A Footnote to Mr. Newton

The literary flavor of old London is now so fashionable that I should like to add, if that were possible, to Mr. Newton’s pleasant chats in the Atlantic, but to add to them from another angle.

To the American who loves London, though he may not know it half so well as Mr. Newton or his friend Mr. John Burns does, the flavor, curiously enough, is caught more often and more poignantly outside and away from London itself. It may come, rich and strong and sudden, when the branding outfit rides up to the cook-house for supper; or it may, by very contrast, steal on you from behind that farther bush, which the camp-fire does not reach.

In 1914 I pulled in to the town of Mai-Mai-Chen (Buy-Sell Town), outside of Urga, after fifty-eight days of travel by caravan across the Gobi Desert. The town was set there by the Ming emperors of China as a tradingpost of the Mongols, and as an out post of Chinese civilization, to deal with the Mongol Emperor and Pope — the Huctuctu. Chinamen could not enter Urga across the river without a special permit, but in Mai-Mai-Chen they could set up shop. The nineteenth century added a Russian post, whence both Mongols and Chinese could be observed, and, if need be, controlled, by the agents of the Tsar.

My host there was the very accomplished and courteous Political Agent and Consul-General of Russia, one Mr. Müller. His English was as perfect as mine, and his companionship was refreshing after the two months of desert travel, in which I had been my own guide and my own friend, but had failed at times in being philosopher to t he expedition.

The first evening was a short one, because I was travel-weary; and though I had bathed and dressed for dinner, I longed for sheets and for another bath. But the next evening, after the two Russian officers dining with us had left, we sat late.

At first, there was the inevitable fencing of two strangers for an opening. We scanned the world-politics, and I heard, unmoved, that a prince who was nothing to me had been murdered at Serajevo, a fact which might well mean war in Europe. I felt dimly that one ought to be impressed; but it was July in 1914, and one was simply too ignorant to be impressed. My host said that Austria would be up in arms, and that Germany would support her against Russia. I murmured that, in my opinion, this would be a pity. There we left the subject, except for an occasional reference to it which I made, out of a civil interest in something that seemed to matter to my host.

It was not long before England became the topic. Then of course, London, where Mr. Müller had spent some years as consul. Gradually, we warmed to it. Did I know the City, or only the West End? Pity to hear of the best houses by the Adam brothers being pulled down! Soho had rather lost its flavor for eating and drinking; but no doubt one could eat well for the same money elsewhere now. But the docks, now — did I know the docks?

It was desultory enough for a while, though I found myself interested and puzzled at the note of possession in the Russian’s voice when he rambled east of Temple Bar. At last I plumped out with the question, how could he have got the flavor to roll under his tongue? I myself had a hint of it all, as an American with the usual Anglo-Saxon tradition, but for a Russian to feel it —

The Political Agent and ConsulGeneral crossed his legs and sipped his coffee, which was served Turkish-fashion, in memory of other diplomatic posts in the nearer East.

‘When I was a lad,’ he said (and I made mental note of the Anglicism of that phrase), ‘when I was a lad, I determined to go into the consular service and see the world. My uncle was t hen at the head of the Bureau in Petersburg and I applied to him for advice. He agreed to appoint me within a few months; and at the time agreed on, I called again to ask him to make good his promise.

‘I never shall forget the bantering tone in which he asked me where I wanted to go; and the earnest way in which I answered, “Anywhere but England; I hate the English.” He took notes at his desk, and soon dismissed me with the promise that I should have my sailing orders next day. Next morning a messenger came from the Bureau with the official pouch, in which was a note signed by my uncle and countersigned by the Premier. It read: —

‘“You will proceed as vice-consul in the service of His Imperial Majesty to Liverpool, England.”

‘Beneath it, scrawled in his own fist, were the words: —

‘“Go to England, my son, and learn to like the English.” ’

My elderly host smiled in reminiscent fashion and puffed at his Havana.

‘ Well, I went, and before long I received a consulate in the Midlands, and later I came to London, after several lean years in the Orient. At that time I came into the grip of the eighteenthcentury English tradition. I walked all over that great map of a town; I bought books on the geography and history of it. I ate in odd places, and I learned to like the English way of doing things. From the eighteenth-century tradition I slipped gradually to the seventeenth, and then back. I think Kit Marlowe and Moll Tearsheet are more alive to me to-day than our old friend across the river — the Huctuctu and his princely Minister of Foreign Affairs. Did you know, by the way, that the whole basis of English neolithic archæology is nothing more nor less than a stone axe dug up in Fetter Lane?’

The mention of the Huctuctu and his Minister of Foreign Affairs jarred me. I did n’t want Mongolia just then; I wanted urban London and a walk down Fleet Street. I pulled out my pipe, not being schooled to the cigar of the Havana, and my host reached across and took it from my hand.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘with it all came pipesmoking as a matter of course. I too knew where to get my straight-grains and my bird’s-eyes. I too scorned a silver mount. I experimented in sailor’s shag, and in twist, and in marline, which I bought on the docks; and later I imported my Virginia leaf and rubbed it with Latakia, after the instructions of old Tupper, who has his shop on the High at Oxford. But now I fear that I am fallen from that high estate; one can’t smoke a pipe at an official dinner, and my life has been too largely spent dining. But still that English pipe, with the Oxford maker’s name, is good to see after all these years.’

He meditatively rubbed the old briar bowl along the leg of his immaculate dress trousers, with the loving hand of a connoisseur, before he handed it back to me.