A NEW CANTERBURY PILGRIM.

Press, Volume LXIX, Issue 20772, 4 February 1933, Page 13

A NEW CANTERBURY PILGRIM.

RETROSPECT. (Br«CU.LLI WMTTIX TOR TH« r*ZSS.) [By Ngaio Marsh.] Differences. Since my return to this country, I have often been questioned about the differences between New Zealand and England and between tho English and tho New Zealanders. As to this second question, which is by far the most frequent, it has never seemed to me to be of much consequence, since wo are so nearly akin, racially, to the English and so newly transplanted, that we have not had either the time or the natural bent to grow far away from them. Still, transplantation has had .some effect though the root and structure of tho parent plant are unaltered in the seedlings. In our half-century of transplantation we have produced a hardy dialect, a change of vocal inflexions, and a kind of mental on-the-defensiveness, due, very likely, to our insular remoteness from other civilised countries. We have indeed como away from our background and have not yet acquired a new one of our own. Our colonisation has not receded far enough into the past to become a background of culture as well as of history. Wo have acquired characteristics but no patina. Perhaps these circumstances have produced a rather marked desire for approbation in the average New Zcalandcr. We arc a bit inclined to ask visitors what they think of New Zealand when they have only just emerged from the Lyttelton Tunnel. Even I, who am to the manner born, have been asked many times what I think of New Zealand and often with the air of "And mind it's not anything disparaging cither." I was never onco asked by English people what I thought of England, but very often was encouraged to speak of my own country and say if I did not miss the things that England could not give. I am sure that The Press's recent correspondent "Apollo" would get very few rises if he fished on the banks of the Thames. For an extreme instance of this harmless peculiarity of ours, let mo recall a very charming young man of my acquaintance whose whole travels could be measured by the length of railroad between Dunedin and Christchurch. On being introduced to an English visitor he soon said: "You'ro from England, are you? What do you think of New Zealandl" Before he could bo answered he added most combatively: "I reckon there's not another country to como up to it anywhere in the world. Enzed's good enough for me."

D.O.R.A. and G.U.S. The question next in popularity is: "How is the slump in England?" Sinco oven Mr Montagu Norman does not seem to know quite how tho slump is, this enquiry is a bit of a facer. One feels inclined to reply: "Ageing a little, but wonderfully well, really, thank you. As though the slump were an elderly aunt. "Dora," as everyone knows, was evolved from the Defenco of the Realm Act, and is always depicted, especially by Mr David Low, as a stuffy and unpleasant old lady ready to poke her detestable umbrella through most forms of innocent amusement. I have often thought that from the general depression might emerge the figure of Dora's twin sister, and when someone asked, tho other day, what I thought of the "General Universal Slump," tho name of tliis unaelicious spinster was evident. She is called "Gus," and having outworn her welcome in England has come, doubtless on the wings of one of Ihoso depression that make such a figure in tho wireless announcements, to stay with her colonial relations. In England Gus has lost prestige. Her influence is of course'still felt, and the family still practises those "g ld economics that her visit necessitated, but having rebelled against Dora, it is inclined to treat Gus as an inevitable bore, doesn't discuss her much, and refuses to be cast down by her Gummidgclikc snivellings. Here, however, sho seems to enjoy a huge success, and is well on the way to envelop the entire household in her favourite atmosphere of penultimate gloom. Her dreary tales of past grandeurs, reduced gentility, and imminent pauperism are heard and quoted with reluctant relish. Since sho has come to stay might she not be given a separate establishment on the banks of the Waimakariri, only to reappear on tho crest of that overwhelming flood that forever is-to-bc and never quite is?

London Oddities. The question of dissimilarities bctwPf.il ourselves and our English kins--2S hiCSJ me to recall some type, never to bo found in the Colonies. Out ct a strange company of remembered rnractors steps forward the figure.o> ml Dihl She comes out of the shadowf of the Christian Science Church, behind Sionhe Square, one gusty wintor's morning. Obviously she is watch]Z me and there is something very curious about her behaviour, so often does she hesitate ancl make as if to hide again in the shadows. As I «ak rapidly towards her and have already crossed the street I notice that she is old and is wearing a coat that suggests a dead rabbit left out m the rain Her shoos have burst and on hor 'nervous hands are heartbreaking old gloves. Round her neck is the wreck of a scarf. Her hat was once a velvet toque. Yet thero is an air of diffidence and of frightened "hesitancy about Miss Dibs that makes me think she is not the ordinary beggar whose importunities I have at last drilled myself to resist. As we draw abreast she looks with a kind of fluttering timidity into my face, and seeing (I suppose) something that does not altogether discourage her, Miss Dibs speaks to me. . . "Oh madam, please forgive me, but do you need a seamstress?" She was once a smart dressmaker, head of the workroom in a fashionable shop that I know quite well. She has a bundle of desiccated old letters to prove it and some more from "ladies of title" who patronised the shop. Then in an evil day, when she might have retired into a thrifty old age, she was moved to set up; her own "establishment" in Bournemouth. Then came the slump and her clients did not pay their bill's and did not come back, and one morning, with only the train fare in her pocket, she returned to London, ond having exhausted the hospitality of all the charitable institutions she war, recommended to approach, very quieklv became .completely destitute. Hei shame, her anxious gentility, her complete inability to deal with any sort of crisis, the wetness of her clothes (she nad slept out last night in preference (r> the crypt of St. M.nrtins-in-the-.Fields, because the' night before the woman next door had been rrrminous). the utter hopelessness of Miss Dibs: all these things combined to make her the most painfully unhappy creature 1 have over met. f see her now, sitting damply in our shop, crying rather feebly, and refusing food'bc-nuse she felt ashamed of her hunger. She never came hank after the little help we were able to rrfvo ?ior. and T think I hope' she is in a workhouse. Lord Tidwiddly. You will not find the name of. Tidwiddly in its true form on the pages of Debrett or of Burke, or of Kelly's Handbook, or even of Who's Who. .You may say (uncivilly) that dead-heads and even wooden-heads are immortalised in these useful ■works; but it is certain that they make no mention of china-head!.

Lord Tidwiddly enjoys the hospitality of his patroness in an ultra-modern flat in an expensive and modish part of London. His name shines out from a neat brass door-plate and if you call on him you are certain to be received also by his permanent hostess. He has his own room, his own servant, and his own cards. He commands the services of a smart tailor, patronises the play, and has his own cheque-book. You will say that all these blessings belong naturally to a peer of the realm; but then Lord Tidwiddly is not precisely a peer of the realm. He has no seat in the House of Lords, though his behaviour, if he had one, would be entirely inoffensive. He receives a considerable amount of correspondence, largely from impoverished young men. If you are an impoverished young man whose poverty is greater than your pride, and if you have met Lord Tidwiddly, it may be worth your while to write to him describing, in an amusing way, your financial difficulties. Tour letter will be answered and, as like as not, out of the envelope will fall a handsome cheque bearing as signature a bold flourish — "Tidwiddly." His hostess is authorised by his bank to sign these cheques since, in point of fact, his money is hers. His lordship cannot write, nor can he converse. He is a doll. All this, though it reads like an affected piece of nonsense, is literally true. This woman actually exists and is perhaps the extremest samplo of that raffish set, so mercifully small, so constantly written about and lampooned, so completely insignificant, known generally as the Bright Young Things. I have never met her, but we have friends in common, and from them I used to hear of her extraordinary pose. It was as much as their acquaintanceship was worth to refer to this doll as such. One gathered that something which had begun as a pose had gradually developed into an hallucination. She would apnear to have become a case for a psychoanalyst or a readv-made subject for a pirandello. I believe that Lord Tidwiddly's name appears in the telcphono register; but as I have altered the spelling considerably it will be no use looking him up when you go to London.

The Man Who Walks. Who is the man, with the shoulderlength of mop of peroxided hair, and always in such a hurry? Every matinee patron in London knows him by sight; but I have never met anybody who has spoken to him. Perhaps he iB in too much of a hurry to speak. As sure as ever you wait in a queue outside any of the pit doors round Piccadilly way you will see him presently, tearing along the street, his yellow curls banging on his back, no hat on them, but an unfurled umbrella clasped purposefully in his right hand. Ho will cross tho street nnd walk rapidly past the queue, looking straight in front of him and scowling as though he really fears he may be a little late. Several people will say: "Look, there goes that extraordinary man," but nobody will be able to give any information about him. In a few minutes he will reappear in a worse hurrv than before, evidently very late this time, and much preoccupied with that nightmare appointment. Tho same people will say: "Look, there he comes again," and stare after him until the tails of his rnincoat vanish round a corner. This will be his last appearance for the afternoon.

Miss X. Miss X. is known to the police, not as a criminal, but as an oddity and a bit of a puzzle. She holds a reception once a week on ono of the bridges over the Thames. It is an evening party to which the guests arrive with unfashionable- punctuality. Indeed, they begin to turn up Jin hour or two hours before their hostess is due to appear. As it grows darker and tho lamps cast thoir pools of thick light on the surface of tlio bridge, the policeman on duty thereabouts finds it necessary to form the dense crowd of Miss X.'s guests into ranks, and organisers ot Sensible Charities shako their heads and say, "This is no way to set about it." The guests, however, are not critical, but spend the time in remarking to cacli other that she ain't never yet give them the slip, and in staring profoundly at tho black scurry of the river. At length car-lights appear, increase, and become stationary, and out of her motor steps Miss X., who is brisk, elderly, and small. She dispenses brcad-n nd-bntter buns, a little to each guest, trotting quickly down the row, and if there are more guests than buns she says in a clear, little voice, "l'_"i afraid that's all to-night, but I will start from tho other end with tho Boots." The discarded boots are put out in a row on the bridge and the new ones replace them. As there are not enough of these either for all the guests, tho unluckv ones review the discards, and anyone whose boots are worse even than these can still make a change. A great many avail themselves of this chanco and soon the second rank of boots retires in favour of a third company of derelicts. Then Miss X, with perhaps a'business-like: "Next week, same time and place," -gets into her. car and drives away. "Now, then," says the policeman aroiablv, "move along there, move along." ' Carols.

As I write a very small brass band accompanies a verv small choir in the performance of "Come, all ye Faithful," down in the little valley road below. It is a warm night and the garden smells of cabbage-tree blossom, carnations, and swect-3cented stocks. Surely these must he the very waits of my childhood. In my thoughts I go back to a night in London, three years ago to this very night. I was staying in the Rembrandt Hotel opposite the Oratory, and had come back late through icv streets. The courtyard far beneatli mv bedroom window was silent and quite given over to frost. Just as sleep would have come a boy began to sing clown there, very sweetlv indeed, with no expression, as choir boys sing: "0, come all ye faithful. Joyful and triumphant, 0, come ye, 0, come ye to Bethlehem. : . ." It was verv late, as I have said, and cold for him to be out there, so small, he sounded; yet he seemed to take nlcasuro in what he was at, and trolled out so lustily he might have been six - stories up and perched on the rimey window sill. He only sang that one carol, and then. I suppose, blew on his finger-nails and went homa to bed.