FullReads

Read aloud a letter just received from Mr. James, which he had been fingering, to show that his informal, epistolary style was identical with that of his recent autobiographical writings, which we had been discussing. “Bennett, of course you should see Arnold Bennett.” Great friend of Walpole’s. “And Mrs. Belloc Lowndes,” said Mr. Walpole, “you really must know her; knows as much about the writing game as any one in England. I’ll write those three letters to-night.”

Suddenly he asked me if I were married. “All Americans are,” was his comment. He had to be going. Some stupid affair, he said, for the evening. We walked together around into the Strand. “Well, good-bye,” said Mr. Walpole, extending his hand, “I’ve got to beat it now.”

There was an awesome sort of place where Thackeray went, you remember, where he was scared of the waiters. This probably was not the Reform Club, as he was very much at home there and loved the place. However, just the outside of this “mausoleum” in Pall Mall scared Mr. Hopkinson Smith, who had been inside a few clubs here and there, and who spoke, in a sketch of London, of its “forbidding” aspect, “a great, square, sullen mass of granite, frowning at you from under its heavy browed windows–an aloof, stately, cold and unwelcome sort of place.”

An aristocratic functionary, probably a superannuated member of Parliament, placed me under arrest at the door, and in a vast, marble pillared hall I was held on suspicion to await the arrival of Mr. Belloc.

A large, brawny man he is, with massive shoulders, a prizefighter’s head, a fine, clean shaven face and a bull neck. Somehow he suggested to me–though I do not clearly remember the picture–the portrait of William Blake by Thomas Phillips, R.A., in the National Portrait Gallery, frequently reproduced in books.

He gives your hand a hearty wrench, turns and strides ahead of you into another room. You–and small boys in buttons, with cards and letters on platters, to whom he pays no attention–trot after him. A driving, forceful, dominating character, apparently. Looks at his watch frequently. Perpetually up and down from town, he says, and continually rushing about London. Keen on the job, evidently, all the while.

He does not know how far you are acquainted with England; “there is a wonderful lot of things to be seen in the island.” Tells you all sorts of unusual places to go; how, somewhere in the north, you can walk along a Roman wall for ever so long, “a wonderful experience.” Makes your head spin, he knows so much that you never thought of about England.

Discussing a tremendous meeting later on, where all the literary nobility of London are to be with you, he follows you down the steps when you go. Later forgets, in the crush of his affairs, all about this arrangement. Then sends you telegrams and basketfuls of letters of apology, with further invitations.

“Here you are, sir! All the winners! One penny.” This had been the cry of the news lads but the week before.

“England to fight! Here you are, sir. Britain at war!” suddenly they began to yell through the streets.

It was not an hour now, I felt, to trouble Englishmen with my petty literary adventures. Also, I became a refugee, to some extent. And, well–I “beat it” back ‘ome again. This was the only way I knew, as a neutral (then), to serve the countries at war.