]This, which was the obvious solution, created considerable consternation. The Queen—her mother—had a long consultation with the King—her father—on his return from the Royal Exchange, where he kept his bulls, bears and hyenas, and remarked, “I never.” But the King only laughed. That is why so many women are Republicans.

At last Petronella became so celebrated that the King of America, colloquially known as the President of the United States, asked for her hand in marriage. He and his subjects had been guessing so long that they thought that the time had come to find someone who knew.

The flattering offer was accepted by her royal parents, and Petronella, with great pomp and ceremony, embarked. Upon her arrival she was met by the leading citizens, who asked her, “What do you think of America?” “I don’t,” she replied, which was the right answer. At which they, being accustomed to the latter, and never previously having met the former, exclaimed, “Truth is stranger than fiction,” and adding, “not half so true either,” asked her with tears in their eyes to return where they asserted she[9] belonged. Which she did. And both she and the King of America lived happily ever after.

VI A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD SMELL AS SWEET

WHEN Arthur Nobbs was a little boy he believed in fairies. If, for example, he ate part of his sister’s jam (as he constantly did), he assured her that the fairies would put it back. And if they didn’t, well that was because she didn’t believe in them.

When he grew older and became a business man he naturally continued to entertain that belief. When he was successful (as he generally was) in his business transactions, he ascribed his success to the fairies, though the persons he so continuously and cleverly ruined thought that he had got the name wrong.

One day he met a starving sculptor whose father he had been able to put out of business. “What are these horrible objects that you have in your tray?” he asked severely. “These,” said the sculptor, “are the seven fairies in which you believe.” “But,” objected Mr. Nobbs, “they are labelled ‘The Seven Deadly Sins,’ and they look it.” “Oh,”[11] said the sculptor, “the title is only a matter of taste.” “You are an impostor, sir,” exclaimed Mr. Nobbs; “but fortunately we are in a law-abiding country.” And he gave the young man in charge for seeking to obtain money by false pretences.

But you will be glad to learn that Arthur Nobbs was subsequently raised to the peerage and died universally beloved and respected, and on his tombstone they carved the simple phrase:

“He believed in fairies.”

VII A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE IS A DANGEROUS THING

THE father of Miss Liddell was favourably known to the general public as the man who had written to the public prints during a strike a bold letter beginning: “Sir,—Let all strikers be shot. Then let ...” and again during a lock-out an equally bold letter with the following introduction: “Sir,—Let all employers be shot. Then let ...” (It is believed that it is from this use of “let” in public correspondence that the word “letter” is derived.)

Miss Liddell, therefore, naturally objected to the fact that the Prince, over whose education she presided, disliked the manly game of football. “Don’t you know,” she would say from time to time, “what Wellington said about the playing fields of Eton?” “No,” the Prince used to reply, “who was Wellington? One of those professional footballers one reads about in their newspapers?” “Certainly not,” Miss Liddell was wont to reply. “He was a great general who beat the[13] French.” “What did he do that for?” the Prince would ask. “Because they were his country’s enemies.” “Ah!” the Prince would say, “but I thought the French were England’s friends.” “So they are now,” Miss Liddell would say. “And did Wellington beat them because of football?” the Prince would inquire. “Wellington said so,” Miss Liddell (slightly flushed) would reply.

“Will you give me my paint-box?” the Prince would murmur politely.

VIII TWO WRONGS DO NOT MAKE A RIGHT

LISTEN. This is quite a new story. It is about a swan that wished he was an ugly duckling again. He was one of those two swans who stand at the edge of the Round Pond, have black feet and holes to put tape through in their beaks. Only they won’t let you put tape through.

What he said was (quite simply), “Liberty, Equality and Fraternity.” To which his mate said, “Then why do you always eat more than your share?” But the other swan was an idealist and took no notice.

He summoned a public meeting of the ducks after closing-time, and having elected himself to the chair after rather a protracted argument with a pertinacious old drake, told his audience that he was a duck at heart. “What is beauty,” he went on to say, “that it should put one on a lonely eminence. The exquisite shape of the swan, his girl-like neck, what right to rule do these confer?” “None,” said the old drake, heartily. “Did you say[15] beauty?” said a young female duck, bridling her feathers. “Why you poor old antic, if you knew how we ducks sympathised with you on your deformity!”

But this was a little too much for the swan. “I did not come here to be insulted,” he said hotly, “by a brood of blasphemous pond-puddlers. Are you aware that the Great Swan made swans in his image?” “And are you aware,” said the old drake, “that the swans retorted by making him in theirs?”

“Well,” said his mate to the rather draggled swan who returned about midnight, “how did you get on?” “Get on,” he screamed, “those ducks think that equality means that I’m equal with them.” “And doesn’t it?” “Certainly not,” said the swan, tucking his head under his wings, “it means that they’re equal with me.” “And what’s more,” he said with sudden truculence as he emerged for a moment, “a swan’s a swan for a’ that.”

IX BUSINESS IS BUSINESS

THE electric bell had rung for the fourth time, when the door was opened by an agreeable young man dressed in the height of fashion.

“Who are you?” he inquired in the amiable tone of one who begins an interesting conversation.

“I’m the Milk,” retorted the young man with the cans a little shortly, for he was not pleased at being so long delayed.

“Will you not come in one moment?” the young householder retorted. “I have within the butcher, the grocer and the baker, and I have long desired to add you to the list of my visitors.”

The young milkman (still carrying his heavy can) followed the polite young gentleman into a fine, lofty room. The whole was arranged with exquisite taste, and many deep rugs indicated a luxurious vein in the young man’s character. At the further end of the room, arranged neatly in an isosceles triangle (for the baker was much shorter than the[17] other two), were the corpses of the butcher, the baker, and the grocer.

“May I inquire,” said the Milk, after surveying the scene in silence for a minute, “why you have killed these three gentlemen?”

“You have the best of rights in the world to ask, and I shall be delighted to explain,” answered the young gentleman courteously. “You must know, then, that I have a speculative interest in the manner in which the smaller British tradesman meets death. I have been much charmed by the experience I have gleaned with the help of my three friends there. The butcher,” he added, pointing smilingly to a discolouration on his forehead, “was the least graceful. And now as I have answered you, perhaps you will allow me to ask you a question?”

“But pray do,” answered the Milk, not to be outdone in courtesy.

“I thank you. I was going to inquire whether you knew any reason why I should not add you to my list.”

“I apprehended,” returned the Milk, “that your question might be something of that sort. I had gone so far as to prepare an answering question.”

[18]“And what might that be?” inquired the young gentleman?

“Why should I not kill you?” retorted the Milk affably.

“There is something in what you say,” exclaimed the young gentleman. “I had not considered the question. Will you give me a minute or two to meditate?”

“I must be about my business, I am afraid,” returned the Milk, quietly bludgeoning the young man as he spoke with his milk can. “Yet how sad it is,” he said reflectively surveying the four corpses, “that speculation must inevitably make way for practical affairs.”

And with that he proceeded to replace the milk he had spilled with water from a neighbouring table.