Shortly afterwards I lunched at a house—a large party, including two Generals. One sitting near me was telling a lady that he and the other General were going to G.H.Q. the next morning for two days. I said: "Sir, don't you want an extra batman with you?" He said: "Have you any business you want to go to France for?" "Yes, sir," said I, "I have a lot of my stuff moved to Boulogne from Amiens, and I want to see to it." He said: "All right, telephone to —— at the War House and he will have your warrant ready and will get your seat for to-morrow morning." Gee! I was excited when I left that lunch, and darted back to my studio and telephoned to the War Office. Everything was arranged. They even telephoned Intelligence (F) that my car was to meet me at Boulogne. That must have been a nasty knock for Intelligence (F), but my faithful Howlett was there with the car when I got off the boat. We went and had lunch at the "Morny," and I saw my stuff was quite safe (p. 072) at the "Windsor Hotel," then I motored off to St. Valery-sur-Somme and visited the Allied Press Chateau (Captain Rudolf de Trafford was now the Chief of the Allied Press, Captain Hale having gone back to his regiment, the Black Watch), and arranged with them that I could get a billet there if I could manage to break down the opposition at Intelligence (F). Then I motored back to the Ecole Militaire at Montreuil, where I was to meet General Sir John Davidson, who was giving me dinner and putting me up. After dinner he had to go and see the Chief at his chateau, and he asked me to go with him. The C.-in-C., as usual, was more than kind, and asked me to dinner the next night. Then I got a bright thought and I asked his A.D.C., Colonel Fletcher, if he would be so kind as to do me a real good turn. He said: "Certainly." So I explained that I wanted him to ring me up at "Bumpherie" (H.Q. Intelligence (F)) at 10 o'clock the next morning, and say the C.-in-C. wanted to know would I dine with him. At 9.15 a.m. the next morning I got down to the little wooden huts which were H.Q. Intelligence (F). There I saw, through the windows in the passage, the two Colonels and Major Lee talking. They saw me all right, but pretended not to, so I walked up and down till a few minutes after 10 a.m., when out came the Major. "Hello, Orpen! is that you? I didn't know you were here." I said cheerfully: "Oh yes, I've been here quite a long time. How are you, old bean? Lovely morning, isn't it?" He said: "Look here, a telephone message has just come through from the C.-in-C. He wants to know if you will dine with him to-night." I said: "A telephone message from the C.-in-C. to me! But why did you come out here?" He said: "To tell you, of course." "But," I said, "you didn't know I was here!" He said: "Answer 'Yes' or (p. 073) 'No.'" "Oh," I said, "answer 'Yes.' I want to fix up with him what date I am coming back to France to work."



That did the trick. Intelligence (F) saw they were beaten. No more opposition! Perfect harmony was established. I at once became "Orps." Drinks were offered, lunches, dinners—any old thing that could be done was "a pleasure."

The dinner at the Chief's was most interesting. Some American Generals were there, and I learnt a lot about how things were going on, and returned to London the next day, and started making arrangements to go back and work in France again.

About this time I received the following from France:—

"Dear Woppy, I am glad that you Will soon be back at G.H.Q., With brushes, paint and turpentine, And canvases fourteen by nine, To paint the British soldier man As often as you may and can. The brave ally, the captive Boche, And Monsieur Clemenceau and Foch; But, on the whole, you'd better not Paint lady spies before they're shot. We're living in the Eastern zone, Between the ——, the ——, the —— (The orders of Sir Douglas Haig Compel me, Woppy, to be vague.) But you can find out where we are And come there in a motor-car. We hold a chateau on a hill . . . . . . . (Censored) A pond with carp, a stream with brill, And perch and trout await your skill. A garden with umbrageous trees Is here for you to take your ease. And strawberries, both red and white, (p. 074) Are there to soothe your appetite; And, just the very thing for you, Sweet landscape and a lovely view. So pack your box and come along And take a ticket for Boulogne. The General is calling me. Yours, till we meet again,

"M. B."



CHAPTER XI (p. 075)

BACK IN FRANCE (JULY-SEPTEMBER 1918)

Early in July I returned to France. My brother had now left me, and was doing regular Army work, and I brought Dudley Forsyth over with me. We stayed in Boulogne a few days till our billets were fixed at St. Valery, and during this time I painted a portrait at "Bumpherie" of Lee, who had then become the boss of Intelligence (F) Section and was Colonel A. N. Lee, D.S.O. Things had changed. "The stream of goodwill, it would turn a mill" at "Bumpherie." "Dear old Orps"—nothing was too good for him. "Do you think you could put in a word for me to ——?" "If —— speaks of the matter to you, just mention my name." Oh yes, the Colonel was really my friend now, and all the underlings appealed to me—and a good friend he has been ever since. Dear old Tuppenny Lee; I hope he'll forgive me writing all this, but he was a bit tough on me that first year, and he knows it jolly well, but he has more than made up for it since by a long chalk. There was only one wrong note in the harmony at "Bumpherie" then, and that was a "Colonel" with a large head and weak legs. He never forgave me—he wasn't that sort of fellow.

St. Valery-sur-Somme is a very pleasant little town at the mouth of the river, and the Allied Press held a nice chateau with a lovely garden. When things were quiet they used to have musical evenings, when Captain Douglas would sing most charmingly, and Captain Holland (p. 076) would play the fool well. Poor Theo! The Boche were at it hard now, and they were bombing all round every night. One night my window and wooden shutters were blown in—four bombs came down quite close. The roar of their falling was terrific. I remember well, after the second had burst, finding myself trying to jamb my head under my bed, but there wasn't room. I was scared stiff.

Soon after this great things happened. The whole world changed—the air became more exhilarating, birds seemed to sing happier songs, and men walked with a lighter step. One great thing happened quickly after another. Ludendorff's black day arrived, and the Boche were driven off the heights of Villers-Bretonneux, and they lost sight of Amiens Cathedral. One day news came that the French had attacked all along the line from Chateau Thierry to Soissons, and had taken four thousand prisoners! It was all wonderful! Any day on the roads then one passed thousands of field-grey prisoners—long lines of weary, beaten men. They had none of the arrogance of the early prisoners, who were all sure Germany would win, and showed their thoughts clearly. No, these men were beaten and knew it, and they had not the spirit left even to try and hide their feelings.

That great French song, "La Madelon de la Victoire," connecting the names of Foch and Clemenceau, was sung with joy, and yet, when sung, tears were never far away—tears of thankfulness! Many have I seen pour down the cheeks of great, strong, brave men at the sound of that song and the tramp of the sky-blue poilus coming along in the glare and dust.

Forsyth had a song which became very popular about this time. The chorus ran:—

"Mary Ann is after me, (p. 077) Full of love she seems to be; My mother says, it's clear to see She wants me for her young man. Father says, 'If that be true, John, my boy, be thankful, do; There's one bigger bloody fool in the world than you— That's Mary Ann.'"



In August I went down South to paint Marshal Foch at Bon Bon. General Sir John Du Cane kindly put me up at the British Mission, which was quite close to the Marshal's chateau, and I had a most interesting week. The morning after I arrived, General Grant brought me over to the Marshal's H.Q., a nice old place. We were shown into a waiting-room, and in a couple of minutes General Weygand (Chief of Staff) came in, a quiet, gentle, good-looking little man. It was impossible to imagine him carrying the weight of responsibility he had at that time. He was perfectly calm, and most courteous, and after talking to General Grant for a few minutes, brought us in to the Marshal. And there was the great little man, deep in the study of his maps, very calm, very quiet. He would certainly sit. How long did I want him for? An hour and a half each day, for four or five days? Certainly. When did I wish to start? The next day? Certainly. He would sit from 7 a.m. to 8.30 a.m. for as many mornings as I wished. Might he smoke while he sat? Yes! Bon! Would I go and look out what room would suit me to work in? Any room I liked except the one I was in with the maps. I fixed up a little library to work in—a long, narrow, dark little place, but with a good light by the window. I got up very early the next morning and arrived there about 6.15 a.m., and as nobody seemed to be about, I walked in, and as the only way I knew (p. 078) how to get to the library was through the room with the maps, I opened its door, and there he was, deep in study. He got up, shook hands, and said he would be with me at 7 a.m. In he came at 7 a.m., very quietly, and sat like a lamb, except that his pipe upset him. It seemed that some of his English friends thought he was smoking too many cigars, and they had given him a pipe and tobacco, and asked him to try and smoke it instead. But up to that date the Marshal was not a star at pipe-smoking. He could light it all right, but after about two minutes it would begin to make strange gurgling noises, which grew louder and louder, till it went out. The next day I brought some feathers and cotton wool, and the Marshal looked on me as a sort of hero, because each time we rested I used to clean out the pipe and dry it.

During all the time he was sitting great battles were going on and the Germans were being driven back. News was brought to him about every ten minutes. If it was good, he would say "Bon!" If it was bad, he just made a strange noise by forcing air out through his lips. During that time the Americans were having their first big "do," and I remember he was very upset at the Boche getting out of the St. Mihiel pocket in the way they did, without being caught.

I remember one morning (the Marshal did not know I understood any French at all) a General came in and sat with him, and the Marshal, very quietly, gave him times, dates, places where battles would be fought up to the end of December 1918, naming the French, British and American Divisions, and so forth, which would be used in each. When I got back to the Mission, I wrote down some dates and places I remembered, but told no one, and, as far as I could judge, everything went exactly as he said it would till about the middle of October, (p. 079) when the Boche really got on the run. Then things went quicker than he expected.



It seemed amazing, the calmness of that old chateau at Bon Bon, yet wires from that old country house were conveying messages of blood and hell to millions of men. What must the little man have felt? The responsibility of it all—hidden in the brain behind those kind, thoughtful eyes. Apparently, his only worry was "Ma pipe." His face would wrinkle up in anger over that. That, and if anyone was late for a meal. Otherwise he appeared to me to be the most mentally calm and complete thing I had ever come across. I would have liked to have painted him standing by his great maps, thinking, thinking for hours and hours. Yes, the three memories I brought away from Bon Bon were maps, calmness, and a certainty that the Allies would be victorious.

While I was there General Grant brought me over to Vaux. What a hall! Surely the most beautiful thing of a private nature in existence, with its blue dome and black eagle at the top.

I left one evening and stopped in Paris that night. There were two air raids, and in the morning I heard Big Bertha for the first time, and when we left about 10 o'clock, just past St. Denis, a Boche 'plane came over to see where the shells were falling.

There was a wonderful service in the Cathedral at Amiens one morning, the first since the bombardment, a thanksgiving for the deliverance of the city from shell-fire. The Boche had been driven further back and the old city was out of shell-range and at peace. It was a lovely morning with a strong breeze, a little sixteenth-century Virgin had been rescued from Albert Cathedral, and it was set up on a pedestal in the middle of the chancel. There was a guard of honour of (p. 080) Australians; birds were flying about above and singing; they had made the interior of the Cathedral their own. Bits of glass kept falling down, and the wind made strange whistling noises through the smashed and battered windows. It was all very impressive. General Rawlinson and his staff came over from Bertangles, a few natives of Amiens came into the town for it, otherwise the whole congregation was British. It was strange! Australian bugles blaring away inside those walls!

I painted Maude and Colonel du Tyl, the brave defenders of the interior of the city during the bombardment, in Maude's cellar in the "Hotel de Ville." General Rogers (then Colonel Rogers) used to come in constantly—a charming man, very calm, with a great sense of humour, and as brave as a lion. His little brother was working under Maude. At that time his little brother was very silent—one could not get a word out of him. Maude used to call him "my little ray of sunshine." Now he is as cheerful a "Bean" as you could wish to find.

The day the Boche were driven out of Albert, General Rogers went there and brought back the story of the cat. When the Tommies got into the town, even through the din, they heard the wailing of a cat in agony, and they found her crucified on a door, so they naturally went to take her down, but as they were pulling the first nail out, it exploded a bomb and many were killed. It was a dirty trick! Yet they who did it may be sitting beside me now in the little Parisian cafe in which I write—it is full of Boche. It's a strange thought, almost beyond understanding.

The light in Maude's cellar was most interesting to paint, and I'm afraid I spent far too long at it, but Maude was a good companion. Things were changing now daily. Instead of feeling the sea just (p. 081) behind one's back, so to speak, each day, it was getting further and further away, and there were fresh fields to explore. I was due officially to leave for Italy, but I couldn't go. Why leave France when wonder after wonder was happening? Hardly a day passed that some glorious news did not come in. No, I couldn't tear myself away from Picardy and the North. I felt that I would feel more out of it in Italy than in London, and now I know I was right. I did not do much in the way of my own work, but I saw and felt things I would never have got down South—things which were felt so much that their impression increases rather than diminishes. It is difficult at times to realise what is happening. Somehow other things keep one from realisation at the moment, but afterwards these other things diminish in importance and the real impression becomes more clearly defined.



I painted General Lord Rawlinson at Bertangles, which was then his headquarters, a charming man with a face full of character. He paints himself, and was good enough to take great interest in the sketch I painted of him. He had a mirror put up so that he could see what I was doing. This wasn't altogether a help to me, because, at times, perhaps when I was painting the half-light on his nose, he would say: "What colours did you mix for that?" By the time I had tried to think out what colours I had mixed—most probably not having the slightest idea—I would have forgotten what part of the head I was painting and what brush I was using. But Bertangles in August was lovely, and the lunches in the tent, even though full of wasps, were excellent. Certainly H.Q. 4th Army was well run.

A little later the H.Q. 4th Army moved to the devastated country close to Villers Carbonelle on the Peronne side. It was a wonderful bit of (p. 082) camouflage work. This great H.Q. just looked like an undulating bit of country even when right up beside it. I remember standing in the middle of it one frosty moonlight night, and it was impossible to believe that there were hundreds of human beings all around me there in the middle of that abomination of desolation.

I also painted Brigadier-General Dame Vaughan Williams of the Q.M.W.A.A.C.'s at her H.Q., St. Valery—a strong-minded, gentle, earnest worker, much loved by those under her. She held a chateau in a large garden and held it well. The mess was excellent.

Some civilians had now come back to Amiens, and it was possible to get a room in the "Hotel de la Paix," so I left St. Valery and came to live there. This hotel escaped better than any other house in Amiens from the shells and bombs. The glass was, of course, broken, and slates knocked off, but that was all, except where little bits had been knocked out of the walls by shrapnel. It was wonderful to be there and watch the town coming to life again week by week.

After a time the Allied Press came and patched up their chateau, or parts of it. Some of the correspondents slept there and some got billets outside. Shops began to open. The Daily Mail came once more, and gradually the streets filled with people, these streets, the pavements of which were now more hostile than ever. Even a few of the girls came and settled there—"early birds."

That sweet, natural woman, Sister Rose, had remained in Amiens all through the bombardment, and when the people began returning, she was asked one day: "Are not you pleased, Sister Rose, to have the people round you again?" To which she replied: "Yes, of course I am in some ways, but I loved the bombardment. I felt the whole city was mine, (p. 083) each street became very intimate, and I could walk through them and pray out loud to my God in peace. But now! why, if I prayed to my God in the streets of Amiens they would think me a damned lunatic!" I can understand her very human feeling at that time—people who had run away from the city in its agony returned when its tribulation was over, and claimed it as their own again when the calm of evening had come; while she, Sister Rose, had borne the burden and heat of the day. But this feeling soon left her, and she worked whole-heartedly once more to succour the poor in distress in the city she loved so well.



CHAPTER XII (p. 084)

AMIENS (OCTOBER 1918)

The nights were very black, there being no lights in the streets at all.

A little later Maude left his billet on the Abbeville Road, and came to live with me in the "Hotel de la Paix." One night we were dining there, and at about 8.45 p.m. a young Flying Officer left a friend and came and asked Maude if we would come to their table and have a drink with them. Maude said Yes, and the lad went back to his table. "Who is your friend?" said I. "I don't know," Maude replied. "They asked me for ten minutes' extension of time last night, and I gave it to them." Presently we went over to their table and they ordered a round of the deadly brandy of the hotel. Maude introduced me as Major Sir William Orpen, and I learnt that their names were Tom and Fred. After a couple of minutes Tom wanted to ask me something, and he started off this way: "By the way, Sir William——" "A little less of your damned Sir William!" said I. "All right," said he, "don't get huffy about it, bloody old Bill." So naturally we all became friends, and we mounted the stairs to my room, and the bar was opened and Tom recited. Fred insisted on it. "But," said Tom, "you always cry, Fred, when I recite." "It doesn't matter, Tom," said Fred, "I like it." So Tom recited and Fred cried, and Maude and I looked on and wondered and (p. 085) drank "Spots." They left about 11 o'clock to drive back to the aerodrome in an old ambulance they had in the yard. At about 7 a.m. the next morning I was awakened by a violent knocking at my door, so I shouted: "Come in," and in came Tom and Fred. They both walked over and sat on my bed. "What on earth are you here at this hour of the morning for?" I asked. "That's just what we've come here to find out, bloody old Bill," said Tom. "Are you hurt, Bill?" "No," said I. "Why?" "No furniture broken, no damage done to the room, Bill?" "No," said I. "Why?" "Well, look here, Bill, it's like this," said Tom. "Fred and I are puzzled as to exactly what happened. Fred, tell him what happened to you, and then I'll tell him about myself."

Fred rubbed his chin and started: "Well, Bill, the first thing I remember was that I found myself walking along a country road, and I met a M.P. man. Said I: 'Can you please direct me to the Gare du Nord?' 'Straight on,' said he, 'and you'll find it on your left. It's about a twenty-minute walk.' So I went straight on, and sure enough I came to the Gare du Nord, and I came on here and found Tom juggling with the wheel of the old ambulance with its radiator against the wall." "Yes," said Tom, "and look here, bloody old Bill, I had spent half the night juggling with death with that wheel—thank goodness the engine wasn't going. Then Fred woke me up. What do you make of it all, Bill?" I couldn't make anything of it, so I dressed and we had breakfast and they went off to their aerodrome in the Somme mud.

After this we became great friends and we had many happy evenings, (p. 086) in some of which Tom looked for a "spot of bother," and Fred warned him "it was a bad show." On "good nights for the troops," which meant that the weather was impossible for bombing (they were night-bombers), they would come into Amiens for dinner. These nights were "not devoid of attraction," and on the "bad nights for the troops" I would often dine at the aerodrome and see the raiders off. It was uncanny, these great birds starting off into the blackness—to what?

Tom and Fred lived together in a little hut in the Somme mud, off the Peronne Road, which they called "Virtue Villa," and when I worked anywhere away up this old East-West Road, I never could resist visiting "Virtue Villa" on the way back. "Virtue Villa" with its blazing stove, its two bunks—Tom's below, Fred's upstairs—its photographs (especially the one of Fred with the M.C. smile), the biscuit-box seats and the good glasses of whisky—truly "Virtue Villa," with its Tom and Fred, was not "devoid of attraction" on a cold October evening, with the rain splashing on the water in the old Somme shell-holes.

They were a great couple and devoted to each other. One could not eat, drink or be merry without the other, yet they were completely different. Fred was a calm, thoughtful English boy, very much in love and longing to get married; but Tom was just a heap of fun, a man who had travelled to many corners of the earth, but at heart was still a romping school-boy.

About this time George Hoidge's squadron came to a place near Albert, and I had the pleasure of seeing Colonel Bloomfield there again, still as hearty and full of fire as ever. He was going to sit, but things began to happen too quickly then, and I never got a chance of (p. 087) painting him.



Some weeks later, Hoidge came in and said: "I have bad news for you, Orps. Tom and Fred have gone West." It was bad news. Tom and Fred, two gallant hearts, dead! I was told afterwards how it happened. One of the last days of the fighting, Fred went out to test his machine with his mechanic. He taxied off down the aerodrome, which was a huge old Boche one that his squadron had moved forward to. As he was taxi-ing he hit a Boche booby trap, planted in the ground, and up went the machine and fell in flames. The mechanic was thrown clear, but not Fred. Poor Tom saw it all from the door of "Virtue Villa." Out he rushed straight into the flames to Fred. I feel sure Fred's spirit cried out when it saw Tom coming in to the flames: "You're looking for a spot of bother, Tom, but it's a good show, Tom, a good show!"

When the petrol burnt out and they got to them, they found Tom with his arms round Fred. Greater love hath no man. That is how Tom and Fred "went West." I hope they have found another "Virtue Villa" not "devoid of attraction" high up in the blue sky, where they were often together in this life. Let us admit they were a "good show"—in death they were not divided. Their Major wrote to me: "The Mess has never been the same since." The world itself will never be the same to those who loved Tom and Fred and their like who have "gone West."

Thinking of them reminds me of those good lines by Carroll Carstairs, written in hospital after he was so badly wounded:—

"I have friends among the dead, (p. 088) Such a gallant company, Lads whose laugh is scarcely sped To the far country.

"Jolly fellows, it would seem That they have not really gone— Rather while I've stayed to dream They have marched serenely on."



THE CHURCH, ZILLEBEKE (p. 089)

OCTOBER 1918

"Mud Everywhere— Nothing but mud. The very air seems thick with it, The few tufts of grass are all smeared with it— Mud! The Church a heap of it; One look, and weep for it. That's what they've made of it— Mud! Slimy and wet, Churned and upset; Here Bones that once mattered With crosses lie scattered, Broken and battered, Covered in mud, Here, where the Church's bell Tolled when our heroes fell In that mad start of hell— Mud! That's all that's left of it—mud!"



CHAPTER XIII (p. 090)

NEARING THE END (OCTOBER 1918)

The Boche were now nearly on the run. I remember one day I went out with General Stuart and Colonel Angus McDonnell—the General was the railway expert, and was out to ascertain what amount of damage the Boche had done to the lines, permanent way, etc. General Stuart was a quaint little man. He seldom spoke, but when he did it was very much to the point and full of dry humour. The Hon. Angus McDonnell, a true Irishman, was a most attractive person, full of charm. He'd kissed more than the Blarney Stone, and had received all the good effects, and we had some most interesting days together. On the particular one I mention, we went away beyond Cambrai to a place called Caudry, where the General inspected the station and the general damage to the metals and permanent way, after which we left and lunched by the side of a road which ran through fields. All was peace, not a sound from the guns—when suddenly shrapnel started bursting over these fields. No one was in sight; a few Englishmen on horseback galloped past, apparently for exercise. The Boche, I presume, couldn't see, but just let off on chance. It was better than leaving the shells there for us.

After lunch we motored down to St. Quentin, and on the way stopped and explored the great tunnel in the Canal du Nord. What a stronghold! It seemed impossible that the Boche could have been driven out of it. (p. 091) On the way down we travelled along a road pave in the middle, with mud on each side and the usual rows of trees, then a dip down to the fields. These fields were full of dead Boche and horses. The road had evidently been under observation a very little while back, as the Labour Corps were hard at work filling in shell-holes, and the traffic was held up a lot. In one spot in the mud at the side of the road lay two British Tommies who had evidently just been killed. They had been laid out ready for something to take them away. Standing beside them were three French girls, all dressed up, silk stockings and crimped hair. There they were, standing over the dead Tommies, asking if you would not like "a little love." What a place to choose! Death all round, and they themselves might be blown into eternity at any moment. Death and the dead had become as nothing to the young generation. They had lived through four years of hell with the enemy, and now they were free. Another day I went to Douai, and there I saw the mad woman. Her son told us she had been quite well until two days before the Boche left, then they had done such things to her that she had lost her reason. There she sat, silent and motionless, except for one thumb which constantly twitched. But if one of us in uniform passed close to her, she would give a convulsive shudder. It was sad, this woman with her beautiful, curly-headed son. Later she was moved to Amiens, where she had relatives. After about six months she became quite normal again, and does not remember anything about it. The last time I saw her she was cleaning the upstairs rooms at "Josephine's," the little oyster-shop off the Street of the Three Pebbles.



One night at the "Hotel de la Paix" a weird thing happened. One (p. 092) often hears strange stories of the powers different men and women have over individuals of the opposite sex. As a rule, one hears, one smiles, or one is rather disgusted; but seldom do we admit to ourselves that these stories may be absolutely true—we nearly always smile and think we are clever, and say to ourselves: "Ah! there's something behind that." Rasputin, for instance, what was he? Had he power? We wonder a little and dismiss the thought.

On this night, at about 9 o'clock, the early diners had gone, but there were about thirty of us left who would testify to the truth of this tale. A man walked in and sat down at a large empty table. He was a French civilian, dressed in black, tall and slim, with an enormous brown beard—a "Landru." Marie Louise, one of the serving-girls, asked him what he required, and he said: "A glass of Porto." This she brought him, but as she was placing it on the table, he put out his hand and touched her arm, and let his fingers run very gently up and down it. He never spoke a word. She retired and returned with another glass of port, and sat down beside him and commenced to drink it; no word was uttered. Again he raised his hand, beckoned to another serving-girl; the same act was gone through, and she sat down with her port. This continued without a word of conversation until he had all the serving-girls, about eight of them, sitting round in silence. We all sat and looked on in amazement for a while, but after about ten minutes hunger got the better of us, and we started calling them for our food. They took not the slightest notice of us, but in the end we made so much noise that Monsieur Dye, the manager of the hotel, came in. He was a hot-tempered man, who never treated the girls under him kindly, and when he saw and heard his customers shouting for food, and saw all his serving-girls sitting down drinking port, his face went (p. 093) black with rage, and he rushed over to their table and cursed them all roundly, but they took not the slightest notice. Then he turned on the man with the beard and ordered him out of the hotel. He never answered, but got up slowly, put on his hat and left. As soon as he rose from the table all the girls went back to their work as if nothing had happened, and we continued our dinner. It was a strange affair—not one of those girls remembered anything about it afterwards.



Again I went to Cassel, to paint General Plumer. I arrived there one evening, and had dinner with Major-General Sir Bryan Mahon, who was on his way to Lille. I woke up in the morning, got out of bed and collapsed on the floor. "'Flu!" After three days the M.O. said I must go to hospital. I said: "Hospital be damned! I'm going to paint to-morrow." So I wrote and told General Plumer I would work the next morning if he could spare the time to sit. He replied he could. So on a very cold morning I made my way rather giddily up the stone steps to the Casino and on to his little chateau. There I was met by the General's grand old batman. He stopped me and said: "Have you come to paint the Governor's portrait, sir?" "Yes," said I. "Well," said he, "let me have a look at you. You're feeling a bit cheap, ain't you? The Governor told me you've been having the 'flu'." "Yes," I said, "I'm not feeling up to much." "Well, now," said he, "the Governor is busy for the moment, but he told me to look after you and fix up what room you would like to work in, but first I want to get you a bit more up to scratch. Just come along and have a glass of port." So he brought me off and gave me an excellent glass. Then I chose the General's bedroom to work in, and we fixed everything up. Then he said: "Now (p. 094) I'll go and fetch the old man." Off he went and back he came, and with a wink, said: "He's coming," and in walked the General. A strange man with a small head, and a large, though not fat, body, and a great brain full of humour. He also was very calm, and made things very easy for me, but his batman was not so easy to please. When I got the General the way I wanted him, the batman leant over my shoulder, and said: "Is the Governor right now?" "Perfectly," I replied. "No, he ain't," said he, "not by a long chalk." And he went over to the General and started pulling out creases in his tunic and said: "'Ere, you just sit up proper—not all 'unched up the way you are. What would Her Ladyship say if I let you be painted that way?" At last we got him satisfied, and he departed. When the door was shut, the General said: "Well, that's over," and settled down in comfort.

After I had worked for about an hour and a half there was a knock at the door and in the batman came. He took no notice of the General, but laid his hand on my shoulder and said: "Look up at me." I obeyed. "Won't do," said he. "You wants keeping up to the mark," and retired, and came back with an enormous glass of port. When the sitting was finished, I went back to bed at the "Sauvage," very giddy and slightly muzzed.

The next morning the batman again arranged the General "to Her Ladyship's liking," and left. As soon as he had gone, the General said: "We've got him on toast. He's worried to death because you haven't painted the gold leaves on my red tab. Don't do it till the very last thing." It worked splendidly. The old chap was really upset. Every hour he used to come in and tap me on the shoulder, point to the red tab, and say: "What about it? If you don't get them gold leaves (p. 095) proper, I'll get it from Her Ladyship." He was a great servant of the true old class, one of those who never lose their place, no matter how freely they are treated, and was ready to die for his master at any minute.



Soon after this the General and his staff moved forward, and Cassel became a dead little place as far as the Army was concerned. Things were going very quickly, and scarcely a day passed that one could not mark a new front line on one's map.

I went out to see the damage done to Bailleul. In a few days British artillery had flattened it out as badly as Ypres. One could hardly find out where the main Place had been. Now one could wander all over the Ypres salient. Was there ever a more ghastly place? Even the Somme was outdone. Mud, water, battered tanks, hundreds of them, battered pillboxes, everything battered and torn, with Ypres like a skeleton. The Menin Road, the Zonnebeke Road, what sights were there—mangled remains of superhuman effort!

I remember one day in the summer being down at Lord Beaverbrook's when news came in that Locre had fallen. I had no knowledge of Locre, but Lord Beaverbrook, I could see, felt that the loss of it was a very serious thing. So I went to see Locre—a ghastly place!—the fighting must have been terrific. Shell-holes full of dead Germans. Everything smashed to pulp. I should imagine, before Hell visited it, Locre must have been a very pretty little place. It is on a hill which looks down into a valley, with Mont Kemmel rising up the other side.

Suddenly my blood poisoning came on again badly, so I returned to Amiens on November 10. When we had just passed Doullens we got the (p. 096) news that the Kaiser had abdicated. Great excitement prevailed everywhere. The next day, at 11 a.m., I was working in my room and heard guns, so I went to the window and saw the shells bursting over the town, but I could not see the Boche 'plane. It must be very high, I thought. About ten minutes afterwards there was a sound of cheering, so I knew the fighting was over. I went again to the window and looked down into the courtyard. It was empty, except for one serving-girl, Marthe, who had her apron to her face and was sobbing bitterly. Presently, Marie-Louise came up to my room and told me the news, and we had a drink together in honour of the great event. Said I: "What has happened to poor Marthe? It is sad that she should be so upset on this great day. What is the matter?" "Ah!" said Marie-Louise, "it is the day that has upset her." "The day?" said I. "Yes," replied Marie-Louise, "you see, her husband will come out of the trenches now and will come back to her. C'est la Guerre!"

Later, Maude came in, and I asked him what on earth a Boche was doing over Amiens just at the moment the fighting ceased. "Oh," said Maude, "there wasn't any Boche, but the anti-aircraft chap got orders to fire off his guns for ten minutes when the Armistice was signed, but, as he had nothing but live shells, he thought he had better stop after two." But why he burst his shells right over the centre of the town was never explained.

Yet, on this day, looked forward to for years, I must admit that, studying people, I found something wrong—perhaps, like all great moments expected, something is sure to fall short of expectations. Peace was too great a thing to think about, the longing for it was too real, too intense. For four years the fighting men had thought of (p. 097) nothing except that great moment of achievement: now it had come, the great thing had ceased, the war was won and over. The fighting man—that marvellous thing that I had worshipped all the time I had been in France—had ceased actively to exist. I realised then, almost as much as I do now, that he was lost, forgotten. "Greater love hath no man"—they had given up their all for the sake of the people at home, gone through Hell, misery and terror of sudden death. Could one doubt that those at home would not reward them? Alas, yes! and the doubt has come true. It made me very depressed. The one thing these wonderful super-men gave me to think that evening was: "What shall we do? Will they do as they promised for us? I gave up all my life and work at home and came out here to kill and be killed. Here I am stranded—I cannot kill anyone any more, and nobody wants to kill me. What am I to do? Surely they will give me some job: I have done my bit, they can't just let me starve." "When you come back home again"—yes, that crossed their minds and mine for them. Wending my way home through the blackened streets that night, I met a Tommy who threatened to kill me because of his misery. I talked him down and brought him to my room, and told him I really believed he would have a great time in the future. I doubted what I said, but he believed me, and went off to his billet happy for that one night.



Could anyone forecast the tragedy that has happened to so many of these men since? That great human Field-Marshal, Lord Haig, the man who knows, works for them still, and asks—but who answers? Great God! it makes one think, remember, think and wonder, what impossibly thankless people human beings are. It is sad, but very, very true!



CHAPTER XIV (p. 098)

THE PEACE CONFERENCE

Captain Maude left Amiens and became Major Maude, D.S.O., A.P.M. Cologne. I missed him greatly, and it depressed me very much being left in that old town, but the doctors flatly refused to let me move, so I just had to grin and bear it.

I then got more ill and took to my bed. My recollections from that time to the middle of January are very hazy. People were very kind to me, and used to come and sit with me for hours, especially two Rifle Brigade boys—Stevens and Riviere—two of the best. Stevens had just come back from Brussels, where there had been great times, music and dancing. Apparently the great tune of that period was "Katie"; anyway Stevens could not get it out of his head. He never knew how near he was to sending me completely mad, by singing gently to himself as the winter afternoons drew in:—

"K-K-K-Katie, beautiful Katie, You're the only g-g-girl that I adore, When the ke-moon shines on the Ke-cowshed; I'll be waiting at the Kitchie Kitchen door."

Long afterwards, during the Peace Conference, whenever I heard that tune in the "Majestic," my mind went back to the misery and semi-darkness in that dirty room in Amiens.

On New Year's Eve, Angus McDonnell came all the way from G.H.Q. and (p. 099) had me lifted out to dinner, so I must have been better then. General Sir John Cowans also came all the way from G.H.Q. to see how I was. Kindness is a wonderful thing.



The Allied Press disbanded, and I gave a dinner to the boys at the "Hotel de la Paix." It was all arranged by my chauffeur, Gordon Howlett, and my batman, Green, and it was well done. Great were the songs and dances, and great was the amount of liquid put away. I was lifted downstairs and laid out beside the table, and the lads presented me with a magnificent silver ash-tray.

Towards the end of January, I was allowed out and about again, and I went up to G.H.Q. to paint the Q.M.G., who put me up in his chateau. I painted him, and also did some work down at "Bumpherie," including a drawing of Lieutenant Brooks, who took the most wonderful official photographs during the war, often at great personal risk. I remember a story that went round in 1917, in which there was not a word of truth, but it was amusing. A terrible-looking Tommy stopped Brooks in the Street of the Three Pebbles and said: "Say, guv'ner, when are you going to give me me photo?" "What photo? Who are you?" said Brooks. "Blimy," said the Tommy, "you don't know me, and me the bloke as was killed going over the top for you!"

I now got a reminder that I was due in Paris to paint the Peace Conference. The whole thing had gone from my mind. I afterwards found the letter, which I apparently had received and read, dated December, telling me to go to Paris, but I was so sick I did not realise what it was about. I realised now right enough, so I packed my bag and breezed away to Paris, and found that great family gathering, the Peace (p. 100) Conference, and the life of the "Astoria" and the "Majestic" commenced for me.

The great family really was composed of a number of little families. Mine consisted of Lord Riddell, George Mair, Lieut.-Colonel Stroud Jackson, D.S.O., George Adam, Sidney Dark and Gordon Knox, and great were the meetings at Foucquet's before lunch.

For the most part, my life consisted now of painting portraits at the "Astoria," or attending the Conference at the "Quai d'Orsay." During these I did little drawings of the delegates. For a seat I was usually perched up on a window-sill. It was very amusing to sit there and listen to Clemenceau—"Le Tigre"—putting the fear of death into the delegates of the smaller nations if they talked too long. Apparently, the smaller the nation he represented, the more the delegate felt it incumbent on himself to talk, but after a while, Clemenceau, with the grey gloves whirling about, would shout him down.

President Wilson occasionally rose and spoke of love and forgiveness. Lloyd George just went on working, his secretaries constantly rushing up to him, whispering and departing, only to return for more whispers. Mr. Balfour, whose personality made all the other delegates look common, would quietly sleep. The Marquis Siongi was the only other man who could hold his own at all with Mr. Balfour in dignity of appearance.

As a whole there was just a little mass of black frock-coated figures—"frocks" as we called them—sitting and moving about under the vast decoration of "Le Salon de l'Horloge." Some of the little people seemed excited, but for the most part they looked profoundly (p. 101) bored, yet they were changing the face of the map, slices were being cut off one country and dumped on to another. It was all very wonderful, but I admit that all these little "frocks" seemed to me very small personalities, in comparison with the fighting men I had come in contact with during the war.



They appeared to think so much—too much—of their own personal importance, searching all the time for popularity, each little one for himself—strange little things. President Wilson made a great hit in the Press with his smile. He was pleased at that, and after this he never failed to let you see all his back teeth. Lloyd George grew hair down his back, I presume from Mr. Asquith's lead. Paderewski—well, he was always a made-up job. In short, from my window-seat it was easy to see how self-important the majority of all these little black "frocks" thought themselves. It was all like an opera bouffe, after the people I had seen, known and painted during the war; and these, as the days went by, seemed to be gradually becoming more and more forgotten. It seemed impossible, but it was true. The fighting man, alive, and those who fought and died—all the people who made the Peace Conference possible, were being forgotten, the "frocks" reigned supreme. One was almost forced to think that the "frocks" won the war. "I did this," "I did that," they all screamed, but the silent soldier man never said a word, yet he must have thought a lot.

I remember when the Peace Terms were handed to the Germans at the Trianon Palace, I tried my hardest to get a card to enable me to see it, but failed. This may not seem strange, but it really was, considering that about half the people who were present were there out of curiosity alone. They were just friends of the "frocks." This (p. 102) ceremony took place at 2.30 p.m. on that particular day. I happened to leave my room and go into the hall of the "Astoria" for something about 3 p.m. There I met Field-Marshal Sir Henry Wilson. I said: "How did you get back so soon, sir?" He said: "Back from where?" I said: "From the handing over of the Peace Terms." "Oh," he said, "I haven't been there. They wouldn't give me a pass, the little 'frocks' wouldn't give me one." "I've been trying for days, sir," I said. "They expect me to paint them, but they won't let me see them." "Look here, little man," he said. "I've been thinking as I was walking back here, and I'll give you a little piece of advice: 'Laugh at those who cry, and cry at those who laugh.' Just go back to your little room and think that over and you will feel better."

When I painted Sir Henry, he gave me his views on the brains and merits of many of the delegates, views full of wit and brilliant criticism, but when I had finished painting him I came under his kindly lash. He called me "a nasty little wasp," and he kept a "black book" for any of his lady friends who said the sketch was like him. In it their names were inscribed, and they were never to be spoken to again. With all his fun, Sir Henry was a deep thinker, and towered over the majority of the "frocks" by his personality, big outlook and clear vision.

General Botha was big, large and great in body and brain—elephantine! Everything on an immense scale, even to his sense of humour. He had no sign of pose, like most of the "frocks." He never seemed to try to impress anyone. One could notice no change in his method or mode of conversation according to whom he was speaking. The great mind just (p. 103) went on and uttered what it thought, regardless of whom it uttered it to. In Mrs. Botha he had the ideal wife. Together they were like two school-children. "Louis" and "Mother," how well they knew each other, and how they loved their family and home! They were always talking of "home" and longing to get back to it. Alas! Louis only got back there for a very short time, and now "home" will never be the same for "Mother."



What arguments they used to have—fierce arguments which always ended the same way! "Louis" would make some remark which would absolutely pulverise "Mother's" side of the question, and as she was stammering to reply, he would say very gently: "It's all right, Mother, it's all right, you've won." And she would flash out with: "Don't you dare to say that to me, Louis! You always say that when you get the best of the argument."

She used to complain to me how terrible the General's love for bridge was, and how she used to be kept up so late. He would laugh and say: "But, Mother, you didn't get up till nine this morning. I was walking in the Bois at half-past six."

I remember one afternoon they came to my room and Mrs. Botha said: "Well, Louis, what kind of a morning had you?" He replied: "Not very good, Mother, not very good. You see, Mother, Clemenceau got very irritated with President Wilson, and Lloyd George the same with Orlando. No, it wasn't a very pleasant morning. Nearly everyone was irritable." Then "Mother" said: "I think it disgusting, Louis, that these men, settling the peace of the world, should allow their own little petty irritabilities to interfere with the great work." And (p. 104) Botha replied: "Ah! Mother, you must make allowances. Men are only human." "I don't make allowances," jerked in "Mother," "I think it's disgusting." "Don't say that, Mother," he replied. "I remember one time, long ago, when we made our little peace, you used to get very irritable at times, and I had to make a lot of allowances for you. You must try and make the same for these poor people now." "Mother" never even replied to this, but jumped from her chair and left the room, and the big man's face broadened into a smile. Yes, Botha was big—a giant among men.

Admiral Lord Wester Wemyss came along. He has a good head for a "Sea Dog." He brought the sea into the heart of Paris with him. A man of great charm, with a wonderful smile, which I did not paint.

I wrote and asked President Wilson to sit, and got a reply saying that as his time was fully occupied with the Peace Conference work, he regretted that he was unable to give any sittings.

I also wrote to Mr. Lansing and Colonel House, asking them. The Colonel rang up the same afternoon and said, "Certainly," would I name my day and hour? Which I did; and along he came, a charming man, very calm, very sure of himself, yet modest. During the sitting he asked me if I had painted the President. I replied: "No." He then asked me if I was going to do so, and I replied: "No," that the President had refused to sit. He said: "Refused?" I said: "Yes; he hasn't got the time." "What damned rot!" said the Colonel, "he's got a damned sight more time than I have. What day would you like him to come to sit?" I named a day, and the Colonel said: "Right! I'll see that he's here," and he did. Mr. Lansing was also very good about giving sittings, (p. 105) and we had a good time, as he loves paintings, and knows all the Art Galleries in Europe. He also paints himself in his spare time, and all through the Conference at the "Quai d'Orsay" he drew caricatures of the different delegates. President Wilson told me he had a large collection of these.



When Lord Reading sat he had the "'flu," and did not talk, so I got nothing out of him except that he has a very fine head.

The Emir Feisul sat. He had a nice, calm, thoughtful face. Of course, his make-up in garments made one think of Ruth, or, rather, Boaz. He could not let me work for one minute without coming round to see what I was doing. This made the sittings a bit jerky. I was going to paint another portrait of him for his home, but we never hit off times when we were both free.

I asked Mr. Balfour to sit, and he asked me to lunch to arrange it. The subject was never mentioned, but the lunch in the Rue Nito was excellent, and it was a joy to listen to Mr. Balfour. One could also look down into President Wilson's garden, as Mr. Balfour's flat was on the second floor, and one could see over the armed defences and view the American Army on guard outside, with steel helmets and bayonets flashing in the sunlight.

Mr. Balfour did sit in the end. I remember he came to my room about 12.15 p.m. He was sound asleep by 12.35 p.m., but woke up sharp at 1 p.m., and left for lunch. What a head! It put all other heads out of the running. So refined, so calm, so strong, a fitting head for such a great personality.

Dr. E. J. Dillon very kindly asked me to dinner to meet Venezelos, and he arranged for him to sit, which he did at the "Mercedes Hotel." He (p. 106) had a beautiful head, with far-seeing blue eyes, which had a distinctly Jewish look. It was difficult to paint him, as he had no idea of sitting at all. It was a pity, as he had a wonderful head to paint. His flesh was fresh and rosy like a young boy's.

Da Costa, of Portugal, came along: a bright little man, full of health and energy; and after him that quiet, thoughtful friendly person, Sir Robert Borden, of Canada; even then he looked rather tired and overworked.

General Sykes sat. What a strange head! A sort of mixture between Hall Caine and Shakespeare.

The day arrived when President Wilson was to sit. He was to come at 2 p.m., so I went back to the "Astoria" about 1.30. When I got to the door I found a large strange man ordering all the English motors to go one hundred yards down the Rue Vernet. No British car was allowed to stop closer. When I entered the "Astoria," one of the Security Officers told me that an American detective had been inquiring the direct route the President was to take to my room. I went on into another little room I had, where I kept my paints and things; and there I found two large men sitting in the only two chairs. They took no notice of me, and were quite silent, so I proceeded to get ready. Taking off my belt and tunic, and putting on my painting coat, I started to squeeze out colours, when suddenly in marched an enormous man. He looked all round the room and said in a deep voice: "Is Sir William Orpen here?" "Yes, I'm here," I said. He walked up to me and, towering over me, looked down and said in grave doubt: "Are you Sir William Orpen?" "Yep," I replied, in my best American accent. "Well," he said, "be pleased to dress yourself and proceed to the door and prepare to receive the President of the United States of America." (p. 107) That finished me—I had been worked up to desperate action. So I looked up as fully as I could in his face, and uttered one short, thoroughly English word, but one which has a lot to it. Immediately the two large men and the enormous one left the room in utter silence.



Shortly afterwards the President arrived, smiling as usual; but he was a good sort, and he laughed hard when I told him the story of the detectives. He was very genial and sat well, but even then he was very nervous and twitchy. He told endless stories, mostly harmless, and some witty. I only remember one. A king was informed that all the men in his State were obeying their wives; so he ordered them all before him on a certain day and spoke to them, saying he had heard the fact about their obeying their wives, and he wished to ascertain if it was so. So he commanded, "All men who obey their wives go to my left!" They all went to his left except one miserable little man, who remained where he was, alone. The king turned, and said to him: "Are you the only man in my State who does not obey his wife?" "No, sire," said the little man, "I obey my wife, sire." "Then why do you not go to my left as I commanded?" "Because, sire," said the little man, "my wife told me always to avoid a crush." It's a mild story, but it's the only one I remember. The only other thing I recollect about President Wilson is that he had a great admiration for Lord Robert Cecil.

General Sackville-West came, and we had some peaceful sittings. A very calm, very sad man, but he was kindness itself. Many are the acts for which I have to thank him.

Lord Beatty arrived in Paris. A lunch was given in his honour at the Embassy, after which he came back with me to the "Astoria," and sat. (p. 108) A forceful character! I may be wrong, but I imagine he did not love the "frocks."

George Adam gave a great dinner one night out at some little country place near Paris. Mr. Massey, of New Zealand, and Admiral Heaton Ellis were the two chief people present. Massey was a most pleasant big man, with kind, blue eyes—a simple, honest, straightforward person, large in body and big enough in brain to laugh at himself. He made me feel I was back painting the honest people in the war. He had none of the affectations of the "frocks."

I painted the Marquis Siongi in his flat in the Rue Bassano. There one worked in the calm of the East. People entered the room, people left, but I never heard a sound. The Marquis sat—never for one second did his expression give an inkling of what his brain was thinking about. He never moved; his eyelids never fluttered, and beside me all the time I worked, curled up on a sofa, was his daughter—surely one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, soft and gentle, with her lovely little white feet. I loved it all. When I left that flat I could not help feeling I was going downstairs to a lower and more common world, a world where passions and desires were thrust upon one's eyes and ears, leaving no room for imagination or wonder. I never pass down the Rue Bassano now that I do not think of the Marquis and those lovely little white feet, the gentle manners and the calm of the East which pervaded those apartments.

General Smuts sat, a strong personality with great love for his own country, and a fearless blue eye. I would not like to be up against him, yet in certain ways he was a dreamer and poet in thought. He loved the people and hated the "frocks." He and I had a great night once at the servants' dance down in the ballroom of the "Majestic." (p. 109) I found him down there during the evening, and he said: "You've got sense, Orpen. There is life down here, but upstairs it's 'just death.'"



Mary was, of course, the "Belle of the Ball." No description of the Peace Conference could be complete without including Mary. One great man said that the most joyous sight he saw in Paris was Mary. Mary doled us out tea and cigarettes in the hall of the "Majestic"—doled them out with a smile of pure health. Mary came from Manchester, yet she made the Parisian girls look pale, pallid and washed out. Her rosy cheeks had a smile for everyone, men and women; one and all loved Mary. She really was the greatest personal success of the Peace Conference. How the people of Manchester must have missed her, and how lucky they are to have her back again!

Another delegate with no affectation was Mr. Barnes, a restful, thoughtful soul. He brought Mrs. Barnes in one afternoon, a charming, quiet lady. They should be painted together as an ideal English couple.

Another good Englishman, Lord Derby, our Ambassador, sat to me. Some day will be known all the good he has done in France. Loved by all, this joyous, bluff, big-hearted Englishman has done great things in keeping friendship and goodwill between the two nations through many anxious moments. One felt better after being at the Embassy and hearing his great laugh. He was not a bit like a "frock"; whether he loved them or not, I don't know. He was far too clever to let me know, but he was too kind-hearted to hurt anybody or anything, and he certainly loved the fighting man—French, English or American.

Mr. Hughes made a big mark at the Conference. He was as deaf as a (p. 110) post, but he had a cutting wit. Many are the good stories told about him, but they are not mine. Clemenceau and he used to have great jokes. Often I have seen them rocking with laughter together, Clemenceau's grey-gloved hands on Hughes' shoulders, leaning over him and shouting into his enormous deaf cars. He came to sit one day with The Times. He said: "Good morning." I asked him to sit in a chair. He sat, read The Times for about an hour and a half, murmured something that I did not catch, got up and left. The next day he rang up and asked if I wished for another sitting. I said: "No, sir," so that was my only personal meeting with Hughes; but I gather he was extremely cute and cunning, which is quite possible from the general make-up of his head.

That warrior, General Carton de Wiart, V.C., came to sit: a man who loved war. What a happy nature! He told me he never suffered any pain from all his wounds except once—mental pain—when he temporarily lost the sight of his other eye, and he thought he might be blind for life. A joyous man, so quiet, so calm, so utterly unaffected. What a lesson to the "frocks"!

Another man of great personal charm was Paul Hymans, of Belgium. He was greatly liked and respected by the British delegates.



CHAPTER XV (p. 111)

PARIS DURING THE PEACE CONFERENCE

Shortly after I arrived in Paris I found one could get "Luxury Tax Tickets." I had never heard of a Luxury Tax up North, but it was in force in Paris right enough. So I went to H.Q. Central Area, and inside the door whom should I meet but my one-time "Colonel" of G.H.Q. "Hello!" said he. "What are you doing in Paris?" "Painting the Peace Conference, sir," said I. "Well, what do you want here?" he asked. "I've come for some Luxury Tax Tickets, sir." "To what are you attached now?" he asked. "C.P.G.H.Q., sir," said I. "Well," he said, "if you are attached to G.H.Q. you must go there and get your Luxury Tax Tickets. You can't get them here." "Right, sir," said I. "Will you please sign an order for me to proceed to G.H.Q. to obtain Luxury Tax Tickets and return? and I will start right away, sir." "Well," he said, "perhaps, after all, I will allow you to have some here, as you are working in Paris." "Thank you very much indeed, sir," said I, clicking my heels and saluting. But it was no good, we never could become friends, as I said before.

One afternoon in the hall at the "Astoria" I saw a strange man—a paintable person—and I asked the Security Officers to get him to sit to me. He was a Polish messenger. He came along the next morning, sat down and smoked his silver pipe. I said: "Can you understand any (p. 112) English?" "Yes," said he, in a strong Irish accent, "I can a bit." "But," I said, "you talk it very well. Have you lived in Ireland?" "No," said he, "but I went to the States for about six months some fifteen years or more back, and that's where I picked up the wee bit I have." I began to think he must be de Valera or some other hero in disguise. Perhaps he was.

Field-Marshal Sir Henry Wilson asked me to dine at the "Majestic" one night. In the afternoon I got a telephone message that the place for the dinner had been changed from the "Majestic" to the Embassy. When I reached there I was received by Sir Henry (Lord and Lady Derby were also present). He apologised to me for the room being a little cold. At dinner, which was perfect, he found fault and apologised for the food, for the wine, for the waiting—nothing was right. It was great fun. He kept it up all the evening. When saying good-bye to Their Excellencies, he said: "I can't tell you how sorry I am about everything being so bad to-night, but I'll ask you out to a restaurant another night and give you some decent food and drink."

About this time I painted Lord Riddell, who, with George Mair and others, was looking after the interests of the Press. Meetings were held twice a day and news was doled out by Riddell, such news as the P.M. saw fit that the Press should know. Great was the trouble when George Adam would suddenly burst into print with some news that had not been received through this particular official channel. Adam, having worked in Paris for years, knew endless channels for news that the others had no knowledge of.

Riddell was a great chap, full of energy, full of an immense burning (p. 113) desire for knowledge on every subject, too, in the world. One always found him asking questions, often about things that one would think it was impossible he should take any interest in. He must have a tremendous amount of knowledge stored up in that fine brain of his, for he never forgets, not even little things. He was most kind to us all and was hospitality itself. He personally was a very simple feeder, and he never drank any wine or spirits, but nothing was too good for those he entertained. A lovable man, well worthy of all the honours he has received. He had a great support in his secretary, Mrs. Read, a charming, gracious lady, who probably worked harder during those days than anyone else, except, perhaps, Sir Maurice Hankey.



One night I dined at "Ciro's" with George Adam and some others. I was late when I came in. Before we went into the dining-room, Adam told me to take notice of an English lady who was sitting a couple of tables away from ours. This I did, and I remembered having seen her constantly at the "Berkeley Hotel," London, years before. She was most peculiarly dressed in some sort of stuff that looked like curtains, tall and slim, with a refined, good-looking face, but a somewhat strange look in her eyes. She was with two men. Presently a lady joined the group from another table. Dancing began, and she left with one of the men, danced and came back again. I could not remember her name, so I asked Philippe, who told me she was an English duchess, but he could not remember what she duched over.

After dinner we went out and sat and watched the dancing and I forgot all about her. About eleven o'clock, during a lull between dances, she appeared before me. The moment she appeared two large waiters seized (p. 114) her by the back of the neck and ran her up the dance-hall and threw her out. A strange sight, surely! An English "duchess" being thrown out of a dance-hall in Paris.

Having been given a most excellent dinner by Adam, my feelings were roused at this peculiar treatment of the English aristocracy, so I went over to Philippe and asked him what he meant by this disgraceful behaviour to an English lady. He replied: "The men she was with left an hour ago." "But," said I, "I never saw her behave badly. Why didn't you ask her to leave?" "I did," said he, "but she just patted me on the back, and said, 'Don't let that worry you, old chap.'" Still, my feelings—thanks still to the dinner—were roused, so I went out into the hall to try and find her, as I had noticed she was wearing about twenty thousand pounds' worth of pearls round her neck. Not that I meant to take these, but I hated the thought of someone else doing so, and I wished to see her safely home, but she had gone—vanished! The only thing I learnt was that she was staying at the "Ritz." But when I inquired there they informed me that they were housing no English duchess.

A few days later I was passing the "Hotel Chatham" and I saw her coming towards me, very well dressed, in white furs this time and the large globes of pearls still round her neck. She walked straight up to me: "I want you to do something for me," she said. I don't remember what I replied, but she said: "Don't be frightened—it's not immoral. I'm not that sort. I just want you to come along with me to 'The Hole in the Wall.'" "Where is it?" I asked. "I don't know," she said. "That's what I want you for. I want you to find 'The Hole in the Wall.'" "I'm sorry, Madam," I said, "I can't do it. I've got an (p. 115) engagement." She wiggled her finger in front of my nose, and said: "Ah, naughty, naughty boy!" and went on her way. I followed at a safe distance. Every man she met, no matter what class or nationality, she stopped, all the way down the boulevard, and asked them to find "The Hole in the Wall" for her.

None did, however, even though she was quite near it all the time, and the last I saw of her was when she disappeared down the steps of Olympia alone. Not quite the place for an English "duchess" to go alone, with twenty thousand pounds' worth of pearls in full view. I wonder who she was and where she is now? Perhaps in "The Hole in the Wall."

About this time I introduced Lord Riddell to Mrs. Glyn, and we had some very amusing out-of-door dinners at Laurent's. During dinner and afterwards, Mrs. Glyn would teach us many things about life, Nature and love: why women lost their lovers; why men did not keep their wives; the correct way to make love; the stupid ordinary methods of the male; what the female expected; what she ought to expect, and what she mostly got. It was all very pleasant, the modulated voice of Elinor under the trees and twinkling stars. Her elocution was certainly remarkable, and Lord Riddell's dinners excellent.



CHAPTER XVI (p. 116)

THE SIGNING OF THE PEACE

The great day of the signing of the Peace was drawing near, and I worked hard to get the centre window in the Hall of Mirrors reserved for the artists. In the end, the French authorities sanctioned this. They also promised to do a lot more things which would have made the ceremony much more imposing, but these they did not do. It is a strange thought, but surely true, that the French as a nation seem to take, at present, little interest in pomp and ceremony. The meetings of the delegates at the "Quai d'Orsay," the handing over of the Peace Terms to our late enemies, were all rather rough-and-tumble affairs, and, in the end, the great signing of the Treaty had not as much dignity as a sale at Christie's. How different must the performance have been in 1870! One man, at least, was there who knew the difference—Lord Dunraven, who attended both ceremonies.

I drove out in the morning to Versailles with George Mair and Adam, and we all had lunch at the "Hotel des Reservoirs." When we started to go to the Palace I found they had yellow Press tickets, by which they were admitted by the side gate nearest the hotel; but I had a white ticket, and had to enter by the main front gate. When I went round towards this gate I found that all the way down the square, and further along the road as far as the eye could see, the route was (p. 117) lined with people, about one hundred deep, with two rows of French cavalry in front. These people had all taken their places, and they would not let me through. I thought for sure I was going to miss the show, and the sweat of nerves broke out on me. By great luck I met a French Captain, to whom I, in my very broken French, explained my plight. He was most kind, took my card, made a way through the crowd, explained and showed my card to the military horsemen, and I was let through. Then the sweat began to run. I found myself about three-quarters of a mile away from the entrance to the Palace, all by myself in this human-sided avenue—thousands of people staring at me. I expected every minute to be arrested. Naturally, no one else entered on foot. They all drove up in their cars. Guards at the gates scanned my dripping face, but not a word was uttered to me, no pass was asked for—nothing!



The marble staircase was most imposing, lined on each side by Municipal Guards, but the Hall of Mirrors was pandemonium, a mass of little humans, all trying to get to different places. In the end I got to the centre window. It was empty. I was the first artist to arrive, and very satisfied I was to have got there safely. Suddenly, up walked a French Colonel, who told me to get out. I showed him my card and told him this was the window reserved for artists. He explained that this had been changed, and that the next window was reserved for them, and led me off there. There I found all the French and American artists huddled together. As soon as the Colonel left, I crept back to the centre window. I was turned back again. This creeping to the centre window and being turned back continued till I spoke to M. (p. 118) Arnavon, who advised me to stop in the artists' window till just before the show started, and then to go to the middle window. Just before the beginning there was great excitement. A stream of secretaries came up the Hall, two carrying chairs, and with them two grubby-looking old men. The chairs were placed in the centre window, and the old chaps sat themselves down. They were country friends of Clemenceau's, and he had said that morning that they were to have the centre window, and that artists could go to—somewhere else. When the proceedings commenced I slipped in behind their chairs, and, except for a glare from "Le Tigre," I was left in peace.

Clemenceau rose and said a few words expressing a desire that the Germans would come forward and sign. Even while he was saying these few words the whole hall was in movement—nothing but little black figures rushing about and crushing each other. Then, amidst a mass of secretaries from the French Foreign Office, the two Germans, Hermann Mueller and Doctor Bell, came nervously forward, signed, and were led back to their places. Some guns went off on the terrace—the windows rattled. Everyone looked rather nervous for a moment, and the show was over, except for the signatures of the Allies. These were written without any dignity. People talked and cracked jokes to each other across tables. Lloyd George found a friend on his way up to sign his name, and as he had a story to tell him, the whole show was held up for a bit, but after all, it may have been a good story. All the "frocks" did all their tricks to perfection. President Wilson showed his back teeth; Lloyd George waved his Asquithian mane; Clemenceau whirled his grey-gloved hands about like windmills; Lansing drew his pictures and Mr. Balfour slept. It was all over. The "frocks" had won (p. 119) the war. The "frocks" had signed the Peace! The Army was forgotten. Some dead and forgotten, others maimed and forgotten, others alive and well—but equally forgotten. Yet the sun shone outside my window and the fountains played, and the German Army—what was left of it—was a long, long way from Paris.



After seeing some of the great little black-coated ones leave, amidst great cheering, George Mair, Colonel Stroud Jackson and I went to the aerodrome and saw the Press photographs sent off to the waiting crowds in the British Isles. Then back to Paris. Paris was very calm, not the least excited. I remember Mair gave some of us dinner at Ciro's that night. When the band played the Marseillaise, we stood up on our chairs, held hands and sang and cheered, but no one else moved, so in the end we got down, feeling damned fools. It was all rather sad!

The next great show was the triumphal march through the Arc de Triomphe. It was fine! But it must be admitted that the Americans scored. They had picked men trained for months for this march, and along they came in close formation, wearing steel helmets. It was a fine sight!

But there were great moments when Foch passed, and when Haig passed at the head of his men, and the roars that came from the "Astoria" must have been heard a long way off. The "Astoria" was the hotel reserved by the Kaiser for his friends to witness his triumphal entry into Paris, so we had a good view. He chose well.

I remember during the war, when a "frock" visited some fighting zone, he was always very well looked after and entertained by whatever H.Q. he visited, and I was amazed on this day to find Field-Marshal Lord (p. 120) Haig and General Sir John Davidson lunching alone at the "Majestic." Lord Allenby was also lunching at another table and General Robertson at another. To me it was ununderstandable. These representatives of the dead and the living of the British Army, on the day of its glory, being allowed to lunch alone, much as they might have wished it.

As far as I remember, Lord Derby gave a dinner in their honour that evening, but I am certain the "frocks" did nothing. After all, why should they fuss themselves? The fighting was over. The Army was nothing—harmless! Why should they trouble about these men? Why upset themselves and their pleasures by remembering the little upturned hands on the duckboards, or the bodies lying in the water in the shell-holes, or the hell and bloody damnation of the four years and odd months of war, or the men and their commanders who pulled them through from a bloodier and worse damnation and set them up to dictate a peace for the world?

The war was over, the Germans were a long, long way from the coast or Paris. The whole thing was finished. Why worry now to honour the representatives of the dead, or the maimed, or the blind, or the living that remained? Why? In Heaven's name, why not?

I remember one day, during the Peace Conference in the "Astoria," asking a great English General about the delegates and how things were getting on, and he said: "I wish the little 'frocks' would leave it to us—those who fight know best how to make peace. We would not talk so much, but we would get things settled more quickly and better." Surely that was the truth!



INDEX (p. 121)

(The Arabic figures refer to the pages of the Text; the Roman figures to the Plates.)

Adam, George, 100, 108, 112, 113, 116. Aikman, Captain T. T., 12, 55. Albert, 20, 37, 40, 79, 80, 86; XXXVII. Allenby, General Lord, 120 Amiens, 16 ff., 40 ff., 59, 70, 71, 76, 79, 82, 92, 96; XXXV, XL. Ancre, Valley of the, 38. Antoine of Bourbon (Prince), 65. Armentieres, 31. Arnavon, M., 118. Aveluy, 39.

Bailleul, 33, 95. Balfour, A. J., 100, 105, 119; XLV. Bapaume, 20, 70. Bapaume Road, 18, 48; II. Baring, Maurice, 19, 29 ff., 50, 69. Barnes, G. N., 109; XCII. Bazentin-le-Grand, 20. Bazentin-le-Petit, 20. Beatty, Admiral Lord, 107; LXXXIX. Beaumont-Hamel, 20, 23, 48. Beaverbrook, Lord, 42, 67, 70, 95. Bedelo, Signor, 56. Belfield, Colonel, 45, 56. Bell, Dr., 118. Bertangles, 80, 81. Birdwood, General, 19; LIII. Bloomfield, Major, 50 ff., 86. Borden, Sir Robert, 106; XCVI. Botha, General Louis, 102; XLIV. Boulogne, 12, 31, 42, 57, 67, 71. Brickman, Captain, 56. Brooks, Lieutenant, 99. Buchan, Colonel John, 20. Burstall, General, 49; LXXI.

Cambrai, 61. Carstairs, Carroll, 46, 61, 87. Carton de Wiart, General, 110; XCIV. Cassel, 31 ff., 42 ff., 51 ff., 93; XI, XII, LX, LXXIV. Caudry, 90. Charteris, General, 14. Chateau Thierry, 70, 76. Clark, Lieutenant, 38. Clemenceau, M., 76, 100, 103, 110, 118; LI, LXXXII, LXXXIII. Clermont, 55. Corbie, 37. Cough-drop, the, 20, 48. Courage, Ernest, 45, 56, 64. Courcelette, 20; LII. Cowans, General Sir J. S., 99; XLII. Currie, General, 49, 67.

Da Costa, Senhor, 106. Dark, Sidney, 100. Davids, Lieutenant A. P. Rhys, 50; XX. Davidson, General Sir John, 63, 72, 120. Derby, Lord, 109, 112, 120; L. Dieppe, 35. Dillon, Dr. E. J., 105. Douai, 91; XXXVIII. Douglas, Captain, 75. Doullens, 96. Du Cane, General Sir J., 77. Dunraven, Lord, 116.

Elles, General, 62; LXXVII. Ellis, Admiral Heaton, 108. Estre Blanche, 50.

Fane, Major F., 17, 25. Feisul, Emir, 105; LXXXVII. Fletcher, Colonel, 28, 63, 72. Foch, Marshal, 76 ff.; XXXIII. Forsyth, Dudley, 75. Freeman, Colonel, 29. French, Field-Marshal Lord, 31.

George, Mr. D. Lloyd, 100, 101, 103, 118; LI, LXXXII, LXXXIII. Gibbs, Sir Philip, 32. Glyn, Mrs., 115. Grandcourt, 20. Grant, General, 77, 79. Gregory, Robert, 30. Grevillers, 19; LIII.

Haig, Field-Marshal Earl, 27, 50, 64, 72, 97, 120; I. Hale, Captain, 18, 56, 64; XXVI. Hankey, Sir Maurice, 113. Hesdin, 13, 42, 63. Highwood, 20. Hogg, Major, 56. Hoidge, Captain, 50, 51, 86; XXI. Holland, Captain, 76. Hotblack, Major, 62. House, Colonel, 104; LXXXV. Hughes, W. M., 110; XCIII. Hymans, M. Paul, 110; XCV.

Inge, Captain, 56, 64. Inverforth, Lord, 55.

Jackson, Lieut.-Colonel Stroud, 100, 119. Joffroy, M., 39.

Knox, Gordon, 100.

La Boisselle, 20, 40, 48, 70; III, XIV, XVIII. Laboreur, M., 26. Lansing, Mr. R., 104, 118; LXXXVI. Lee, Major A. N., 67, 69, 72, 75; XXXII. Le Havre, 35, 47. Le Sars, 19, 49. Lipsett, Major-General, 49; LXXII. Little, Captain, 30. Locre, 95. Lucas, Lord, 29.

MacColl, Captain, 62. McCudden, Major, 53, 69; XXX. McDonnell, Colonel Angus, 90, 98. MacDonough, General, 69. MacDowell, Colonel, 56. Macintosh, Mr., 64. Mahon, Major-General Sir Bryan, 93. Mair, George, 100, 112, 116, 119. Maratray, M. R. D. de, 18, 44; LXIX. Masefield, John, 40, 41. Massey, W. F., 108; XC. Maude, Captain F., 44 ff., 56, 61, 66, 80, 84, 96, 98; XXXV. Menin Road, 95. Miraumont, 20. Monchy, LXXIII. Montdidier, 70. Mont St. Eloy, 29. Mueller, Herr, 118. Munnings, A. J., 65.

Nieuport, 31.

O'Connor, Major, 49. Orlando, Signor, 103. Orpen, Captain, 57.

Paderewski, 101. Paris, 49, 55, 70, 98. Peace Conference, 98 ff.; LXXXIII. Peace Treaty, 116 ff.; LI. Peronne, 20, 37, 70; V, XV. Phillips, Percival, 32. Plumer, General Lord, 93 ff.; XXXIX. Pozieres, 19, 70; IV.

Rawlinson, General Lord, 80, 81; XXXVI. Read, Mrs., 113. Reading, Lord, 105. Riddell, Lord, 100, 112, 115; XLIX. Riviere, Captain, 98. Robertson, General Sir William, 120. Roeux, 28. Rogers, General, 80. Rollencourt, 13, 21. Rouen, 35.

Sackville-West, General, 107. St. Denis, 79; XXXIV. St. Omer, 31, 57. St. Pol, 26, 67. St. Quentin, 90. St. Valery-sur-Somme, 72, 75. Sargent, John, 16. Sassoon, Sir Philip, 27, 35, 51, 63. Seely, General, 65, 67; XXVIII. Siongi, Marquis, 100, 108; XLVII. Smuts, General J. C., 108; XCI. Soissons, 70, 76. Somme, the, 16 ff. Stevens, Captain, 98. Strang, Ian, 67. Stuart, General, 90. Sykes, General, 106.

Thiepval, 20, 36 ff.; LXV, LXVI, LXVII. Thomas, Beach, 32. Trafford, Captain Rudolf de, 64, 72. Trenchard, Air-Marshal Sir H. M., 29, 50, 52; IX. Tyl, Colonel du, 80; XXXV.

Vaux, 79. Venezelos, M. E., 105; LXXXVIII. Villers-Bretonneux, 70, 76. Villers-Carbonelle, 81.

Warlencourt, Butte de, 19, 49; XIX, LXX. Watson, General, 49. Wester Wemyss, Admiral Lord, 104; LXXXIV. Weygand, General, 77. Williams, Brigadier-General Dame Vaughan, 82. Wilson, Field-Marshal Sir Henry, 102, 112; XLIII. Wilson, President, 100, 103, 104, 106, 107, 118; XLVI, LI, LXXXII, LXXXIII. Woodcock, Colonel, 45, 56.

Ypres Salient, 31 ff., 95.

Zillebeke, 89. Zonnebeke, 95.

THE END