Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 326
The Shake on reading the letter, declared that it was exactly what he wanted and with Oriental gratitude threw round my neck a chain of beaten Persian gold — and only removed it on second thoughts as better sent by Express. Meantime he summoned his scribe, arranged for my papers of passport and transit, gave me an excellent cigar, and declared me free. Next morning a courteous official conducted me to the dock, pointed out my steamer and in saying good-bye, gave me another excellent cigar, making two.
I could see from the busy decks and smoking funnels that the steamer gave every evidence of approaching departure. To my utter surprise the first person I saw as I came up the gangway was Major Boozer. His manner, as I greeted him, was singularly constrained, as was also no doubt my own. Indeed for some time we conversed with a certain malaise, each of us aware of an arrière pensée that set up a gêne. This gêne was only dispelled over a whiskey and soda, which I may say has always had for me an unrivalled power of dispellation against a gêne. It was Boozer who voiced the idea that had arisen in both our minds. ‘Tell me, Allhell, did you give a letter to the Shake?’ ‘I did,’ I answered. ‘So did I,’ said Boozer. ‘Shake!’ After that our friendship was easily cemented over another whiskey and soda, which, as cement, I consider unequalled. I also gave Boozer one of my cigars.
But a further surprise was in store for both of us. Judge of our utter astonishment, and I may add our chagrin, when we learned on coming out on deck again that Professor McTosh was to travel on the same ship. It appeared that he had just arrived from the buried city of Blob. Our first intimation that he was to be a passenger was the sight of a large number of heavily loaded cases being lowered on a winch into the hold. The boxes were all labelled ‘McTosh, Blob to Aberdeen via Hootch and Aden,’ and, from the elaborate markings on them, conveyed the idea of great value. The purser of the ship was checking off the consignment and a group of officers and men were watching the operation with the greatest interest. We inquired if the boxes contained specimens of rocks. The purser laughed and said they were mostly filled with gold and silver cups, jugs and ornaments, together with specimens of early beaten gold. The ship’s manifest placed them at £50,000 sterling, but the sum, he said, was merely nominal. They represented the first result of Professor McTosh’s excavation at Blob.
Major Boozer and I, whatever our resentment at the treachery of McTosh, felt that, as gentlemen, we must conceal our feelings. Indeed, when the Professor presently came on board, we evinced every sign of friendliness, even offering to help him with the transport of his property, and to check over and value for him his gold and silver mugs — in short, to get our hands on them in any way useful. His consistent refusal led to a coolness that lasted throughout the voyage.
A still more embarrassing feature of our life on board ship was the presence of young Charteris. It seemed that he had been picked up by friendly Fusees and carried in safety to Hootch. Delighted though Boozer and I were to see the lad again, we could not but reflect that his return to England would seriously impair our arrangements with his father, Lord Mudloft. Boozer even offered to lend Charteris money to go back to the desert, but all our efforts at conciliation were of no avail.
The return of our expedition to England has given rise to a great deal of misunderstanding and acrimonious controversy. In the first place Lord Mudloft is dissatisfied with the way in which Major Boozer and I carried out our arrangements in regard to his son, and refuses to fulfil his own part of the contract. He admits the necessity of our abandoning Charteris, but claims that we did not abandon him in the proper way. Boozer and I have offered to begin over again and take the lad out to Brazil and abandon him up the Amazon, but the offer is refused. Lord Mudloft, I believe, is now thinking of the Pole as an opening for the boy.
The Royal Geographical Society also has acted in what seems to me a very narrow spirit. They have refused to print my memoirs as not sufficiently geographical, at the very time when the King’s Printer has sent them back to me as not sufficiently Royal. At the same time the Boozers of Hampshire — the well-known Boozers of whom my companion is one — are bringing an action against my using their name in the memoirs. They claim that even if they are Boozers, I have no right to say so, a familiar point of law. Professor McTosh on the other hand has written me a very handsome letter, congratulating Boozer and me on getting out of jail, and refunding a one-and-sixpence overcharge on his Hepatica.
In addition to these personal matters, there has been rather a nasty mess with the Foreign Office in regard to the Shake’s letters of protest. He wants them to remove from his harem the ten teachers that he took from the Compound.
I trust that the appearance of these memoirs will help to put matters right.
MODEL MEMOIRS: No. III
UP AND DOWN DOWNING STREET
or
WHO STARTED THE GREAT WAR?
MEMOIRS OF A WAR DIPLOMAT
(The One Hundredth Set of Such)
The lapse of years has only served to heighten the interest in the question of who started the Great War. Indeed to those of us in inner diplomatic circles — I myself am right in the middle — the thing gets positively feverish.
Only last week a former diplomatic opponent of mine, the ex-Crown Prince Halfwitz of Ratz, came into my office in great agitation, threw himself down on a sofa, and sobbed out, ‘I didn’t start it, I really didn’t.’ That same evening, at a dinner given by the War Office, General Spittitout, of the Roumanian Staff (who was sitting next to me), after saying nothing for nearly half an hour, turned to me quietly and said, ‘I didn’t do it.’ On my other side Field-Marshal Scratch of Bulgaria, who had said less than nothing for more than half an hour, nodded still more quietly and said, ‘I didn’t either.’ The moment might have been an awkward one for such a topic to be raised, but the French Ambassador, sitting opposite, with characteristic tact said, ‘Will you pass across the cucumbers when you’ve done with them?’
The quiet savoir faire, thus exercised to avert an awkward situation, was typical of the courteous diplomatic intercourse of the older school. Frequently by passing cucumbers, or asking for a match, we avoided a European crisis. But, I repeat, to those of us who survive from those exciting days of the great crisis of nearly thirty years ago, the question of who started the war possesses a burning interest, and the continuous publication of memoirs serves only to fan the fire into a flame.
It is the realization of this intense interest which has led me to the publication of these memoirs and with them to divulge the real origins of the Great War. I had intended to keep my lips sealed, and such memoranda as I had written, disclosing what I know of the inner diplomacy that preceded the Great War, were all duly docketed, tied up and sealed, and marked ‘Not to be opened till fifty years after my death.’ But I found this unsatisfactory. Although I had informed the Press that my memoirs were deposited in the Bank of England and would not be disclosed till I had been dead fifty years, it failed to occasion any outcry. Indeed I searched in vain for comment on it, except for a brief note in the English Press under the heading, ‘Commendable Decision,’ and an American item, ‘Will Keep Mouth Shut.’
I found also to my chagrin that my colleague in the Cabinet, Lord X —— , had also deposited his sealed memoirs with the Bank of England, labelled ‘Not to be opened for sixty years,’ that Lord Y —— had gone as far as seventy years and the Duke of Z —— had made it a hundred.
Nor was that all. A number of continental diplomats, our former associates, having now no safe place of their own, entrusted us with their sealed memoirs. Then when the market for memoirs opened, they began divulging them. Prince Scratchitoff, now a refugee but formerly of the Czar’s entourage, keeps telephoning me to know if his memoirs have yet been divulged. It seems that ‘divulged memoirs’ command a good price without waiting fifty years.
It is understood, however, that in divulging these memoirs before their time, I am compelled to preserve as far as possible the seal of confidence as the cloak of anonymity. I necessarily refer to my former Cabinet colleagues as X —— and Y —— and even as A, B, and C — none of which, as the reader easily guesses, corresponds to their names. If I refer to the King of Roumania, I call him simply the K. of R., and the German Kaiser I indicate as the G.K., and so on.
The question is often asked me to what extent did we as a Cabinet know what was going on in Europe? Did we know anything? Or were we as ignorant as we looked? To which I can only answer that we know a great deal, but not as a Cabinet. Readers, unused to diplomatic memoirs, will have to pause over this phrase and get it as best they can: I say, ‘not as a Cabinet.’ The Foreign Office probably knew a great deal that never reached the Colonial Office: while the Colonial Office undoubtedly had information that never got to the Admiralty. On the other hand the Admiralty had on their files secret information that never got off their files and the War Office no doubt had a mass of material that they used for gun wadding. The Home Secretary knew a great deal but had no right to say it.
This system of checks and balances, which has often been called the spirit of British Government, worked admirably. It meant that everybody knew something, somebody knew anything but nobody knew everything. Hence, acting as a Cabinet we knew nothing at all. This gave us a free hand and allowed us to keep an open mind, closing our eyes but having our ear to the ground. But it must not be supposed from my speaking thus of checks and balances that there is implied any division or dissension among us as a Government. Indeed the very contrary was the case. The group of men who formed at that time the Ministry and the diplomatic circle of the Foreign Office, I regard as the most remarkable group of men — not excepting myself — ever gathered together in one Government with me in it. Not only were they signalized by their high intelligence but they worked together like a band of brothers.
Let us speak of them in turn. Lord X —— was a gentleman of the old school with all the culture given by the older universities and the aristocratic circles in which he had been brought up. If there was any fault to be found with him, it was that his brains were ossified and his mind moved so slowly that a man like me couldn’t wait for it. I sometimes wonder, perhaps, whether the older universities have not developed a sort of dry rot of which men like Lord X —— are the result. X —— was a poor speaker, and a very indifferent writer.
Y —— and Z —— , my other two senior colleagues, were also men of commanding intellect. My only criticism of them would be that their minds, though commanding, were small, and their point of view extremely childish, and their experience of life practically nothing. Beyond that, they were invaluable.
G —— was a man of superb genius, but, I must admit, always seemed half asleep. Q —— , at the Exchequer, would have been admirable if he had understood figures. Lord M —— at the Foreign Office was exactly the right man in the right place, but had a very feeble knowledge of geography and couldn’t spell and was deaf. Taken all in all the Cabinet were perhaps the most imposing group that had governed England since Queen Anne.
One naturally asks then why such a group of gifted men could not have prevented the outbreak of the Great War. Surely, it is argued, something could have been done. To which I reply that we did prevent the Great War, again and again, and had been preventing it for twenty years. The quiet tact of old war diplomacy before the War had again and again forestalled what seemed an inevitable outbreak. It is not generally known that the German Ambassador had asked for his passports on the news of the Agadir crisis. Lord Z —— gave a grave nod of acquiescence, and said, ‘What about a Scotch and soda before you go?’ He was still there in the morning. Three or four times the Admiralty were merely waiting to press a button, the Exchequer were all ready to nail up the Bank of England, when a casual invitation to lunch, or the loan of a cigarette, saved Europe. One must realize also that all this time we continued, nominally at any rate, on the most friendly relations not only with the Quai d’Orsay — which went without saying — but with the Ball Platz and the Quirinal and Escurial and even with the Yildiz Kiosk and with others I can’t think of for the moment. Maintaining these foreign relations required a very delicate equilibrium, which was rendered still more unstable by the need of considering also our relations. It was not only the Quai d’Orsay and the Thiergarten that we must consider, but also the Château Laurier at Ottawa, the Nelson Hotel at Cape Town and the Palmer House at Melbourne. We realized that the least shock might shake the Empire to pieces; in fact that the least tap would knock it into fragments. Indeed we felt that nothing held it together but ourselves. With all of these chancelleries we were in constant correspondence, and if at any time one or more of us were fishing in Norway or shooting grouse in Scotland, there were always others to answer his letters. Ultimatums were thus regularly answered by return mail and there was always somebody available who could arrange a modus vivendi over the week-end to prevent an impasse that might lead to a cul-de-sac.
It was the sudden and accidental collapse of this orderly system of diplomatic intercourse that precipitated the War. Those who recall the early summer of 1914 will remember that it was a season of exceptionally beautiful weather; all the world seemed to take holidays by the sea and on the moors. The G.K. was yachting off Norway. The Crown Prince of Serbia was pig-sticking. The President of France was at Vichy drinking Vichy water. The Bavarian Government was at a Bath; the King of Italy was at a circus; while our own Cabinet was scattered through the country, mostly on the moors, but some up the fjords and others on the veldt.
It was under these peculiar circumstances that an ultimatum happened to be sent to Serbia by the Government of Austria. In itself the ultimatum did not differ from a large number of ultimatums sent back and forward in the preceding ten years of crisis. I forget its exact terms, but it stated that unless Serbia was prepared to do so and so within forty-eight hours, Austria would declare war in forty-seven. It spoke of the Serbians as murderers, etc., but not in any offensive way. In the ordinary course of events, Serbia would at least have answered and, even if compelled to reject the ultimatum, would have at least expressed its appreciation of the literary style of the ultimatum and hoped that the rejection of this ultimatum would not prevent the Austrian Government from continuing to submit others.
The case was aggravated by the fact that none of the other governments to whom complimentary copies of the ultimatum had been sent had paid any attention to it. Worse still, no one of them had ‘divulged’ it. The Austrian Government had thus to undergo the supreme humiliation of having its ultimatum unanswered and undivulged, and was compelled to divulge it to the papers itself.
When at last the diplomatic corps returned from their holidays, it was too late to mend matters. A meeting was called at the Foreign Office in the hope of finding a way out, or at least a modus vivendi, accepting the status quo as a res judicata — and then going fishing again. But it transpired at once that the insult to Austria was not to be overlooked. It was in vain that the French Ambassador offered the Austrian plenipotentiary a cigar — a good one, two for ninepence. He merely put it in his pocket and said he would smoke it when he got home. ‘This,’ said Prince Halfwitz of Ratz, ‘means war.’ No one dared contradict him. The Prince, who had been hunting big game in New York, felt that it was all his fault in having left Europe without him for six weeks. ‘Where does Roumania come in?’ asked General Spittitout, at that time Roumanian chargé d’affaires. ‘Wait and see,’ said Lord G —— , ‘we’ll find a place for you on one side or the other.’
The gathering that evening at the Foreign Office was imposing as the last of the great diplomatic parleys conducted with the old world formal courtesy. When we came together again at Versailles the world had changed, the old courtesy gone.
We sat that evening in the famous conference room of the Foreign Office quietly smoking our cigars, with an occasional sip of whiskey and soda, the map of Europe spread out before us. Many of us, myself, I admit, included, wished that we had studied it sooner and to better purpose. It was difficult to make out which were railways and which were rivers. Many of us, I am sure, felt that it was hard to part and to say good-bye to our pleasant diplomatic gatherings. The German Ambassador, as he took his Scotch whiskey and soda, felt that he might not get any more for years.
Yet, as best we could, we had to construct at this brief notice the alignment of the Great War. ‘You had better take Bulgaria,’ the German Ambassador said to the Prime Minister. ‘Let me see where it is,’ he answered. Then he shook his head. ‘Is that where Bulgaria is?’ he continued, ‘No, we can’t take it, unless you’ll take Turkey on your side.’ ‘I suppose we’ll have to,’ the German Ambassador said reluctantly. ‘France,’ interrupted the French plenipotentiary, ‘will take on her side whatever oppressed nations are striving for liberty.’ ‘Give him a sandwich,’ said Lord X —— and saved the situation. Just as the list was complete, Lord M —— , of whom I spoke above, interrupted hurriedly. ‘Haven’t you forgotten Nevada?’ he asked. For a moment there was consternation and a hurried consultation of the map, till a Cabinet member said hesitatingly, ‘It’s in the United States: I’ve been there — at Reno.’
And, as he spoke, Big Ben began tolling the fatal hour. Europe was at war.
MODEL MEMOIRS: No. IV
SO THIS IS THE UNITED STATES
A SIX WEEKS’ THOROUGH SURVEY
As made by
A LECTURER FROM ENGLAND
The desire to visit the United States had been to me for many years a cherished ambition. My admiration for American life and character, which I am glad to set down here and which my publishers are at liberty to use in any way they like, led me to wish for a nearer view of a country which had so deeply impressed me both physically and geographically, as well as financially. Moreover, the increasing vogue of my books in America guaranteed a warm welcome. My American readers were multiplying rapidly; almost every day I received letters which read:
