PIGLETS.
While waiting for proof-sheets of my book on The Dynamic Force of Modern Art I thought I might get a certain amount of amusement out of a little correspondence with my neighbour, Mr. Gibbs, small farmer and dairyman, between whom and myself letters had passed a short time ago on the subject of a noisy cow, since removed from the field below the study window of the house that has been lent me by my friend Hobson. With this end in view I wrote to Mr. Gibbs as follows:—
My dear Mr. Gibbs,—The field of the uproarious cow has, I notice, suddenly become tenanted again, this time by what appears to be a school, herd or murrain of swine. Their number seems to vary. Sometimes I count ten younglings, sometimes as many as thirteen, and once I made it as much as fourteen.
Did you know they were there, or are they a crop? Or is the field suffering from swine fever, of which they are the outward manifestation? Anyhow, whether they are friends of yours or have merely just happened, as it were, they are distinctly intriguing.
My wife was remarking to me only yesterday how nice some pork would be as a change from the eternal verities, beef and mutton, and I told her that if she would look out of my window she would see the pork running about, simply asking for it. There are so many of these piglets that I don't think the old sow would miss one. Swine can't count, can they?
But apart from food values they interest me as subjects for the Cubist, the Vorticist and other exploiters of dynamic force in the Art of to-day (I fancy I told you in a previous letter that I am engaged upon a tome on this subject).
Figure to yourself, mon ami, what delightful rhomboidal figures Wyndham Lewis and his school would make of these budding porkers with the sleek torso and the well-poised angular snout, and, having visualised their treatment of the theme, compare it with the painted effigies of such animals by George Morland, which were merely pigs, Sir, and nothing more. No symbolism, no force. You get me—what?
But looking at these piglets from a more intimate point of view, don't you think (if they should happen to be yours, and you have any influence with their parents) that something should be done about their faces? They have such a pushed-in appearance. Can this be normal? If so, it must seriously interfere with their truffling. But perhaps this is not good truffle-hunting country. I'm sorry if this is so, as I could do with a nice brace of truffles now and again.
Remember me kindly to our mooing friend, and believe me, dear Mr. Gibbs,
Yours sincerely,
Arthur K. Wilkinson.
How this early touch of Spring has got into the blood, to be sure.
To this letter Mr. Gibbs replied thus:—
Dear Sir,—i cant make much of your letter except a riglemerole about pigs and dinamite and pictures but what they have to do with one another i dont know if you want some pork why dont you say so strait out like mr Hobson does i shall be killing one this week shall i send you a nice leg and remain
Yours obedient
Henry Gibbs.
My reply, given in the affirmative, resulted in the arrival of a succulent-looking joint with a bill for leg of pork special 5½ lbs. at 2s. per lb. 11s.
As the price too was rather special I returned the bill with the following:—
My dear Mr. Gibbs,—What a rapturous piece of pork! Lovely in life, and oh, how beautiful in death. I count the hours till 7.30 to-morrow.
I am truly sorry you couldn't read my letter with comfort. I have derived great pleasure from yours. You appear to have a strong leaning towards phonetic orthography which is very refreshing and seems to bear the same relation to the generally accepted rules of the art that the modern dynamic art (a favourite topic of mine, as you know) does to the academics of the late nineteenth century.
When the proof-sheets of my book arrive I should be glad of your assistance in going through them. My tendency, I think, is to over-punctuate, and your proclivity would, I believe, counteract this.
Mais revenons à nos moutons (mutatis mutandis, of course). The specialist who superintends my diet allows me to eat pork at 1s. 9d. per lb., but does not approve of my indulgence in it at a higher figure. If you will meet his views (and I am sure you will) I shall absorb my full share of the dainty you have provided. Otherwise I must return it with many exquisite regrets.
Anticipating your favourable recognition of my specialist's absurd prejudice, I enclose a cheque for 9s. 8d.
Accept my word for it that I am
Yours ever most truly,
Arthur K. Wilkinson.
To this Mr. Gibbs offered the following reply:—
Deer Sir,—i thought being a friend of mr Hobson you was a gentleman as wouldn't mind paying a bit extra for something special like this pork which these pigs was by Barnsley Champion III i cant charge less. i dont know who your specialist is but he dont know much about pork the bests the safest. please send ballance and remain
Yours obedient,
Henry Gibbs.
We were still in March and pork had not yet been decontrolled, so I returned the bill again with this brief but incisive note:—
My dear Mr. Gibbs,—I have never met your friend from Barnsley, but am surprised that you haven't come across my specialist, whose address is the Local Food Control Office at Harbury. Would you like to meet him? He is very interested in pigs, also in milk and other things in which you specialise expensively, so you would have lots to talk about, no doubt.
Yours sincerely,
Arthur K. Wilkinson.
The receipt in full, which reached me in reply, was very satisfactory. The pork was delicious.
Country Postman. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, I seem to have lost your postcard; but it only said Muriel thanked you for the parcel, and so did John, and they were both very well and the children are happy and she'll give your message to Margery. That'll be your other daughter, I'm thinkin'?"