THE SKETCHER.

Otago Witness, Issue 3662, 20 May 1924, Page 65

THE SKETCHER.

STARVING IN GERMANY. The instant we had sat down in the Munich restaurant, waiters rushed at us with Russian caviar and Heligoland lobsters, writes Rothay Reynolds. “It just shows,” said Jane, when I had sent the fellows about their business, “that the Germans are really starving. The poor things are so hungry that the, waiters have to give them lobsters and things at once. Besides, I should like some oysters.” “They are Is 4d each,” I said sternly. Jane sighed. “Everybody else seems to be having them,” she said, looking round the room. “Do not imagine," I said, “that we can afford the luxuries of Germans. You will be given a little soup, a cutlet, and, as a treat, a trifle of ice pudding.” The cutlets turned out to be thick slabs of veal as big as the sole of your boot. “It's enough for two families,” I said. “It's revolting,” cried Jane. “Tell them to take away about three-quarters at once or I shall lose any appetite I ever had. But, of course, it's very, very sad.” “Why?” I asked. “It's only another proof that they’re starving,” she explained. “Only people who were ravenously hungry could eat such masses of food.” And after we had fed, she announced that We were going to dance. “And not a grand place, please," she said. So we went to a great hall with people drinking at little tables, and we jostled against jolly young clerks and shop-girls to an excellent jazz-band. A man brought round an entire cluster of bananas, and sold every one of them at Is 2d. "That’s final,” said Jane. “Nobody who was not starving would give Is 2d for a banana.” BREAKING IT OFF. Whatever the reason and the circumstances may be, the breaking of an engagement means for both the breaker and the broken, a very bad quarter of an hour. However difficult it may be for a girl to claim release from her promise to marry, it is a much more difficult task for a man. The more manly he is, the more he shrinks from inflicting the pain and humiliation upon a woman which the breaking of his engagement involves. I have, indeed, known men of the sensitive sort, says Grace Thorne, who have gone the length of leading an unwanted bride to the altar, because they couldn’t find the courage to disentangle themselves while they had the chance. When the reason for saying “Good-bye” is due to outside conditions, there is no excuse for not facing the situation frankly. Marriage is, after all, a contract, and if during the course of the engagement, the circumstances of either party become entirely different from what they were at the beginning of it, explanation and an offer of release becomes a plain duty. To shirk it is to marry under false pretences. But in the vast majority of cases the impulse to break comes from falling out of love, or possibly from the realisation that what looked like love was a mere transitory infatuation which has died a speedy death. How is a man who has ceased to care for a girl whom he has asked to be his wife, to confess the brutal truth, especially if he feels that her feeling for him has undergone no change? As a rule, he avoids taking the initiative, hoping that she will recognise the signs of his cooling devotion, and give him the freedom which he dares not ask for. And usually these tactics are successful, for women, even the least intelligent, know by intuition when the divine fire begins to flicker out. However careful he is not to hurt her by open indifference, howe\er desperately she may try to deceive herself, in her heart a woman always knows when love lies a-dying. Under these circumstances she owes it to herself to set her lover free at whatever sacrifice. If she is weak enough to cling to him in the vain hope of rekindling the dead embers, she will either force him to blurt out the cruel truth in a moment of exasperation, or drag him into a reluctant marriage with the certainty of misery for both. When the girl is the first to tire the same counsel holds good. The truth, and nothing but the truth, is the only foundation upon which happiness in marriage can be built. ORIGINALITY IN FICTION. Every editor is on the look-out for the really original story (writes “ A Magazine Editor ”); but his sense of humour impels him to certain mental reservations as to the exact definition of the word “ original.” The only accurate definition of “ originality ” when used by an editor is “ originality of treatment ” —in other words, freshness, individuality, and a capacity for regarding even the most hackneyed of “ plots ” from a unique, Out always convincing, angle. If one set “ plot ” were to be handed to half a dozen writers to develop into a readable story, the result would u evi tably be surprisingly at variance with die original concept. Each writer would naturally handle the material in his own way, with the result that each d the six stories would read differently, thougu based on the same theme. That <s the ultimate analysis of personality in writing. I am handling what are (more or less rightly) termed “worked-out plots every day of my editorial life. Practically every idea or suggestion submitted to me has been “ done before.” But although I am always on the lookout for something new, I realise sub-

consciously that nothing is new o-day, that everything has been “ done beiore, and so, while still waiting for the elusive New idea, I concentrate on the method of treatment, the angle from which tfiese “ worked-out ” themes are regarded. * * w * * Writing fiction is much like progressing in one vast circle—you arc bound to come back to the place you, started horn because you are dealing with human nature, and human nature never changes —-at least, fundamentally. The goal to aim at is freshness if outlook individuality characterisation — and that ever-new “ twist ' m the development of your story which sets it apart from all others. Select any single weekly paper or monthly magazine on sale to-day and read it from cover to cover. You will find, probably, much that interests you, but nothing that strikes you as being absolutely original. Here and there, however, you may come upon an isolated story which causes you to exclaim, This is something new!” But if you take the trouble to analyse it you’ll find that the basic idea is no more original than the story of Adam and Eve. What has surprised you out of your lethargy has been the atmosphere —the special viewpoint—the method ol treatment adopted by the author, .vho has thus succeeded in impressing his own particular personality upon your imagination. THE FUN OF BEING FORTY. A fascinating novel that is being much read to-day opens with the statement, "It is a pity that we cannot die when we have lived our lives,” indicating 40 as the period. But 1 say (remarks Cecilia Hill in the Daily Chronicle) it is only then that we begin to live: when we have known what it is to be dizzy with happiness and tragically low, having weathered storms, made blunders, achieved success —in short, “lived our lives”—then it is we build up life anew on those experiences with wisdom added to our knowledge—and freedom, too. For until then we are in bondage, not in our homes, but to some absorbing affection or ambition or cause. But at 40 or thereabouts —the age is figurative — we come out of that obsession and the storm and stress with independent judgment and principles formed therein to guide our future. Then we who are practical take stock of life. Have we lost romance at 40 ? By no means, neither men nor women. But it is modified by reason. Have we lost our enthusiasms and quixotry ? Only the first white heat that is a part of the divinity, so to say, of youth, and for that we have gained experience, and wider sympathy, too. Gone are the sweeping condemnations that we used to pass at 20. And if we no longer give ourselves to hero-worships we also get no heart-breaking disillusionments. We have not lowered oar standard—the more we see of human nature, che more we reverence what is trMy great,—but we know ourselves, we have a keener sense of humour, we do not look for grapes on thorns. We have settled down. We generally know at 40 how much money we shall have to spend in future, and what kind of people we shall have to live with, and which are our real friends. By that time we have generally found the work that is congenial to us; we know what pleasures we enjoy and which are waste of time and money. Above all, we know in what direction we best help our fellow-creatures and where we only hinder. Have we lost charm and beauty ? Each age has its own. Some men and women are actually handsomer as they grow older. Besides, we know what colours suit us and what styles to wear. We can ail keep our figures and our muscles fit. Most of us have more vigorous health at 40 than at 20, and take more care of it • knowing how much golf or tennis suits our constitution, how much sleep we need, and what to eat and drink. In short, good sense takes its right place in life and shows us how to make the best of things—a great art. And 40 (or thereabouts) takes joy in simple things. A talk by the fireside with an old friend gives as much pleasure as a ball—at sweet-and-twenty. A fine tune heard through the window as we go down tlie street, an old book read again, the sight of a lively child, an opportunity of service to a fellow-creature—these are joys that might have passed unnoticed in our heady youth. As for the sense of beauty, it deepens with the years. The new moon seen against a frosty sunset, the faint green of larches beside a red ploughed fieid, the changing light of clouds—these can still take our breath away when we are 40. Yes, we can make life a fine adventure when we have “lived our lives. THE YOUNGER GENERATION. When 1 was a young man (remarks Edwin Pugh) there used to be a lot of talk about the younger generation knocking at the door. But now, it seems to me, the younger generation doesn't trouble to knock. As a rule, it hasn't time to conic to the house at all. It rings you up on the telephone. Or buttonholes you in the street and invites you to lunch at its club before it has got your name right. Perhaps you think I am a wee bit bard on the modern young man? W ell, I am—at this moment. I am always karu on him when I am not in his company. It’s the only chance I get. Seems to me that the young man wouldn’t matter so much if he could only bo brought to realise that the world was here before he came. He would be rather a nice boy then. But usually he is so dissatisfied with the way Nature doe* things that lie wants tio improve on

them. He thinks that Nature doesn t know enough, that she is too slow and old-fashioned. He thinks he was born to set right her mistakes. And lie includes me among those mistakes. And, personally, 1 could stand that pretty well, for I am long-suffering and docile as a blind kitten. But, then, be has a habit of going about and explain ing me to other people. And t don’t want to be explained. I don’t think any explanation of me is necessary. Ah, well! It’s an unsatisfactory world, but it is not entirely the younger generation that makes it. so. It’s a hard world. But you mustn’t expect to soften it by using your head as a battering-ram. You only soften your head that way. Thougn it is better perhaps to soften your head than to harden your heart. * * * » * And then there’s the modern young women ! Bo you remember the old maiden aunt of your childhood? Well, she is dead She is very dead indeed. You never see the like of her nowadays. Nowadays women are not young women at all until they are 30 or so. They are girls up to then. And even at 40 they often have 8 girlish laugh. Indeed, the older they get the more girlish they get. At 17 the mere ’hit who has just bobbed her hair knows much more about men than her mother dees More than the men know about themselves. More than there is to know, per haps. They will chaff their old father’s oldest friends and flirt with their mother’s eldest sweethearts as if the day before yesterday were 10 years ago. They will talk among themselves about themselves ;..s il the Eternal Feminine (or whatever else they call it these days) were a brand-new idea. At 20 they say that they will never tie themselves up to any mere man, not realising that some day they may remember and regret liow they used to tell the troth by accident. By that time they will bo 17 again. Sweet 17 and 20! In the old days it was different. Girls grew up into women then, and women became either wives and mothers or old maids. Sometimes, maybe, the old maids were not quite sure that they were old maids yet; but they were the only jnes who hadn’t long since made up their minds about that. Now the modern young woman has made up her mind about everything long before she has altered her dresses to the prescribed shortness. And it is not the kind of woman she is, but that she should be a woman at all that puzzles me. WOMAN— AND THE LAW. The scene is in Central Africa. It is a village of thatched mud huts, pawpaw trees, and mealie patches. The Chief, more like an old nippo than a human being, wearing a ieopaidskm cap, a necklace of teeth, and a sporran of monkey fur, is holding a court ol justice on the shady side ol his grass fence. Before him are the litigants, Gob and Bitta, who, being common men, have nothing on but a scrap of goatskin. “Not only did he take a wild pig from the trap which I myself set,” complained Gob, “but he has now stolen my wife.” “And what of it:” jeered Bitta. “She is a woman of no value. ire got her from a mission station for nothing.” “Nevertheless, lord, she has two blankets, and these she has taken away with her. ’ ’ The Chief shook his head gravely. “I do not approve of these modern marriages, ’ he said. “Where nothing" is paid they seldom last long. A wife should be paid for. And paid for before the wedding day, not afterwards, as is now the custom, by instalments of 10 pieces of grass cloth a month. I have endless trouble over these new-fashioned marriages. However, Gob, since the woman was first yours, she must return to you.” “Lord, that I have told her,” said Gob eagerly, “but she will not come. She prefers Bitta because he feeds her on chicken. “Chicken!” exclaimed the aged Chief, his black eyes blazing with sudden and terrible wrath upon the accused. “You arc to allow her to eat chicken, a food utterly taboo for women by law and by the sacred word of the priests?” “Sometimes I let her pick the bones,” admitted Bitta with shame. “She is an educated woman and does not believe in taboos. ” The Chief, who had been almost bored with the infidelities of Mrs Gob, was now thoroughly roused, outraged in his deepest feelings. He rose to his feet and spoke with a mighty roar, stamping on the earth to emphasise his words. “Then I say that she shall believe in them,’ he cried. “All women shall believe in taboos. What will the country come to if they are allowed to eat what they please? Soon there will not be a goat or a sheep for a man to eat, and as for chickens, they will be gone before we know they are out of the egg. Neither will I have women flaunting around in blankets, making a pretence of modesty they do not feel, and causing discontent among those who wear only a bunch of green leaves.” “Oh, wise and mighty judge!” murmured Gob. “The judgment of the court is this,” said the Chief, speaking now in a milder tone: “The husband of the woman shall pay to me a line of one goat for breaking the law in the matter of chicken, and a large pot of millet due for the costs of this action. The goat shall be a fat and tender one. The blankets shall be confiscated to the court, for the nights are now cold and I am no longer young.” “But which of us two,” they demanded in a dismayed chorus, “is the husband of this unspeakable female?” “In the matter of conjugal rights,” said the Chief sagely, “I do not interfere. It is a matter for the woman herself to decide.”

CAPITAL PUNISHMENT PROBLEM. This morning, wrote an English barris-ter-at-Law, when the last mail left England, the Home Secretary is to receive a deputation to urge the total abolition of the death penalty. Various societies are joinong in this representation, including the Howard League and the Friends. Humane feeling throughout the community will consider their case with respect. The horror of exacting the death penalty, however, must not submerge the duty of protecting the State and safeguarding its sanctions. At one time, for nearly 200 offences, capital puninshment followed conviction. The progress of reform, to which the Howard League contributed with honour, brought a reduction to the crimes of treason and murder. The execution of Sir Roger Casement was the only instance for many years of treason. Public sentiment has sometimes favoured the exemption of women from capital punishment, but it is doubtful whether this can be justified. In other countries the practice varies. Italy, Holland, Norway, Sweden, and Rumania (to mention the larger States) have abolished hanging. France, Germany, Russia. Spain, and other lands retain execution. The American practice is astonishingly dissimilar. Twelve States in the Union have abolished capital punishment, twenty four still exact it, while eight retain it not only for murder but rape, three for arson, two for burglary, one for trainwrecking, and one for kidnapping. But the experience of other lands is not conclusive. National disposition may suggest varieties of punishment. You cannot compare the quick and passionate temperament of the South with the slow and phlegmatic nature of the North. It is a matter of severely practical concern whether, in present circumstances, public opinion should approve this demand made upon the Home Secretary. One who has had to do with many murderers may be heard on this issue. The responsibility of ending the life of a human being is heavy. All concerned in capital punishment are unlikely to desire its occurrence except when unavoidable. The reluctance of juries to convict, the extreme care of judges and counsel, the minute examination of mitigating circumstances, and the general solicitude for the convicted in deserving cases —all this shows the marked reluctance to exact the death penalty. Practical experience, however, is the best test in deciding this question. Does anyone doubt the right and duty of the State to execute, for instance, the Irish desperadoes who have murdered unarmed men at Queenstown? In my view there must reside in tlie State, a reserved power to exact death for diabolical acts of murder. Classify murder as you will, differentiate as you should between degrees of culpability, in the last resort some power of ending the lives of callous blackguards who commit murder must remain for tlie protection of society. Every week we read occurrences which bring to light the existence of callous and desperate miscreants. In happier times a safer community may take different action, but we rely upon the sturdy good sense of the present Home Secretary to resist a mistimed appeal. THE DAWN OF LOVE. By A. G. Thornton. When our tortoise got into the cellar one sad autumn morning and was not quick enough to dodge a ton of coal that followed him shortly after, none grieved more than Micky, the dog. He haunted the coal cellar for days, and carried a good deal of coal away with him after each haunting, but no sound came from out the depths to show that Eclipse (the tortoise) still lived. Giving up hope, Micky came in and sat down on tlie cat with the air of ono who suspected but had no definite proof. His grief was only another instance of the strange fact that love can grow from aversion and vice versa. For when first introduced to Eclipse, Micky showed all the symptoms of acnite mental distress. He so far forgot himself as to bark in the dining room, subsequently looping the loop over the fire-irons. The tortoise’s fondness for the rug did not improve matters. Before he arrived most of Micky’s leisure time indoors nad been spent in edging the cat- off the rug. He would come in, and, seeing the cat right in the centre of the rug, would, with the most absent-minded air in the world, tread on her tail. She would move two paces to the right; whereupon Micxy, turning round, would abstractedly tread on her tail with his back legs. In this way he would get her to the very edge of the rug, when the cat would retire to the hassock under the table, wash her face and sneer impotently. Micky could then go out to the garden again with the satisfying feeling that his duty had been done; a bas les chats and fireside freehold for dogs. ***** But these educational methods cut no ice with Eclipse, also fond of the rug and the fire. When Micky snoved, Eclipse swiftly withdrew into himself, and maintained a strict reserve. It was an unanswerable argument which had the entire but secret approval of the cat.. Micky took to blustering, but m face of that stony silence he soon desisted. Ot a nomadic nature, Eclipse would r I ten take a walk in the garden, chatting with late snails. No matter what he was doing, Micky always followed on these occasions, takimr views of the progress from north, south, east, and west, f..iJ sitting down every now and again to study the mechanism. When the thing irritated him mote than usual he would dash up and take a

tentative bite at the nearest leg. Eclipse, however, was always too quiex for him. Legs and head were always withdi i vn, and finding himself confronted by an insoluble and practically unbiteabie mass, Micky would knock Ins head on the wall near the dustbin and give desperate epase to an imaginary cat. Emotional stress of any kind must always lead to a violent climax, and Micky s aversion turned to love under the following remarkable circumstances. l witnessed them from the window, and am glad now 1 did not intervene until late in the scene. Eclipse was in the front garden steering a steady four knots a year in a straight course for the holly bush. Micky, as usual, was in attendance, and thinking at a tremendous speed. Everything seemed as usual -when the garden gale bounced open and in came the bull terrier from >to. 97. Now Micky, though a perfect gentleman and a good goer where cats are concerned, did not lute the bull terrier trom No. 97. Quite early in their acquaintance there had been a misunderstanding, out of which Micky had come minus a portion of the left ear. Since then he had decided it was unlucky to pass bull terriers on the same side of the street. Seeing this fellow now, and having very little room to manoeuvre, Micky 7 letreated to our doorstep. Eyeing him malevolently. No. 97 paused, wondering whether it was worth the trouble to reduce the little beggar’s other ear. And then his eye caught Eclipse, looking at him with his usual frank, reflective gaze. ‘" V\ Ii «t ho!” said the bull terrier in effect, and pounced. Uf course, he was too late, and his bewilderment at the closing of the defences was so quaint that Micky’s tail almost went up again. But No. 97 was an inquiring dog. Faced by this original sort of bone, he set to work in a do or bust spirit to demolish it. He pawed and bit and thrust, and was about to turn the whole edifice* over, when Micky interfered. "Hi! ” barked Micky 7. ‘You aliez!” Desisting, No. 97 looked over at him. “Talking to me?” he growled. Rather worried, Micky nevertheless replied, “Yes, you allez.” “You miserable little mongrel ” began the bull terrier, advancing. “Our tortoise,’ explained Micky. “Not your garden. You allez.’’ And then, in a falsetto, “Open the door, somebody 1” When I did open the door, there was Micky standing square over Eclipse, all his teeth bared, his tail out straight, and the bull terrier similarly arguing but obviously puzzled. No. 97 was relieved, I thought, when I opened the gate and hinted broadly that lie was de trop. “What I wouldn’t do to you if he wasn’t here!” he said horribly to Micky in passing. “You go to !” said Micky fiercely, but glad to see me. And when the gate shut he barked in triumph, and as Eclipse raced towards us, he stretched out his forelegs and peered into those tortoiseshell ey 7 es and laughed, “Oh, you boy 1” That afternoon the dining room dispositions were: Cat on hassock sneering, Micky centre of rug, and nestling against him and perfectly happy 7, Eclipse, recently an outsider but now a pal.