Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

On the ground floor the walls bear the initials and names of ‘regular,’ ‘terrier,’ and K.’s army, together with those of many a French poilu. The top storey has been smashed in by a 15-centimetre shell, but the stonework round the windows remains, and there, cut in the limestone, are to be found records of British soldiers who had tenanted those rooms under very different circumstances! J. JEMISON, PRISONER OF WAR—TAKEN AUGUST 1806—ALDERSON—ELLIS—WHEATLEY P. of W. 1806, 07, 08, 09, 10. Rather a long spell! but, knowing our French friends as we do now, we can be sure their imprisonment was not wholly unpleasant.

Some of the most incongruous of signs are the ordinary hand-posts at cross roads indicating the way to places over ‘the other side.’ I seldom pass one of these plain iron signs without thinking of the strange contrast between the life now and that of three years ago. An arrow points towards a straight white road leading over the hill—BAPAUME X KILOMÈTRES. Not so very far either and yet no man on earth could get there!—though a whole army can, and will in time. Over the crest the smooth surface is cut by innumerable trenches and barred with wire entanglements. Even here, at the cross roads, though well out of view, it is unwise to linger—the Huns have a machine-gun trained down the road and open indirect fire at intervals.

On first coming to the front it is curious to see an immortal name like Neuve Chapelle displayed on an ordinary everyday signpost—what would an American souvenir hunter give for such a relic!

When travelling towards the line, as you begin to get near things the type of traffic notice alters. Motorists are no longer asked to ‘mind the bump’ nor horsemen to ‘keep off the crops.’ ROAD CLOSED TO ALL BUT SINGLE VEHICLES OR INFANTRY IN SMALL PARTIES shows that it is unwise to attract the attention of the German observation balloon opposite. Then you may come to a sentry with a red flag who stops you and points to a large placard—VEHICLES 4 MILES AN HOUR. _DUST MUST NOT BE RAISED._ The Hun has probably got a gun or two laid on this bit of road and his observer is watching patiently for a tell-tale wisp of dust! After this it will probably not be very long before you have to get out and walk. ROAD UNDER ENEMY OBSERVATION—NO TRAFFIC OF ANY KIND BEYOND THIS POINT DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS.

There will be another sentry here and he will show you the way to the communication trench unless your work is of some special nature and you have a pass that entitles you to walk on and risk it.

As soon as the trench zone is reached notices and signboards are more frequent than ever. In addition to our own direction posts and trench names there are also, frequently, relics of the French occupation. VERS LE FRONT, VERS L’ARRIÈRE, or the names of communication and fire trenches, such as BOYAU RIDEAU, TRANCHÉE ILLOT.

Again as we approach the firing line the remarks of the wag and the humorist are more frequent. In one place there is a board with a finger pointing to a peculiarly unhealthy sap and inscribed—TO THE WAR! A frequently shelled trench junction bears the legend—DON’T STAND ABOUT HERE—THERE’S A WAR ON!

The signpost TO BERLIN is of course common—or was.

Many of the dug-outs bear fantastic names and, in addition to notices giving the designation of those who occupy them, often have other inscriptions, hospitable or otherwise, such as DEW DROP INN or NO ROOM HERE. Those with a double entrance sometimes display the most fearful threats to those who would attempt to go in by the ‘out’ passage, whereas some such remark as THE ONLY WAY is inscribed over the correct entrance.

It must be remarked, however, that any apparent inhospitality is usually in the interests of the service—the nearer one gets to the front line the more hospitable are the Messes.

The mural decorations of the dug-outs are also worthy of more than superficial notice, as they often reflect the interests or character of the occupants. The pretty faces of ‘Harrison Fisher,’ ‘Philip Boileau,’ and other girls smile at one from the walls of many of these abodes, and Bairnsfather pictures caricaturing the very scenes of the life going on outside are to be seen everywhere. Grim pictures of the war from the pen of Matania and other artists may be found in the dug-outs of some of the more serious-minded, while others show their hankering after yachting, shooting, or racing. A total of many thousands of square feet of wall space must be taken up by cuttings from the ‘Vie Parisienne,’ and in many cases, more especially in the French lines, the occupant himself has been responsible for the pictures and designs in his quarters.

The enemy, too, has his notice boards, and some of them are written and stuck up on the parapet for our benefit or otherwise. Insulting remarks are not infrequently displayed in this way. Sometimes he brags about some big gun he is bringing up to shell our back billets with, sometimes we are told that he is quite ready for our attack on such and such a date—information which is usually incorrect. The German notice with which continental travellers were, perhaps, most familiar before the war is conspicuous by its absence—NICHT HINAUSLEHNEN; it would, however, be a most appropriate warning for visitors to the trenches!

On captured ground some of the German notices and signs still remain, but many have been replaced. A spot which had once been used by the Germans as a dump for stores is now labelled—FRITZ’S DUMP—UNDER ENTIRELY NEW MANAGEMENT!

Those who have their being in the observation posts are particularly shy of visitors and—NO ADMITTANCE—placards of all descriptions greet one at their entrances. In this the observers show their wisdom, for the inexperienced may unwittingly give away the position to the enemy.

It is not always necessary to show oneself to do this. A few puffs of smoke from a pipe, or the use of a telescope without a protecting cowl to keep the sun from reflecting in it, may bring about destruction. I remember a careless Hun drawing attention to an otherwise well concealed post by flourishing an unshaded telescope in the sunlight!

A comic relief to a scene of havoc and destruction in an observation post was once presented to me by a portion of a printed notice giving instructions as to what observers were to look out for and report. The post had been spotted, and after the expenditure of many rounds, the enemy had at last obtained a direct hit. Crawling in through the débris to report the damage, I was confronted by a broken beam to which item 2 of the notice was still adhering—WHAT ARE THE GERMAN GUNS FIRING AT? Would that the answer had been less easy to guess!

_IN SALONICA: KING CONSTANTINE’S FÊTE._

The last day but one! It was my first waking thought. The hot June sun, streaming in from the windows facing the beech-crowned summit of Mount Kotos, which rose above the bare lower downs, warned me it was time to be gone. The wise storks and swallows had already started on their long summer flight; it was time to be following the birds North, as the _Thraki_ was to sail next day.

It was a fascinating place I was leaving, this city on the outer wave of the whirlpool. Salonica had proved unexpectedly interesting, with its little known treasures of art and archæology, and its strange old medley of East and West now further complicated by a new Frankish crusade.

Here were the same mixed feelings of admiration and contempt as at Byzantium, when the kings and knights of Western Chivalry camped for the first time without the walls. Here, too, surprised and equally unwilling hosts watched the foreign soldiery ride clattering through their streets. Here were the same alarums and excursions, the same continual vague, political intrigues, and at the back of it all the same real indifference as to whether French, German, or Russian finally won the Holy Shrine,—or what would seem more likely now, Franco-Spanish Jews.

Each day brought some novel turn of the wheel of Greco-German affairs or some fresh discovery in my exploration of the old Byzantine city on the hill. The summer sun, which woke me up betimes, left me lazily counting one by one, through the mist of my mosquito net, the tall white minarets of the town. Delicate, slender shafts holding the Muezzin’s gallery high in the air, they rose on terrace above terrace to the last broken spire, near where the brown brick towers of the Heptapyrgeion stood out clear-cut against the sky.

These minarets, with their finely-contrasting cypress trees, are numerous at Salonica, for the Turks invariably added one when they altered a church into a mosque. The Greek king did well to leave them standing when he took back the town from the Moslems. Apart from their picturesque beauty, the minarets still serve a useful purpose; for guide books leave one in Old Greece, they are not to be had at Salonica. Should your way lie down the tram-ridden Boulevard Reine Olga, where the roses in the villa gardens are powdered thick with dust, the public will direct you proudly. Or they will cheerfully point out the Rue Venizelos, and even follow you up the dim Turkish Bazaar at its end, urging you to buy from their various eager friends as you pass. Beyond that, across the Roman Via Egnatia, which cuts the town in half, nobody seems to know what happens, nor should a well-brought-up Salonican wish to go.

But the minarets beckon; they prove the best of guides. Their white spires give a sure clue to the whereabouts of the ancient mosques and churches. And here, through my window, I could count most of these landmarks by which I steered. Nearest and tallest rose the minaret of Sancta Sophia, Holy Wisdom, the cathedral church of the Metropolitan.

During the ceremonies of Holy Week and Easter great crowds had gathered here. Good Friday was the day of the people’s procession. The peasants from the scattered villages brightened the town with the cheerful reds and blues of their national costumes, and at night all the world walked singing solemn chants, following the bishops in their glittering copes and jewelled mitres and the simple flower-arched bier.

Easter Eve proved to be the official festival of the Greek army and government. A dense mass of people filled the church and surged confusedly in the darkness of the open square outside it; each man, woman, and child, holding an unlit candle in their hands—some large, some small—painted with holy symbols and flowers; careful souls, mindful of their gala clothes, taking pains to hold their candle gingerly by its long cotton wick.

Within the building the deep gloom was hardly broken by the lights at the two lecterns, at which the laity read by turns, and the glimmer from where behind the icon-screen came the murmur of priests intoning. After what felt an interminable period of waiting, it was midnight. ‘Christ is risen,’ came the cry. The heavy gold embroidered curtain rose, disclosing within the sanctuary the long, low Altar of the Last Supper. Out poured a brilliant procession of ecclesiastics, marching down the nave to take their stand on the platform in the outer court; everyone in the crowd lighting his candle from his neighbour’s as the _cortège_ passed along. In a moment the church was bright from end to end. The massive pillars stood like rocks in a waving flickering sea of gold. Then, for the first time, the great Madonna of the apse shone revealed. Enthroned on high, against the hollow, glowing background of mosaic, She held out Her Son to bless a strange assemblage under the dome, where British and French officers stood with their Greek comrades, headed by the Greek General Commanding, and all his staff, each holding a lighted taper in honour of His resurrection.

What a night for the German aircraft, suddenly flashed across our minds! In the very street outside, now lit with a thousand lights and packed with human beings, I had seen their ugly work only a few weeks before. I shuddered as we forged our way home.

Up the hill directly above Sancta Sophia, the somewhat stumpy minaret of St. Paraskevi reared its head. This grand fourth-century basilica, finer than any building of its kind at Constantinople, is now given over to the Greek refugees from Asia Minor. Their carpets and piteous coloured rags hang in complete disorder from its high wooden galleries.

The platform for the Mihrab, facing towards Mecca, remains aslant the apse; although a tiny altar at its northern end claims the church back for its Christian builders—an altar so small and poor, adorned by such dim, feeble lights, I hardly noticed it at first the day I found my way in there. Here were no crowds, no pomp of a church militant, only the begging children who trotted in my wake. The place appeared empty except for a solitary peasant woman, bowed in prayer before the icon on the little shrine, praying, no doubt, for a safe return to her distant home in Syria—her dress proclaimed how far the wars had driven her. She stood there, a strange impassive figure in her full dark purple trousers and dull red veil, silhouetted sharply against the cream plaster walls and the cipollino columns brown with age and dirt. A faint blue smoke curled from under the unseen cooking-pots in the gallery behind her, blurring the light from the large windows and drifting out across the wide open space. Through it, the arches of the nave and triforium gleamed with the rose and gold and green of their splendid floral mosaics.

Two more great churches the minarets pointed out. St. Demetrius, dedicated to the City’s patron saint, is a basilica not unlike that of the refugees. The mosaics here have a curious silvery sheen, but the marbles are the church’s special glory. By some piece of good fortune the original Byzantine casing of the walls is almost intact. Remembering how this much coveted city has suffered, how, time after time, it has been besieged, burnt, sacked—for it stands where two famous highways cross, from Rome to Byzantium, from Vienna to the Aegean and the East—it is little short of marvellous that any fine old buildings are left; still more so that these treasures should have escaped the general doom of such things. A wonderful mellow tone pervades the great interior, where the one spot of brilliant colour is the gold flag of the Double Empire, which holds the eagles of the East and West aloft.

Alas, that modern Greece should have St. Demetrius in its clutches! The Turks at least left the marbles much as they found them. The Greeks have written their recent triumph in huge black letters right across the apse; October 1912—there is no escaping that or the monstrous Austrian stove—another claimant for the double eagles, which stretches its ugly arms over the nave.

St. Demetrius, as is only right, was used to shelter soldiers rather than refugee civilians. Sketching there I often wondered why so many Greeks in khaki wandered in and out. Very devout people, I thought, though their casual lounge and bored air rather belied them. Anyway, I decided, they cannot all be former sacristans on leave. To Frenchmen of every rank I soon grew accustomed; the blue field uniform was invariably to be seen admiring, drawing, or measuring, each time I went there. Even a British officer strayed in at times, some odd, adventurous spirit who cared for such things—unlike his kind. But why all these shabby Greek Tommies?

One afternoon in the gathering dusk when it grew too dark to work and I was exploring the empty upper galleries, to my astonishment I nearly fell over a sick man. Startled and peering down I saw it was a soldier curled up on his blanket bed. A comrade was hastening to him bringing a pannikin full of water, his footsteps echoing down the long gallery behind me. I beat a hurried retreat, noticing as I did so the kit and beds of a whole company, neatly rolled up for the day, lying in the shadow of the low marble railing. But this was in May; since then there are fewer Royalist troops tucked away in the heart of Salonica.

The furthermost great church—my favourite among all those the minarets showed me—was the round fortresslike St. George, built in the third century. It stands near the Arch of Galerius—the Roman arch of triumph now resounding to the clang of the British army motor-lorries. From its massive strength and air of grave simplicity, it might be one of the towers guarding the eastern wall of the town. No columns interrupt the view within, and on the majestic dome, whose sweep leaves everything clear, is the greatest monument in mosaic handed down from antiquity. It represents a succession of saints, none later than the time of the Emperor Constantine, who gaze pityingly down from the bronze and gold Portals of the Heavenly City. The tall figures are just stiffening from the grace and truth of the classic masters into the cramped outlines of the monkish artists, who feared to study the human form lest their models turned to wicked, tempting demons, all claws and teeth and tail, under their very eyes. The Turks were even more prejudiced on the subject, and defaced figures wherever met, no matter how many robes they wore. But the charm of the whole is quite unspoilt; it lies in the background.

The designer’s naïf joy in a fresh architectural expression shines from this Byzantine Paradise of Revelations. It radiates from these walls whose foundations were Jasper, Sardonyx, and Emerald—Chalcedony from the Macedonian peninsula our troops now hold—and all the other stones whose names are songs, from these arches springing one above another, these shell-ribbed cupolas and alcoves, these vistas of limitless arcades, where storks stand sentinel and peacocks spread their jewelled tails, coloured like cornflowers in grass.

On the low vaulting of the surrounding chapels, hollowed out in the twenty foot thick fortress wall, humble local birds find a place. Ducks and quails, cranes and smaller wild fowl from the Vardar marshes cover the diapered gold ground. Under the Osmanli rule these chapels were reserved for the different companies of the Sultan’s Regiment of Guards, hence the church’s Moslem name—Orta Sultan Osman Djami.

Last to be discovered at Salonica are the few Byzantine churches so small and insignificant they were never claimed by the Turks. No minarets point these out. But they are well worth finding for their splendid carved and painted screens.

Backwards and forwards the churches’ fate has swung. Bullet holes pit their soaring spires, witness to the most recent changes. Feast days and Holy days abound in this town of many faiths. Perhaps the prettiest among them is the Feast of Bairam, when the minarets that remain in the hands of the Moslems twinkle with rows of little lights. Then from my window I could see just how many mosques were left; each one marked by a tall fairy candle, burning steadily on the blue darkness of the hill.

* * * * *

‘Signora, wake, make haste, your Excellency’s boat leaves to-day at noon!’

My reverie over the old town came to an abrupt stop. If this were true, it was useless trying to decide where among all my favourite haunts I would sketch for the last time.

Eudocia, the good-natured Greek-Italian maid, making a noisy entry with my coffee, brought the surprising, unwelcome news.

‘But the _Thraki_ doesn’t sail until Saturday!’ I protested. ‘Are you sure?’

Yes, she was positive. Had not Anastasie, the porter, told her this moment, having got it casually from the haughty-looking Greek Staff Colonel as he flicked imaginary dust off his boots after his early morning ride?

Well, I could not see V. again, or even let him know I was going; that much was certain. But there was only one thing to be done, and with a sinking heart I started to finish packing as rapidly as I could. In the middle of it I remembered I must rush off to the bankers who acted as my Salonican ‘Cook’; the day before, when I had tried to see them, having been one of the numerous fête days, when banks and shops were shut.

In the end there was too much to be done: I had to give up the chase. The _Thraki_ beat me, though not before I had boarded her—luggageless. One peep into the tiny den I was to have slept in made me thankful enough to see her start. The _Syria_, ‘_le bateau de luxe_’ her agents proudly called her (that is the one Greek ship whose decks were ever known to be washed), was to sail on Monday; I should see V. again to say good-bye. All appeared to be for the best.

He rode in that evening nothing doubting, bringing me wild Madonna lilies, with sharp-pointed petals, from the hills above Kerech-Koi; how sad to have missed them and him.

The next day, the day my ship was to have sailed, the town was again _en fête_. It was more than a question of shutting the banks and shops; this time the whole place was gay with pale blue and white bunting for the festival of King Constantine, Bulgaroctonos (Slayer of Bulgars)—an old title of the Greek Emperors somewhat too hastily revived. St. Sophia was to be the scene of another official service, one of triumph at past victories over the King’s present friends.

Rather a tactless subject for so much rejoicing, I could not help thinking, as I heard the Greeks of the hotel going gaily out. But, then, in the Balkans people’s politics change rapidly and irony falls flat.

That day things were to move even faster than usual. The service, if it was held, must have been short. It seemed only a moment before the officials were back. It was a very crestfallen little party I met on my way downstairs. The swords of the Staff Colonel and his smart friends clanked dolefully up the marble steps. The civilians, in their ceremonial evening dress and top hats, looked as if they had been to a ball the night before which had rather disagreed with them. I missed the Railway Controller, a delicate little man with birdlike eyes and walk and a monstrous moustache, who had so far successfully dodged all our demands to open the new line connecting Salonica with Athens. But his _confrère_, the Censor, was there, quite shorn of his heavy importance. Even the cheerful fat Banker, who made it his business to keep the pro-German party in roars of laughter every meal-time—presumably over the Allies’ gullibility—for once hadn’t a smile left and seemed completely nonplussed.

A shot rang out. Or was it only an extra loud bang on the tramway outside? There was evidently some fresh trouble—perhaps a daylight Zeppelin raid. Just then a French friend passed.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ she said, excitedly. ‘We have taken the post-office and the telegraph; not without some fighting. It was early this morning. Come out with me and see what arrives.’

King Constantine’s fête seemed to be off.

The life of the seaport was going on much as usual, except that the quay in front had rather an empty look. But as we turned up a side street, to avoid the press of the Rue Venizelos, we ran into a big crowd. What it was all about was difficult to discover, but it surged round a bewildered-looking Serbian soldier who was being dragged away with some difficulty by a patrol of Greek police. We flattened ourselves against the wall while the angry waves swept past.

In their back-wash we came on the Official Photographer hard at work, charmed to have something to take at last. We questioned him eagerly, but he had only the vaguest notion as to what was on foot. Anyway, here was copy, when the photographs appeared in the London papers the editors could christen them what they liked. And he rushed on in the wake of the ebb-tide, snapshotting as he went.

The Bureau des Postes was our objective. There had been brave doings there, so we had been told. But the spot, when we reached it, appeared fairly peaceful. In a corner of the square a little knot of people had collected round a tall Serbian officer, while a weedy-looking Greek youth explained with some courage, as it seemed to us from the looks of the bystanders, what proved to be the true story of the arrest we had just witnessed.

He had been sitting quietly in that café there up the street, everyone round him busy discussing the King’s fête, when a Greek at the next table had shouted out, suddenly: ‘À bas le Roi!’ and then instantly jumped up and denounced the innocent Serbian as the ill-wisher of Greece’s idol, and called loudly for the police—_lèse-majesté_ being as grave a crime in Greece as in Germany. It was a put-up job.

The tall officer listened attentively, taking notes as he did so. Then mounting his horse, he vanished after the photographer and his prey.

We turned to the post-office at last to try and send a telegram necessitated by my enforced change of plans. But for all its peaceful air it was closely guarded. The imposing French ‘dragon’ at the entrance much regretted, but it was impossible for Madame to do any such thing. ‘Why, what had happened?’ Ah, how should he know? Those were his orders. A British Tommy at another door proved equally correct, but less unbending. He knew nothing officially, of course. ‘Oh, yes, the post-office had been collared this morning—about time, too.’

‘There had been trouble, hadn’t there?’

‘Oh, bless you, no, Mum. They looked very fierce-like at first, fired a few shots and all that, but when they saw we meant it, came out as tame as a Macedonian tortoise.’ As to what was happening inside, he knew no more than we did, but he ventured to guess ‘The Frenchmen are going through Tino’s billets-doux to the Bulgars all right.’

Now the crowd had melted the empty streets wore a curiously menacing air. The grim black vistas of tightly closed iron doors and shutters were more unpleasantly suggestive than the former rioting and noise. Calling on a friendly Consul and his wife was a work of some difficulty. Other unexpected sentries had to be faced. It took time before the suspicious old Turkish concierge would open the courtyard door wide enough to let us squeeze through. The family party within were quite cheerful and unconcerned, but as Monsieur remarked when we were on the point of leaving: ‘Ces émeutes arrivent souvent ici; nous avons eu trois guerres. Je trouve c’est toujours mieux de rester chez soi.’

We took his advice. As we reached home I encountered the Commander, delighted with the change. Now he could stop these wretched local steamers blowing their sirens all day long below his office windows. For there was more noise and fuss when a coasting boat left the quay-side than the whole fleet of the largest liners could possible require.

The English military band, which played to the populace every Saturday afternoon, had become quite a feature of life at Salonica; one could fancy oneself in a peaceful Anglo-Indian station watching the curious semi-Oriental throng gathered at the foot of the old White Tower—a tower built by the Venetians, formerly part of the town walls, but now left stranded like a huge rock in a child’s seashore garden.

The afternoon of the ‘émeute’ the White Tower looked strangely quiet. Gone were the gaily-coloured crowds, the family parties of Israelites and Dumés, the men in their historic furred gabardines wearing the Moslem fez, their wives in their long satin coats and brocade aprons—blue, prune, and violet, the favourite Jewish colours—with curious green, parakeet-like head-dresses, low lace bodices, and necklaces of many rows of seed pearls; the younger women copying Athens and Paris in short skirts and high-heeled yellow boots, for fashions change now the Turks have left.

No pipers played that afternoon to a delighted audience who followed their every movement up and down. The soldiers and sailors of the Allied nations, who usually collected to talk to their friends while they listened to the music, were nowhere to be seen.

The place was empty I thought as we reached it. But, no, among the beds of pansies, stocks, and daisies and the carefully watered little plots of grass, great, grey motor-lorries were drawn up. And there were the French machine-gunners perched on their guns. Very bored they looked, with a populace and soldiery which sat tight behind its iron doors and shutters and wisely refused to come out.

A forest of blue and white flags, festooned with fir branches, fluttered valiantly in the breeze. But no other sign of life and festivity could be seen down the three main roads commanded by the guns. There was nothing doing. As we passed, the soldiers in field-blue were reduced to re-reading their month-old _Illustrations_ and _Petit Journals_.

Under the pine trees in the little café garden beyond, at this hour usually crammed with people, only two nursemaids gossiped together, while their accompanying children and dogs played about unrebuked in the sun.

A nervous-looking waiter brought us tea, having peeped out cautiously and spied us sitting at one of his little tin tables close to the sea-wall. The revolution was falling flat, we had given it up, and were busy discussing the various possibilities of catching a ship home—a matter of great moment to my present companion fresh from six months unrelieved front trenches.

We had not been there long before a gardener appeared and started his evening round of watering. The grass and flowers must not suffer, whatever happened outside his domain. As he came towards us I looked up and noticed that a few more people had crept out and were moving about aimlessly. Then some soldiers walked in carrying instruments; though late, there was to be a band after all.

It settled itself, got out its music, struck up and was soon playing merrily. But to our astonishment it was a Greek band this time—our soldier and sailor musicians were otherwise occupied while General Sarrail took the town. Since the early morning most of the Greek troops had been shut up in their barracks, in case of serious trouble. These must have been specially released. However it was done, it was managed quite amicably, and as we left, instead of an Allied band playing in a Greek seaport, this Saturday afternoon here was a Greek band playing in a French enclave. The ‘émeute’ had ended. King Constantine’s fête-day was not without music of sorts.

SITA.

_WILLIAM DE MORGAN: A REMINISCENCE._

One dark and snowy day last winter a distinguished company met in the Old Church at Chelsea to do honour to the memory of Henry James. Once more this January, under the same grey and gloomy skies, with the same war-cloud hanging like a pall over the land, another memorable gathering took place in the ancient riverside shrine, when the last rites were paid to another illustrious Chelsea resident, William De Morgan. Henry James, greatly as he had endeared himself to us all and nobly as he had thrown in his lot with England in these anxious times, had only recently made his home in this neighbourhood, but William De Morgan had been closely connected with Chelsea for nearly half-a-century. Chelsea was the scene of his triumphs both in art and literature. Here he set up his first kiln, in a garden at the back of Cheyne Row, and here too, in later years, he wrote his famous novels.

His family was of French origin. He told me how one of his Huguenot ancestors, four generations back, went out to India, and married two Frenchwomen in succession. His son, Auguste De Morgan, came over to England, settled here, and became the grandfather of the distinguished mathematician, Augustus De Morgan, who held the post of Professor of Mathematics at University College for more than thirty years, and married the daughter of another mathematician of note, the Cambridge Lecturer William Frend. This Mrs. De Morgan was a remarkable woman, of cultured tastes, whose beautiful face and lively interest in the people and things about her made her still attractive in old age. She is fondly remembered by many of her friends in Chelsea. Their eldest son, William De Morgan, was born at 69 Gower Street in 1839, and took up painting as a profession, before he turned his attention to pottery. His sister, Mary De Morgan, who died eight or nine years ago, was an able and talented woman—a marked contrast to her brother in appearance, being small and slight, with a sharp voice and abrupt manner. She amused people by her quick repartees and witty sayings and wrote several fairy-tales, which recalled Hans Andersen by their imaginative charm. The first of these—‘On a Pincushion’—was published in 1877, and illustrated with drawings by William De Morgan; the last—‘Wind-fairies’—appeared in 1900, and was dedicated to Angela, Dennis, and Clare Mackail, the grandchildren of Edward Burne-Jones. Mary De Morgan also wrote a striking novel, called ‘A Choice of Chance,’ which was published in 1887, under the _nom de plume_ of William Dodson, a name which effectually concealed the writer’s identity. The gift of story-writing was evidently in the family, although in William De Morgan’s case it was to lie dormant for many years.

In 1871, on the death of his father, William De Morgan brought his mother and sisters to live in Cheyne Row, two doors from Carlyle’s home, and began to make his fine lustre-ware in a picturesque old building known as Orange House. After his marriage to Miss Evelyn Pickering in 1888, he settled in a charming old house in The Vale, where he and his wife lived until it was pulled down more than twenty years later, when they moved into a corner house in Church Street. Their winters, however, were chiefly spent in Florence, partly for the sake of De Morgan’s never robust health, partly in order to be near his wife’s uncle, the painter, Spencer Stanhope, who was a prominent member of the English colony in that city. But after the death of this relative the ties which bound the De Morgans to Florence were loosened, and in 1912 they finally gave up their Italian home to spend the whole year in Chelsea.

From his early youth William De Morgan was the intimate friend of Burne-Jones and William Morris, whose artistic aims and tastes he shared, and was a frequent and welcome visitor at the Grange and at Kelmscott House. His simple childlike nature, his ready wit and love of fun, made him a great favourite with the young people in both households. Lady Burne-Jones has told us what an active part he took in their family life, both in joy and sorrow, at one time amusing her children and their young cousin, Rudyard Kipling, with his merry pranks, and on another occasion, when she herself was dangerously ill, sitting up all night with her distracted husband. And Miss May Morris remembers the delight of her whole family when her father wrote to say that he was bringing De Morgan back from town to spend a few days at Kelmscott. De Morgan himself was never tired of recalling these blissful summer holidays in the old Manor on the Upper Thames, when he and Morris roamed up and down the lovely Cotswold country in search of a suitable place for their workshops. Eventually, in 1882, he built a factory for his tiles near Morris’s works at Merton Abbey, and his jars and dishes of glowing ruby and mother-of-pearl were always to be seen in the Morris Company’s showrooms in Oxford Street. In beauty of shape and colour, these lovely things recalled the wonderful Gubbio ware wrought by Messer Giorgio in Renaissance times, while De Morgan’s Persian tiles came so near to those which Lord Leighton brought from Damascus to decorate his Arab court, that it was almost impossible to detect any difference between the two.

Unfortunately, in spite of its decorative charm and of the general admiration which it aroused, De Morgan’s pottery never proved a commercial success. This was partly due to the great cost of production, and partly no doubt to his own lack of business capacity. Like the French potter Palissy, whom in many ways he resembled, De Morgan’s fertile brain was always busy with fresh ideas, always starting out on untrodden tracks and attempting new experiments. If one of these happened to prove successful, he promptly frittered away his earnings in making fresh ventures on a new and grander scale. His kindness and liberality to the workmen in his service were unbounded. He took the deepest interest in their welfare, and countless instances of his generosity to individuals are on record.

During the winters which he spent abroad he was still busy with new experiments and inventions, and set up a shop in his garden in Florence, where he trained Italian workmen to paint tiles with Persian colours under the glaze. But by degrees his connection with the work ceased, and about ten years ago the factory was closed and the moulds destroyed, to the great regret of all lovers of art.

It was just at this moment, when William De Morgan was already sixty-six, that he startled the world and amazed his most intimate friends by revealing himself in a new and altogether unexpected capacity. Suddenly, without any warning, the great potter appeared before the public as a successful novelist. There are comparatively few men in any age who have attained distinction in two separate branches of art. Great poet-painters there have been, it is true, such as Michelangelo in Italy of the Renaissance, and Dante Rossetti in our own times, but there was generally a close connection between their creations in the different arts. Either the picture was inspired by the sonnet, or the verses gave birth to the painting. It would be difficult to trace any connection between De Morgan’s tiles and the novels which his prolific pen poured forth in his later years. Yet, as I have often heard him explain, his novels were indirectly the result of his work as a potter. It was during these first fifty years of his life, when he was busily engaged in making experiments and looking about for boys and men whom he could train to help him, that he acquired the familiarity with the working classes and dwellers in the slums which is one of the most striking features of his novels. The close and daily contact into which he was brought with his own potters, listening to their talk and watching them at work as he sat in a corner of the factory making designs or meditating new inventions, gave him that intimate knowledge of their habits and language, that insight into the points of view and prejudices of their class of which he writes with so much sympathy and kindly humour.

As a boy he remembered being told by his father, the professor of mathematics, that he possessed some literary power, and that if he applied himself to books he might do something in that line. But in those early days, young De Morgan’s sole ambition was to be a painter. So he entered the Academy school and, like Charles Heath in ‘Alice-for-Short,’ gave up painting to design stained glass, giving this up in turn when, about the age of thirty, he started his experiments as a potter. But he never made any attempt at original composition until he wrote his first novel, ‘Joseph Vance,’ when he was well on in the sixties.

It was at this interesting moment in De Morgan’s career, in the summer of 1906, that I had the good fortune to meet him at a country house, where he was staying with one of his oldest friends. We had often met before, generally at Burne-Jones’ house, and as I sat by his side at dinner we recalled those happy times and sighed for the days and the friends that were no more. George Howard, Lord Carlisle, who happened to be my other neighbour, joined in our conversation and agreed with all De Morgan said of the brilliant play of fantasy, the wit and tenderness, the indefinable charm which made our beloved painter the most delightful companion in the world. And with tears in his eyes, De Morgan said how it was always thus in life. ‘We fail to realise the importance of the present and let the good days go by, without any attempt to keep a record of our friends’ words and actions, until it is too late.’ Towards the end of dinner he dropped his voice and whispered that he had a secret to tell me. ‘The fact is,’ he said, ‘I have perpetrated the crime or the folly—whichever you choose to call it—of writing a novel, which has just been published, and what is more wonderful I have in my pocket a flattering review of the book, in to-day’s _Spectator_!’ He went on to tell me how the story of ‘Joseph Vance’ had grown into being; how when he was ill and away in Florence, a rheumatic hand disabled him from drawing, so he took to scribbling instead, and began to jot down ideas that came into his head, on scraps of paper; how his wife encouraged him to go on with the story; and how he became interested first of all in the character of Christopher Vance, the drunken old builder, and then in that of his heroine, ‘Lossie,’ till the actual writing became a pleasure and the book took its present shape. The speaker’s earnestness and animation, I remember, excited Lord Carlisle’s curiosity, and after dinner he asked me if what he had caught of our conversation could be true and De Morgan had really written a novel. There was no denying the fact, and soon we were all reading ‘Joseph Vance’ and the friendly review which had given its author so much satisfaction.

From the first the success of the book was phenomenal. The girls in the office where the manuscript was typed became so much absorbed in the story that they forgot to go on with their work. The critics were unanimous in their chorus of praise, in spite of the unusual length of the book, which at first seemed likely to prove a stumbling-block. Mr. Punch pronounced ‘Joseph Vance’ to be quite the best novel which he had read for a long time, and the public on both sides of the Atlantic hailed the advent of a new star in the literary horizon.

The plunge once made, William De Morgan went merrily on, and novel after novel poured forth in rapid succession from his pen. ‘Joseph Vance’ was followed in 1907 by ‘Alice-for-Short,’ which contains the author’s reminiscences of his experiences as an art-student, and is dedicated to the memory of Edward Burne-Jones and William Morris. Then came ‘Somehow Good,’ in which the lively ‘Sally’ rivalled his first creation, ‘Lossie,’ in the affections of the writer, as in those of his readers. Indeed, after the manner of authors, De Morgan confessed that he had fallen in love with his latest creation, but that he was not in the least responsible for Sally’s erratic conduct, as she simply went her own way and did whatever she liked with him. The wife’s meeting with her long-lost husband was, he sometimes said, the passage by which he wished to be remembered, just as Thackeray used to say that Becky Sharp’s pride in her Guardsman was what he himself should select as the best thing that he had written.

In 1909 De Morgan published a two-volume novel, ‘It Never can Happen Again,’ which he dedicated to the memory of Ralph, second Earl of Lovelace, ‘in remembrance of two long concurrent lives, and an uninterrupted friendship.’ Lord Lovelace (who died in 1906) he always said had been his earliest friend in Chelsea. His mother, Ada, daughter of Lord Byron, and first Countess of Lovelace, used to study mathematics with Professor Augustus De Morgan, and their children had known each other from the age of eight or nine. This new book was hardly as successful as its predecessors, although the episode of the blind beggar Jim and ’Lizer Ann was as fresh and delightful as anything its author had ever written.

Lord Lovelace himself once aptly described De Morgan’s novels as ‘the work of an idealist with realistic details,’ combining the sentiments and traditions of the Victorian age with the more analytical methods of the present generation. His sensitiveness to the deep impressions left on the youthful mind by passing sights and sounds, and to the strange way in which these trivial incidents weave themselves about the great events of life, was a noteworthy feature of De Morgan’s writings. Another striking feature of his novels was the vigour and animation of the dialogue, whether he chronicles the sayings of East-end beggars or West-end charwomen—a class with which he seems to have possessed a close and intimate acquaintance—or whether he sets down the lively prattle of Florentine gardeners and barbers or the almost preternatural quickness of repartee possessed by the small urchins of the slums. These are all recorded in the writer’s own inimitable fashion, with the same note of originality, the same gentle irony and warm sympathy, together with a youthful optimism which never seemed to grow old. Dickens, it has often been remarked, was the model on which De Morgan fashioned his style, but there is less of caricature in the characters which De Morgan draws, they are more real and human, and always lovable. The digressions in which he often indulges, taking the reader into his confidence and moralising on love and parting, on death and a future life, seem rather to recall Thackeray.

In his next novel, ‘An Affair of Dishonour,’ which appeared in 1910, De Morgan made a new departure. Leaving contemporary England and London of the Victorian age, he placed the scene of Sir Oliver and Lucinda’s adventures in the days of the Restoration, and introduced a graphic account of the naval battle of Solebay into the story. Several good judges rank this tale amongst the author’s best efforts, but De Morgan himself was not of this opinion, and when an admirer congratulated him on his new ‘tour de force,’ he replied ‘Say, rather, tour de faiblesse!’

The enforced break up of his old home in the Vale, Chelsea, and the move to another house in Church Street, were serious interruptions in De Morgan’s placid life, and when we met in the following summer he told me that for the last six months he had not been able to write a line, adding that it was perhaps just as well, since during the last five years he had written and published above a million and a quarter words! By the end of 1910, however, he and his wife were happily settled in their new home, to which they soon became deeply attached. That winter they spent Christmas in London for the first time, and before long decided to give up their house in Florence and make their home entirely in Chelsea. Here they lived happily, surrounded by old friends and their own beautiful works of art—De Morgan’s lustre-ware and Persian tiles, and his wife’s pictures. Mrs. De Morgan was an accomplished artist, and before her marriage her works appeared for many years at the Grosvenor and New Gallery exhibitions. Her industry was still as great as ever, and she went on painting her pictures while De Morgan wrote his novels. Music was another of their favourite occupations. They were regular attendants at the Albert Hall Sunday Concerts and the musical afternoons at Leighton House, and when they settled in Church Street De Morgan found a new source of delight in the pianola. He became the proud possessor of an Angelus, which he played all the evenings, and declared that it first revealed Beethoven to him. But long before this he had loved and studied the great master’s works, and readers of ‘Joseph Vance’ will remember the fine passage in which he describes the comfort that came to the bereaved widower in a dark hour, through hearing a movement of the Waldstein Sonata.

During the winter and spring of 1911 De Morgan found time to write another short novel, called ‘A Likely Story,’ in which he tried—not altogether successfully—to weave an Italian tale of the sixteenth century into the modern life of Chelsea. But the Italian part of the book is told with consummate art, and might almost pass as the work of Bandello or Luigi da Porto.

There was, however, general rejoicing among the readers of De Morgan’s novels when he returned to his older and more familiar vein in his second two-volume novel, ‘When Ghost meets Ghost,’ which appeared early in 1914. The plot of the story turns on the adventures of twin sisters, who are parted by a cruel fate in their youth, and only meet again after interminable vicissitudes and delays, when they are eighty years of age. This time his interest in the tale and the pleasure which he took in elaborating every detail carried him beyond his usual limits, and the story in its original form made up over a thousand pages. When in response to a gentle remonstrance from his publisher he succeeded in cutting out two hundred pages, he found it absolutely necessary to add another fifty or sixty, ‘to fill up the gaps.’ But in spite of its great length, much of the book was written in the author’s happiest manner, and many of his critics placed it next to ‘Joseph Vance’ in their estimation.

The letters which he received on this occasion, as he said in his quaint fashion, ‘greatly alimented his vanity.’ But he noticed that most of his readers referred to ‘Joseph Vance’ as his best book and to ‘Lossie’ as their favourite heroine. He confessed that for his part ‘Janey’ was ‘his darling,’ and took great pains to explain that she was not to be regarded as a ‘pis-aller,’ but as the best possible helpmeet for Joseph Vance—the true wife of his soul. One thing which surprised and gratified him extremely was the warm appreciation expressed for his novels by so many of the clergy—‘even Canons and Bishops’ of the Church of England, ‘in spite of all his heresies!’ It was in recognition of this kindly attitude that he felt it necessary to introduce a good parson into his novel, ‘It Never can Happen Again,’ in the person of the Rector, Athelstan Taylor, who refutes the ‘ultra-liberal views’ expressed by Alfred Challis.

He came to the conclusion that what attracted ecclesiastics of this description in his writings must be his ‘immortalism.’ As he always insisted, he had a firm faith in an overruling Providence which orders all things well, and in a future life where we shall see and know our lost friends once more.

It is pleasant to know that the success of De Morgan’s novels brought him the material rewards which his artistic pottery had failed to command, and better still to feel how thoroughly he enjoyed the fame and prosperity which had at length crowned his labours. He took a child-like pleasure in the letters which reached him from devoted admirers in all parts of the world, and often said that he was quite ashamed of the magnificent sums which he received from American publishers. The popularity of his novels showed no signs of diminishing. Each one was awaited with the same impatience, and in one instance a distinguished statesman who knew that his days were numbered, begged to see advance proofs of the forthcoming novel that was announced in the daily press, in order that he might enjoy this last pleasure before his death.