Shakspeare will be Pleased.
"CZECHO-SLOVAK REPUBLIC.
PROBLEM OF OUTLET TO SEA.
Port at Prague or Dantzig."
—Scottish Paper.
"... Our ship hath touch'd upon
The deserts of Bohemia."
The Winter's Tale, III. 3.
"At the Dogger Bank fight, Lion, the flagship of Sir David Beatty, was crippled. Some people say she was torpedoed, almost miraculously, by a Hun destroyer from five miles' range (which version is probably tripe)."—Scottish Paper.
Like so many things that we read in the Press nowadays.
NOUVELLES DE PARIS.
(With acknowledgments to the "Society" Press).
Paris, Feb., 1919.
Dearest POPPY,—Que la vie est drôle! Who was it said that there are two great tragedies in life—not getting what you want, and getting it? I never understood that saying until now. For instance, when I left London most people I knew seemed to have a feverish desire to get to Paris. They were ready to move heaven, earth and the Ministry of Information to obtain the desired passport. They would go to any lengths to prove how necessary their presence is here during the Peace Conference.
And now I find my countrymen over here longing with an equal feverishness to go home again. Ils s'attristent. Ils s'ennuient. They have nostalgie in its acutest form. It quite goes to my heart to hear the pathetic questions they put to newcomers: "How is London looking? What shows are running now?" And they go on to speak of dear dirty dark London, its beloved fogs, how adorable is the atrocious climate of England, in a way that would bring tears to your eyes. Why don't they go back? you ask, ma chère. It's just because they want to be "in at the death" and say they were here when la paix était signée.
So these poor exiles continue to sacrifice themselves and drift aimlessly about Paris, making it so full that there's scarcely room for people like myself—who really are on important work here—to breathe.
Imagine! I met Eleanor Dashgood on the Boulevard Haussmann to-day, descending from her car with her two poms yapping at her heels, just as if she were chez elle. I really felt like saying something pointed; but, after all, my only comment was, "My dear, what a strange lot of people one meets in Paris nowadays!"
"Yes, dearest," she said, "that just occurred to me, too." I'm wondering now what the creature meant. Believe me, my dear, that woman has illegally wangled a passport out of the authorities by representing herself as her husband's typist—he's got a diplomatic passport, you know. I inquired if the maid she had brought with her had turned into a typist, too, to say nothing of the poms. The toupet of some people!
And, of course, all this unnecessary rabble is helping to make everything horriblement cher. The price of things makes one's hair stand on end like the quills of the fretful porcupine. I can assure you that le moindre petit dîner coûte les yeux de la tête. Poor Bobbie Lacklands had a tragic experience yesterday. He said he quite unthinkingly dropped into that most recherché of eating places, Fouquet's, for a snack. With only a modest balance at the bank he ordered a sardine. Then he called for a filet mignon and half-a-pint of vin rouge—he was always a reckless spendthrift sort of boy, you know. A cup of café noir and an apple completed his financial ruin.
But he still declares that they were most awfully decent to him about it. They agreed, with scarcely any trouble, to take all the notes and loose silver he had with him on account. They accepted his securities and are now allowing him to pay off the balance gradually.
Paris is beginning to think of dress once more, or I ought to say undress, for with the skirts short and the sleeves short and the bodice low there isn't very much left to write about. I hope these short tight skirts will reach the ankles before they reach England, for I notice the people who have the courage to wear them generally lack the excuse of symmetry.
Figurez-vous! Jenny Bounceley, who considers herself quite a Parisienne now she's got her official carte d'alimentation, appeared the other day in a skirt that resembled the jupe of a gamine. I think it's disgraceful in one of her age and proportions. If she were simply knock-kneed; but, as Bertie says, she's knock-ankled as well.
Votre bien dévouée,
ANNE.