Well, the evening lapsed into night and the night into morn, and again we became boisterous and new ideas were put into shape and little tragedies were given in the burlesque manner. The resourcefulness of the mimes! The devilishly clever satire! The good spirits that never failed!...
. . . . . . . .
It is no use. I cannot describe for you one of those great nights, for the mood will not come. And one of the reasons why I cannot recapture the spirit of a Chelsea Rag as it was in the old days, is because whilst I am writing I have in my mind a picture of a very different kind.
. . . . . . . .
1918
Early in 1918 I was in London for a brief period after an absence from England of more than two years spent in France, Egypt, Greece and Serbia. My health was broken, my spirits were low. The Chelsea people were dispersed; only Hearn, with his lame foot, was left of the men, but several of the women were to be found. Herbert Hughes, by some miracle, was on leave, and he turned up [244] ]unexpectedly one night at my flat. We talked quietly, laughed a little, had some music, and fell into silence.
“Those great days!” said I, apropos of nothing.
“Yes. Nothing like them will come again. But all of us who remain alive and are still in England must meet. What about next Sunday? We’ll meet at Madame’s.”
And so it was arranged. Next Sunday there were seven of us to make merry, whereas in former days there were forty or fifty. But we seven were together once more: we who, as it were, had been saved—saved perhaps only temporarily.
It is a long studio in which we sit, but screens enclose a piano, the fireplace, a few rugs and chairs, and a table. Madame is tall and quiet and distinguished; her light soprano voice conveys an impression of wistfulness, and her personality, full of charm and a sadness that does not conceal her courage, diffuses itself throughout the room. We have met together for a rag, but no one evinces the least desire to indulge in any violent jollity.