THE VESTY DEEP.
Which is the most valuable—life, comfort or self-respect? A little while ago I should have said, without a moment's hesitation, life. But now——
To begin at the beginning, let me say that before the Sussex was torpedoed by the Quixotic Hun I had decided to go to France. Then came that tragedy, and as a result letters from friends and the relatives whose affection I still retain, urging first that the French enterprise should be abandoned altogether, and, second, that, if not, a life-preserving device should be instantly obtained. Advertisements cut from newspapers accompanied some of these letters containing testimonials in favour of this belt and that.
Having no particular reason for losing my life, at any rate without a struggle—provided always that the operation was not too expensive—I gave more attention to these advertisements than to any others since at school, too long ago, the entrancing and persuasive firm of Theobald spread his lures before us; and having done so I obediently obeyed their instructions and wrote for illustrated pamphlets. [Does anyone, I wonder by the way, collect illustrated pamphlets? The illustrated pamphlets of this War alone should make a valuable exhibit some day.] Having studied them, I found very quickly that, though the belts were of various kinds, all were alike in two or three points, one being the description of themselves as vests or waistcoats rather than belts; and another the claims of each to be the best. Some relied for their buoyancy on the element upon which Mr. Pemberton-Billing has floated to notoriety, if not fame, and had to be blown up; others trusted to some mysterious fibre several times more buoyant than cork; a third—but these two will serve as types of all.
Each, as I say, was the best; and, however different in material, all were alike too in one effect, for each in saving one's life saved it the right way up. There are, it seems, buoyant belts, or vest, so lost to shame as to submerge the wearer's head and shoulders and leave only his legs exposed. But not so with these; these had no such tricks; these undertook to maintain me topside up with care. The pictures in the pamphlets were invariably of gentlemen of vaster proportions even than myself, all riding buoyantly and securely on the waves, like Dr. Burney in Barry's fresco at the Society of Arts—and all dressed more or less becomingly in the best vest.
Each being of superlative excellence, I had to apply other principles of selection, and fell back upon the most usual of those, which is financial. I had to answer the question. At what sum do I value my life?—the range of price being from seven-and-six to two pounds ten. Was my life worth two pounds ten? I inquired of myself. It's a lot of money, I replied. Should it not rather go into Exchequer Bonds? What would Mr. McKenna say? You see how complex the situation suddenly became.
After long deliberation and taking into consideration the circumstance that the vest which was priced at fifty shillings had to be inflated before it was of any use and that the arrival of a torpedo would probably deprive me of all breath, or at any rate, of all blowing power, I decided that two pounds ten was excessive. No life could be worth that. I was therefore, after further communings, driven back on the astonishing fibre at fifteen shillings; and one of these vests I ordered to be sent to the boat. So far, so good.
Now I do not say that the advertisement and the illustrated pamphlet had exactly called the vest a stylish addition to ordinary attire, but there was reticence as to any unsightly effect upon the figure. So little emphasis was laid on this that one quite naturally expected something rather like a vest. Not of course such an article as that historic waistcoat which Dickens borrowed from Macready, but a vest not devoid of vestiness—something that a gentleman could negligently pace the deck in, without being too ostentatiously engaged in the task or pastime of saving his life; or sleep in with comfort, all ready for the water when the Hun arrived.
Imagine then my surprise on finding in my cabin a parcel that might by its size have contained an assortment of pumpkins, from which I extracted an article no doubt many times more buoyant than cork, but adapted far less to walking a deck in or wooing reluctant slumbers in than for (obviously its real purpose) assisting Sir Herbert Tree to make up as Falstaff.
Carefully locking the door, I put it on and tied its tapes and fastened its buckles. The result was more than comic—it was grotesque; and with an overcoat to cover it I looked like one of the two Macs of blessed memory. Could life be saved thus? Only by sitting up in my cabin all night, for as to going on deck in it—not for a ransom! And as for sleeping in it—that was beyond all question. I therefore took it off, and sadly I climbed the companion to see how the rest of the passengers looked in their various vests; but either they had found a trimmer build than mine, which I doubt, or they too had shirked the ordeal. The result was that all our lives—even my fifteen-shilling one—were at the disposal of the Hun. So is it to be English.
Anyhow, the saving of my own life is not, I am convinced, my forte. My forte is fatalism and trust in a star that hitherto has not been too capricious. Perhaps that is England's forte too.