AFTER MIDNIGHT!

Greymouth Evening Star, 26 May 1928, Page 9

AFTER MIDNIGHT!

English Humorist Writes of “Joys ” of Night Clubs.

Mr. D. B. Wyndham Lewis, possibly England’s leading humorous writer, has something witty to say about night clubs. . . . “I hear my bones within me say, "Another night, another day.' ” —A Shropshire Lad. HELL, here we are, having come on. Having been lounging at the theatre, here we are lolling in this expensive nightclub, having come on. A night of pleasure. Yes. And it is not over yet. More pleasure to follow. Yes. I wonder when I can go home. Well, you can’t. After all, what does a night of this sort amount to? What does it amount to? I don’t know. I’m not the host. /Well, where is he? There he is, crouching behind the flowers, looking pinched and old. Well, give him a cheery smile. Let him see you aren’t one of those who eat nothing for supper but Coq cn pate d'Orsay, Saladc Rosette. Well; he knows that. Does he? Yes, he does, or you wouldn’t be here. Oh, wouldn’t I? No, you would not. Well, here I am, anyway, having come on.

And now let us languidly survey the place. How bright! . How gay the faces! What do you mean, gay? Relatively gay, that’s what I mean. There are three degrees of gay—relative, absolute, and Maisie. Oh, how siZ-ly. But look—yes, this is an expensive night-club. There is Mr. Arn*ld B*nn*tt. And there’s Lady Thingumbob. And over there is the Duchess of Something, who, taking me no doubt for a Labour leader, smiles witchingly. Well, Duchess, you are wrong. I have only one evening suit, no cigar, and no jewellery, and I tie my evening ties myself. But there, perhaps - it - is-for-myself- that-I-please. Well, let us imagine so. What a thing, after all, is Imagination! What did Dr. Johnson say in 1779? “Were it not for imagination, Sir, a man would be as happy embracing a chambermaid as a Duchess.’-’ How true. How true! And in 1779 it must have been easier to tell the difference. Nowadays— l beg your pardon, sir, but the lady you. arc embracing is a Duchess. Oh, 1 am so sorry! Really I am—well! Tck, tek! I .suppose I was carried away, being accustomed to nothing more intoxicating than the embraces of halfsisters of Knights of the British Empire. Well, don’t let it occur again. Very well, Heaven helping me. And here comes the food. For me, a devilled bone. Where is our host? Show it to him. Reassure him. I say, old fellow, this is what I’m having—a devilled bone. Hone. Bone! He knows now it isn’t me when the bill comes. How gray and lined he looks, poor devil. But here come the villagers. Two more Duchesses, and what may be a man or a woman, escorting what is probably a woman, or a man. I also noticed Sir William Grummitt sitting with Lord Glue. Sitting with, not on. Lady Idgeworth came on with a party. Party of what? At a tabic in the west alcove Sir Champton Champ-ton-Champton was supping very quietly. And quite right too. I wonder when I can go home. 'When shall I sec, when shall I see, God Jcnows! My little village smoke; or pass the door, The old dear door of that unhappy house That is to me a kingdom and much , more?, ' ’ I

Verses written by Renaissance Poet in Night-Club, having come on. Alternatively, Ode on Intimations of Immorality from Recollections of Early Childhood. You mean “Immortality,” don’t you? No. The first “t” is silent, as in “ptarmigan.” How puzzling! Never mind. Go on talking vivaciously to the girl in green. No. I am sick of the girl in green, and I have used up my expensive topics; and, moreover, she is now. talking to her husband, the novelist, to whom she was no doubt recently married. Why, how do you deduce recent marriage? I deduce recent marriage from the fact that she is listening to him with obvious interest. Oh, how do you do?

This is my big, big, big, clever husband, who is so simply wonderful. And this is my little wife who is not only a daily inspiration to me in my creative work, but also my severest critic. No champagne, waiter, thank you. •Ten minutes to one. Well, girl, I don’t know. Frankly, I am dubious about this marriage of yours. He seems to me an unpleasant type; neurotic, novel-writing, noisome, and Nordic. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, something better than his dog, a little dearer* than his horse. Oats and bran-mash for horse, two pounds five. Bread and butter for wife, two pounds seven and ninepence. Wilkins, we seem to have spent a lot on bread and butter this month. Yes, sir. Well, see to it, Wilkins, see to it. And he swaggers away, girl, to bully hardworking publishers. Oh, no, not all publishers! Hit Chatto (for example) and you have to reckon with Windus. Strike Sidgwick, and Jackson is on you like a tiger. Lay one finger on Simpkin, and Marshall, Hamilton, Kent and Co. (Ltd.) gallop up hotfoot in battle formation. It’s the friendless, isolated publisher, girl, that such a man as this grinds to powder. However, it’s too late now. You have

married him. Shall we dance? Yes, let us dance. Twenty past one. Duchess, peering more closely and seeing that P am not Mr. J. H. Thomas, gazes through and beyond with patrician and musicalcomedy morgue, countered by me with frigid indifference, as of a Stoic philosopher’s prize Persian sitting in an ice-box. . i Two-thirty. What’s that? Home? Somebody suggested going home? Yes, your husband, girl. Yes. Your admirable husband; whose novels, I may add, are probably superb. What? You won’t go yet? You won’t? Observe a smile of infinite meaning (un fin sourire) curling my lip. My dear sir, I fear you have married a fribble! My poor fellow, I am sorry for you. You seem to me compact of the most sterling qualities, and you are tied for life to a mere bit of empty fluff in green georgette with old-gold panels. Well, it’s too late. I will come over and grip your hand directly, my splendid fellow. Meanwhile — Three-fifteen. Do I like books? Yes. I like books about Death. Illustrated books about Death. Illustrated by Holbein,' with pictures of Death. Yes. Let me tell you about his Dance of Death. First, one sees the figure of Death. . . ,