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Marge Askinforit
by
But to return to Gladstone. I wrote down every precious word of my conversation with him at the time, and the eager and excited reader may now peruse it in full.
GLADSTONE: Lady Bilberry at home?
MARGE: Yes, sir.
GLADSTONE: Thanks.
MARGE: What name, please?
He gave me his name quite simply, without any attempt at rudeness or facetiousness. I should say that this was typical of the whole character of the man. With a beautiful and punctilious courtesy he removed his hat–not a very good hat–on entering the house. I formed the impression from the ease with which he did this that the practice must have been habitual with him.
The only thing that mars this cherished memory is that it was not the Gladstone you mean, nor any relative of his, but a gentleman of the same name who had called to see if he could interest her ladyship in a scheme for the recovery of some buried treasure. He did not stay long, and Lady Bilberry said I ought to have known better.
About this time I received by post a set of verses which bear quite a resemblance to the senile vivacity of the verses which the real Gladstone addressed to my illustrious example of autobiographical art. The verses I received were anonymous, and as a matter of fact the postmark on the envelope was Beaconsfield. Still, you never know, do you?
MARGE.
When Pentonville’s over and comes the release,
With a year’s supervision perhaps by the p’lice,
Your longing to meet all your pals may be large,
But make an exception, and do not ask Marge.
She’s Aspasia, Pavlova, Tom Sayers, Tod Sloan,
Spinoza, and Barnum, and Mrs. Chapone;
For a bloke that has only just got his discharge,
She’s rather too dazzling a patchwork, is Marge.
Never mind, never mind, you have got to go slow,
One section a year is the most you can know;
If you study a life-time, you’ll jest on the barge
Of Charon with madd’ningly manifold Marge.
By the way, whenever we change houses a special pantechnicon has to be engaged to take all the complimentary verses that have from time to time been addressed to me. Must be a sort of something about me somehow, don’t you think?
I cannot pretend that I was on the same terms of intimate friendship with Mr. Lloyd George. I spoke to him only once.
It was when we were in Downing Street. There was quite a crowd of us there, and it had been an evening of exalted and roseate patriotism. I gazed up at the window of No. 10 and said, as loudly as I could:
“Lloyd George! Lloyd George!”
Most of the others in the crowd said the same thing with equal force. Then an uneducated policeman came up to me and asked me to pass along, please, adding that Mr. Lloyd George was not in London. So, simply replying “All right, face,” I passalongpleased.
However, in spite of all that bound me so closely to the great political world, I could not help feeling the claims of literature. I am sensitive to every claim. It is the claim of history, for example, that compels me to write my autobiography. I seem to see all around me a thousand human arts and activities crying for my help and interest. They seem to say “Marge, Marge, more Marge!” in the words that Goethe himself might have used. And whenever I hear the call I have to give myself.
I doubt if any girl ever gave herself away quite as much as I have done.
One day in November I met Chummie Popbright in the neighbourhood of Cambridge Circus. He was a man with very little joie de vivre, ventre a terre, or esprit de corps. He had fair hair and no manners, and was very, very fond of me. He held a position in the Post Office, and was, in fact, emptying a pillar-box when I met him. I record the conversation.