The Goddess of the Machine

New Zealand Times, Volume LIII, Issue 12507, 24 July 1926, Page 12

The Goddess of the Machine

There comes a time in the life of every man. who ekes out a living by his pen when he can no longer stand the sight of his own handwriting. Ideas bright as angel’s wings put on a hateful dullness under his familiar and by now detested fist; in that scrawl gossamer turns to lead. Possibly the reason is that he has used that hand too often for ignoble purposes. “A cheque for that overdue rent will, a little later in the mouth. . . .” “In the matter of Mr Snip’s account Mr Afate trusts that shortly . . .” “Base is tiro slave that pays.” cried Pistol, and base must be the handwriting in which are made those vague promises of payment. I had tendered so many that at length a kind of lowness had crept into my penmanship, and, I feared, infected the idea behind. I mentioned this to George. “You’ve got a low mind, ol’ man,” said that sage.

I objected. “Then get a secretary. She’ll spend half the time powdering her nose, and the other half thinking what a fool you are. But you can always sack her.”

Juno came. . Divinely tall and most divinely fair, this goddess of the machine sailed into niy not altogether uninhabitable room so that it took on the aspect of a hovel. Round her regal neck were rows of Orient pearls. From- the lobes of her ears depended ornaments of jade, which jangled as they swayed to the tossings of her proud and lovely head. Each of her forefingers sparkled with diamonds. Now if there is one thing which inclines me to murder it is the wearing of rings on that finger. Wainwright’s excuse —that his niece had thick ankles —was, in my opinion, far less valid. ‘’Your- typewriter?” she ns..ed. I confessed that I had none. Whereupon the goddess swam to the telephone and confabbed with Messrs Click and Clack. Next my chequebook was requisitioned, and my overdraft made to take on a twelve-pound shade of greater unpleasantness. “Sign here, please I” commanded the descendant of a line of queens.

Now must the furniture of the room be entirely rearranged. The sunlight must strike the machine across Juno’s left shoulder. An old print of two boxers stripped to the buff offended Juno’s delicate gaze. IVhy were there no sun-blinds? Juno would require flowers. Juno proposed to take her holiday in August. Would I please move the bookcase to the opposite wall? I did so move it, pantingly. I telephoned to the maker of sun-blinds, i rang tip the florist. I said that, of course, I never wrote anything in August. “If you have quite finished,’ remarked Juno, freezingly, “I shall be glad to take down your article. I have been waiting twenty minutes. ’ It was not “Amen” which stuck in my throat. J » • • • Would the ideas come? They would not. At the end of half an hour I had achieved such drivel as would have disgraced.a child’s spelling-book. And then the post brought this month’s isAUTHOR OF “BEAU GESTE” Few people who have read the stories of the French Foreign Legion, written by P. O. Wren, can have failed to re-

mark their intense reality and to wonder whence came the passionate sincerity which animates the children of his imagination and quickens the interest in their lives. Many people have instinctively come to the right conclusion; for Major Wren has himsolf lived the life depicted in his books. He has seen life from the angle of a sailor, navvy, tramp, schoolmaster, journalist, farm-labourer, explorer, hunter, and slum-dwelling costermonger. He has seen service in three armies. He has served as a legionary in the French Foreign Legion, as a trooper in a crack British cavalry regiment, and as a major in the Indian army, and he fought in East Africa during the Great War. sue of “The Highbrow Revue,” My valued contribution hail been shorn of its most important sentence. I rang up the editor, who put the blame on a subordinate. “Mr Pykan did not think you meant quite that, so he cut it.” ‘‘May vultures gripe his guts!” I said, mid put down the instrument. Then Juno spake. “T nm not amused.” “But it’s Shakespeare,” I protested. “Shakespeare or not. it is no language for a gentleman to use before a lady.” And her offence was such that for the remainder of the day she remained dumb—stark, staxing dumb. And throughout the next day as well. She made me feel lower than the dogs. “Sack her,” said George, to whom I confided my misery. “Vou.do R.” I said. “No blooming fear. I ain’t got no locus standi. Besides, it’s quite simple; you just bung her out.” “But suppose she won’t he bunged out?” "Oh, don’t bother me,” said George. “Mny vultures gripe her guts, anyhow!” IJcIl hath no fury like a woman nackcd. Wherefore did I proceed gingerly, employing His Majesty's postal service lor what, I I'ecl must have been its original purnoso.

“Dear Juno,” I wrote, “being tod classy for me, 1 hereby take pleasure in sacking you.” Ungrammatical perhaps, but to the point. Juno’s reply reposes in the Agatian

archives. It is a model of vituperative elegance. Wherefore a situation ns typist occurs. But since I am no gentleman, but just an ordinary chop, no lady need apply.- James Agnte in the London “Chronicle.” A tablet in memory of JonoMi Conrad has been placed an Ibe wall o) a house ot Cracow on tin* site of ilint in whicli LU® great author lived as a boy.

Iho energetic and versatile Hilaire Belloc is dividing his time at present between the second volume of the history of England, his life of the Duke of Marlborough, ai new novel (to be

illustrated .by G. K. Chesterton and provisionally named “The Emerald”), si book oil trignnometry, and innumerable newspaper articles.

Close on a hundred writers and artists from all parts of Australia end New Zealand give of their best to the July issue of “Aussie." There are some well-known names among the contributors—Rod Quinn, Will Lawson, Les Robinson, Jim Orahame, C. Iv. Townshend. Percy Lindsay, to mention a few. AH the jokes in this issue are well worth passing on. With its new- and more attractive type “Aussie” looks bigger, brighter and better. , Jt is understood tliot the second volume of the “Life of Klim Edward" was left, practically finished by the late Sir Sidney Leo.