Part 8 (1/2)
I then got more ill and took to my bed. My recollections from that time to the middle of January are very hazy. People were very kind to me, and used to come and sit with me for hours, especially two Rifle Brigade boys--Stevens and Riviere--two of the best. Stevens had just come back from Brussels, where there had been great times, music and dancing. Apparently the great tune of that period was ”Katie”; anyway Stevens could not get it out of his head. He never knew how near he was to sending me completely mad, by singing gently to himself as the winter afternoons drew in:--
”K-K-K-Katie, beautiful Katie, You're the only g-g-girl that I adore, When the ke-moon s.h.i.+nes on the Ke-cowshed; I'll be waiting at the Kitchie Kitchen door.”
Long afterwards, during the Peace Conference, whenever I heard that tune in the ”Majestic,” my mind went back to the misery and semi-darkness in that dirty room in Amiens.
On New Year's Eve, Angus McDonnell came all the way from G.H.Q. and (p. 099) had me lifted out to dinner, so I must have been better then. General Sir John Cowans also came all the way from G.H.Q. to see how I was.
Kindness is a wonderful thing.
[Ill.u.s.tration: XLII. _General Sir J. S. Cowans, G.C.B., etc._]
The Allied Press disbanded, and I gave a dinner to the boys at the ”Hotel de la Paix.” It was all arranged by my chauffeur, Gordon Howlett, and my batman, Green, and it was well done. Great were the songs and dances, and great was the amount of liquid put away. I was lifted downstairs and laid out beside the table, and the lads presented me with a magnificent silver ash-tray.
Towards the end of January, I was allowed out and about again, and I went up to G.H.Q. to paint the Q.M.G., who put me up in his chateau. I painted him, and also did some work down at ”b.u.mpherie,” including a drawing of Lieutenant Brooks, who took the most wonderful official photographs during the war, often at great personal risk. I remember a story that went round in 1917, in which there was not a word of truth, but it was amusing. A terrible-looking Tommy stopped Brooks in the Street of the Three Pebbles and said: ”Say, guv'ner, when are you going to give me me photo?” ”What photo? Who are you?” said Brooks.
”Blimy,” said the Tommy, ”you don't know me, and me the bloke as was killed going over the top for you!”
I now got a reminder that I was due in Paris to paint the Peace Conference. The whole thing had gone from my mind. I afterwards found the letter, which I apparently had received and read, dated December, telling me to go to Paris, but I was so sick I did not realise what it was about. I realised now right enough, so I packed my bag and breezed away to Paris, and found that great family gathering, the Peace (p. 100) Conference, and the life of the ”Astoria” and the ”Majestic” commenced for me.
The great family really was composed of a number of little families.
Mine consisted of Lord Riddell, George Mair, Lieut.-Colonel Stroud Jackson, D.S.O., George Adam, Sidney Dark and Gordon Knox, and great were the meetings at Foucquet's before lunch.
For the most part, my life consisted now of painting portraits at the ”Astoria,” or attending the Conference at the ”Quai d'Orsay.” During these I did little drawings of the delegates. For a seat I was usually perched up on a window-sill. It was very amusing to sit there and listen to Clemenceau--”Le Tigre”--putting the fear of death into the delegates of the smaller nations if they talked too long. Apparently, the smaller the nation he represented, the more the delegate felt it inc.u.mbent on himself to talk, but after a while, Clemenceau, with the grey gloves whirling about, would shout him down.
President Wilson occasionally rose and spoke of love and forgiveness.
Lloyd George just went on working, his secretaries constantly rus.h.i.+ng up to him, whispering and departing, only to return for more whispers.
Mr. Balfour, whose personality made all the other delegates look common, would quietly sleep. The Marquis Siongi was the only other man who could hold his own at all with Mr. Balfour in dignity of appearance.
As a whole there was just a little ma.s.s of black frock-coated figures--”frocks” as we called them--sitting and moving about under the vast decoration of ”Le Salon de l'Horloge.” Some of the little people seemed excited, but for the most part they looked profoundly (p. 101) bored, yet they were changing the face of the map, slices were being cut off one country and dumped on to another. It was all very wonderful, but I admit that all these little ”frocks” seemed to me very small personalities, in comparison with the fighting men I had come in contact with during the war.
[Ill.u.s.tration: XLIII. _Field-Marshal Sir Henry H. Wilson, Bart., K.C.B., etc._]
They appeared to think so much--too much--of their own personal importance, searching all the time for popularity, each little one for himself--strange little things. President Wilson made a great hit in the Press with his smile. He was pleased at that, and after this he never failed to let you see all his back teeth. Lloyd George grew hair down his back, I presume from Mr. Asquith's lead. Paderewski--well, he was always a made-up job. In short, from my window-seat it was easy to see how self-important the majority of all these little black ”frocks”
thought themselves. It was all like an _opera bouffe_, after the people I had seen, known and painted during the war; and these, as the days went by, seemed to be gradually becoming more and more forgotten.
It seemed impossible, but it was true. The fighting man, alive, and those who fought and died--all the people who made the Peace Conference possible, were being forgotten, the ”frocks” reigned supreme. One was almost forced to think that the ”frocks” won the war.
”I did this,” ”I did that,” they all screamed, but the silent soldier man never said a word, yet he must have thought a lot.
I remember when the Peace Terms were handed to the Germans at the Trianon Palace, I tried my hardest to get a card to enable me to see it, but failed. This may not seem strange, but it really was, considering that about half the people who were present were there out of curiosity alone. They were just friends of the ”frocks.” This (p. 102) ceremony took place at 2.30 p.m. on that particular day. I happened to leave my room and go into the hall of the ”Astoria” for something about 3 p.m. There I met Field-Marshal Sir Henry Wilson. I said: ”How did you get back so soon, sir?” He said: ”Back from where?” I said: ”From the handing over of the Peace Terms.” ”Oh,” he said, ”I haven't been there. They wouldn't give me a pa.s.s, the little 'frocks' wouldn't give me one.” ”I've been trying for days, sir,” I said. ”They expect me to paint them, but they won't let me see them.” ”Look here, little man,” he said. ”I've been thinking as I was walking back here, and I'll give you a little piece of advice: 'Laugh at those who cry, and cry at those who laugh.' Just go back to your little room and think that over and you will feel better.”
When I painted Sir Henry, he gave me his views on the brains and merits of many of the delegates, views full of wit and brilliant criticism, but when I had finished painting him I came under his kindly lash. He called me ”a nasty little wasp,” and he kept a ”black book” for any of his lady friends who said the sketch was like him. In it their names were inscribed, and they were never to be spoken to again. With all his fun, Sir Henry was a deep thinker, and towered over the majority of the ”frocks” by his personality, big outlook and clear vision.
General Botha was big, large and great in body and brain--elephantine!
Everything on an immense scale, even to his sense of humour. He had no sign of pose, like most of the ”frocks.” He never seemed to try to impress anyone. One could notice no change in his method or mode of conversation according to whom he was speaking. The great mind just (p. 103) went on and uttered what it thought, regardless of whom it uttered it to. In Mrs. Botha he had the ideal wife. Together they were like two school-children. ”Louis” and ”Mother,” how well they knew each other, and how they loved their family and home! They were always talking of ”home” and longing to get back to it. Alas! Louis only got back there for a very short time, and now ”home” will never be the same for ”Mother.”
[Ill.u.s.tration: XLIV. _The Rt. Hon. Louis Botha, P.C., LL.D._]
What arguments they used to have--fierce arguments which always ended the same way! ”Louis” would make some remark which would absolutely pulverise ”Mother's” side of the question, and as she was stammering to reply, he would say very gently: ”It's all right, Mother, it's all right, you've won.” And she would flash out with: ”Don't you dare to say that to me, Louis! You always say that when you get the best of the argument.”
She used to complain to me how terrible the General's love for bridge was, and how she used to be kept up so late. He would laugh and say: ”But, Mother, you didn't get up till nine this morning. I was walking in the Bois at half-past six.”
I remember one afternoon they came to my room and Mrs. Botha said: ”Well, Louis, what kind of a morning had you?” He replied: ”Not very good, Mother, not very good. You see, Mother, Clemenceau got very irritated with President Wilson, and Lloyd George the same with Orlando. No, it wasn't a very pleasant morning. Nearly everyone was irritable.” Then ”Mother” said: ”I think it disgusting, Louis, that these men, settling the peace of the world, should allow their own little petty irritabilities to interfere with the great work.” And (p. 104) Botha replied: ”Ah! Mother, you must make allowances. Men are only human.” ”I don't make allowances,” jerked in ”Mother,” ”I think it's disgusting.” ”Don't say that, Mother,” he replied. ”I remember one time, long ago, when we made our little peace, you used to get very irritable at times, and I had to make a lot of allowances for you. You must try and make the same for these poor people now.” ”Mother” never even replied to this, but jumped from her chair and left the room, and the big man's face broadened into a smile. Yes, Botha was big--a giant among men.