My "Little Bit"

Nothing in all the various confused and contradictory orders issued by the capricious and neurotic “Dora” gave such unalloyed festive delight as the edict against “hoarding.” It opened the door to all the little spies and scandal-mongers of every neighbourhood, especially to the provincial types of these gentry, who are always of a more inquisitive and slanderous disposition than the same class found in large cities, for the reason that they have little other excitement beyond the gratifying stimulus of inquiring into their neighbours’ affairs and meddling with them if they can. The “Hoarding” order suited them down to the ground and set them all on the alert, peering into windows and peeping through open doors—following their “dear friends” into shops and taking eager notes of their purchases, till every eye grew hard and sharp as a gimlet, and every nose as pointed as the beak of a crow. It was astonishing and amusing to watch the alteration for the worse in the looks of men and women during this period; the theory of “psycho-suggestion” was amply verified in the visible fact that people who were previously open-faced and good-natured were almost unrecognisable in the sudden “squeezing-in” of their features to the ugly furrows of suspicion and meanness.

“Some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them,” says the sapient Malvolio; and I frankly admit that I felt myself to be entirely in the latter category when I became a sort of modern heroine in a new version of Much Ado About Nothing, in the precincts of Stratford-on-Avon itself, under the sacred ægis of the Immortal Bard. A real stage was set for me, with the real “city officers Dogberry and Verges”—in fact “the whole dissembly appeared.” I was summoned for “hoarding” sugar. In plain truth I have never “hoarded” anything—not even money, as the town of Stratford-on-Avon has sufficient reason to know. I have never even had the careful housekeeper’s habit of a “store-cupboard”—my house being destitute of such lock-up conveniences, wherefore we have found it best always to order what is wanted from week to week, paying for it likewise from week to week and incurring no debts. In the affair of the sugar I could not procure enough to obey the commands set upon me by the Food Production and other Government Departments. Correspondence with Mr. Prothero had impressed upon me that there was a shortage of all foodstuffs, especially butter, and it was represented to me that every householder growing their own fruit should make as much jam as possible to replace the butter. That year (1917) was a wonderful fruit year; in my own garden, not an “orchard” by any means or abundantly stocked, there was gathered nearly a thousand pounds dead-weight of fruit. Some of it we sold—much of it we gave away—the rest had either to be wasted or preserved. “Shortage of foodstuffs” necessitated its preservation. Our local surveyor, though obliging, could not supply his customers with enough sugar to go round. The “Hoarding Act” distinctly stated that the order did not apply itself to “sugar obtained for the preservation of homegrown produce”—so I appealed to my old friend, Sir Thomas Lipton, not only because he was a friend, but because he was a grocer, and as such, would be sure to know what quantity of sugar he might or might not sell to any customer. But——! Here comes in another story!

A short time previous to the Sugar-Comedy of “Much Ado,” I had been approached by two gentlemen from Birmingham on behalf of the Y.M.C.A. and Sir Arthur Yapp (then Director of Food Economy) to help the Society by a subscription. I gave a hundred pounds; and a generous friend of mine, on hearing what I had subscribed, gave another hundred. In the warmth of this success I wrote to Sir Thomas Lipton and asked him boldly for another hundred. I received a truly heart-rending reply to the effect that he was a “poor man,” and “could not afford so large a sum,” but that if I had asked him for ten or fifteen pounds he would have gladly subscribed. I at once seized the opportunity and begged him to send the fifteen. He did so, and I wrote my acknowledgments, assuring him that when he went to heaven that Fifteen Pounds given to the Y.M.C.A. would be an extra feather in his Angel-Wing! (I do hope he will one day show that letter to Sir Arthur Yapp!) Then, feeling I had not yet done enough for the Y.M.C.A. Huts, I agreed that the Cinema company, then running some stories of mine on the “film,” should give a few “shows” of them in Stratford for the sole benefit of the Y.M.C.A., and I am glad to say that they drew packed houses and brought a substantial result. For this and such assistance as I had freely given to help on the good cause I had a note from Sir Arthur Yapp expressing his “most grateful thanks.” And now we can revenons à nos moutons—that is to say, I can return to the Sugar version of “Much Ado”—but I would earnestly request my readers to “mark, learn, and inwardly digest” what we may call “The Y.M.C.A.-Yapp Interlude.”

As I have already stated, I could not get sufficient sugar from the local grocer to preserve the fruit in hand, and as fruit is perishable, and there was no time to be lost, I rang up Sir Thomas Lipton on the telephone and asked him what he could do for me. The familiar “Glasgie” accent came harmoniously along the wire—“Ye’ll never want for sugar so long as Tom Lipton’s on the ‘phone!”

So it was settled. I and my friend (a lady who has been my companion throughout my life since my childhood, and who has generously and kindly undertaken all my household cares) set happily to work to preserve our fruit; whole in jars where we could do so, but made into jam for the most part. I would here remark, with all diffidence, that I do not revel in jam myself; but I like having it for others—such as schoolboys, for instance, before whom whole pots vanish like snow in the sun when they come to tea with me, bless their frank appetites! We had nearly completed our labours, all except the transmutation of apples into jelly and “apple cheese” (the best possible substitute for butter), when one afternoon, while I was out, a police constable called and said he must search the house for “hoards.” He brought no authority, but stated that if he were refused he would procure a search warrant. My friend, who received the intruder, was naturally rather surprised, but having nothing to hide she cordially invited the official to go all over the house wherever he would. Accordingly he tramped into the dining-room, opened cupboards and drawers, even peering into an unobtrusive little tea-caddy, and went down into the cellar and inspected the larder. He found nothing but a large flour-bin, into which for convenience had been put fifteen pounds of sugar (duly weighed) left for use with the apples yet to be preserved. While he was still on the prowl, I returned home, and though I am never much taken aback at anything Stratford-on-Avon “authorities” do, I was, I think, justifiably annoyed at having my private rooms searched on such a ridiculous charge of which I was absolutely guiltless. Moreover, the “hofficer” who had thus broken into my house without warning, was a man who had often had supper in our kitchen with beer galore, which he had greatly relished—while another detail of the matter was that for some years, since the intrusion of an unhappy lunatic-tramp into my garden, the police had been given by myself a private key to the premises, so that they could enter at any time. Therefore, if they had sought to keep me under “observation” there was nothing to hinder their surveillance, which indeed I had personally requested and was grateful for. But—as the official informed me the “hoarding” accusation came “from London”—“on account of Sir Thomas Lipton.” This rather amazed me, and for a moment I thought it must be that “feather in the Angel-Wing”! My doubts were soon set at rest by a visit from my solicitor who told me Sir Thomas was “much distressed and could not sleep” for thinking about the threatened trouble. Some one at certain Stratford-on-Avon Stores had noted the arrival at the railway station of the Lipton supplies of sugar—quite openly sent, and openly marked “Sugar,” for we were under the impression that all was in due observance of the Food Production rules, and that there was nothing to hide or to “hoard.” Naturally I wrote at once to the Lipton office requesting these supplies to be stopped, without, however, at once succeeding, as, notwithstanding my expressed desire, a fresh package was transmitted, which I promptly returned. I then wrote to Sir Arthur Yapp, feeling quite sure that his recent experience of my conduct in respect to the Y.M.C.A. would convince him that there was some “official blundering” (to quote a press term) in the absurd notion that I, whose work throughout the war had been to help, not to hinder all patriotic aims, could possibly sink to the “hoarding” level. I had written to him long before, pleading that the poor working women should not be compelled to stand in “queues,” waiting to get food for themselves and their children, on which subject he wrote me the following letter:—

This does not look as if I had sought to “rob the poor by hoarding,” as one accuser in the “gutter” press made out later on! When I wrote, explaining the position which had so wrongfully arisen, Sir Arthur wrote regretting it and saying: “I will make all inquiries and am more than sorry you should be worried.”

However, the “case” instigated “from London,” went on remorselessly and I asserted my innocence in vain. A second appeal to Sir Arthur Yapp, strengthened by a personal visit to him from my solicitor who urgently pointed out the absurdity of the “hoarding” charge in my regard, brought the following:—

Nevertheless, with all this amiable “Yapp-ing” he did not “get in touch” with the Chairman of the Sugar Commission, then Sir Charles Bathurst, who wrote himself and told me he had never heard a word of the affair till he saw it in the newspapers. On this point my solicitor wrote as follows: “I am glad to hear that you have a letter from Sir Charles Bathurst, expressing sympathy. I cannot, however, overlook the fact that whereas Sir Arthur Yapp had no power apart from Sir Charles to take cognisance of facts which I brought to his notice with a view to stopping an unjustifiable prosecution calculated to do you an injury, Sir Charles Bathurst had ample power and did not exercise it, although approached by Sir Arthur Yapp. I do not think the Food Control Department even troubled to send the case to their counsel, but merely seized the opportunity to accept a statement which was not in conformity with the evidence, was a violation of the highest principles of justice, and a slur upon the summary jurisdiction of the land.”

And so the case went on. Yapp meantime addressed a crowd on Tower Hill and assured them “Marie Corelli’s sugar had been taken from her”—which was a flaring fiction as there was no excess of sugar to take. He failed to mention that the victim he thus pilloried had given far more than the sugar’s worth to the Y.M.C.A., of which he posed as the pious and conscientious Head! But “that’s another story”! He felt perfectly justified, however, in handing over my personal letters to him (marked “Private”) to a Mr. Wise, his secretary, I believe, whom my solicitor found reading them to his lady clerks by way of a little entertainment—and so altogether I rank Sir Arthur Yapp with Shakespeare’s Brutus, and here express my profound acknowledgments.

On the 2nd of January, 1918, the case for my “hoarding” was tried by the eminent “bench” of Stratford-on-Avon. My servants were subpœnaed—they sat patiently in court, but nobody asked them a single question! A legal representative of Sir Thomas Lipton’s, glib as Sergeant Buzfuz, managed things for his principal in such a way as to leave Sir Thomas scot-free, though in other similar cases the supplier was fined in the same sum as the supplied. I was not in court. My friend, who has all the responsibility of housekeeping, went into the witness-box and answered all questions plainly and honestly—but plainness and honesty do not count for much in law. The point which Dogberry and Verges adhered to was that they did not believe we had used the sugar for jam! Was ever anything more absurdly humorous! We were ready and willing to make public exhibition of the jam; we offered those amazing “city officers” free permission to inspect it—but they would not! They preferred to doubt the word of a lady through whose hands many hundreds of pounds had been spent in the town and whose well-known straightforward character makes her incapable of truckling to falsehood or hypocrisy. I must not forget to mention that the worthy Dogberrys had been much bamboozled by the constant delivery of large wooden boxes at my house labelled “Maypole Tea,” “Tate’s Sugar,” “Nestle’s Milk,” etc., etc.; it looked very like “hoarding,” surely? A constable followed the packages up through an open passage leading to out-houses, and there to his immense chagrin discovered that these cases contained nothing but material for electric-wiring and lighting, sent by Messrs. Tredegars of Brook Street, who had undertaken the installation of the electric light in my house. They were compelled to pack their goods in any boxes they could secure, there being a “shortage” in packing-cases as in everything else, and when the “hoarding” trial came on, the director of the firm offered most kindly and courteously to attend the court and explain the share his boxes had in the silly accusation. But there was no need; Dogberry and Verges had already made up their minds. My chief assailants were the Superintendent of Police in Stratford and the Town Clerk—and after the case was over and they had “convicted” me of what I had never committed (though the “bench” disagreed among themselves), all the clues were placed in my hands in such a remarkable way as would remind one of Sherlock Holmes if there were time or space to tell it! Perhaps the following sentence from a legal document may put the matter clearly:—

“The root of the whole evil is your local bench, and bias is self-evident by the action of the Acting Clerk, when he withheld information from us as to the findings of the Justices until after the time to appeal to Quarter Sessions had elapsed.”

I have often wondered why this malignity? Why, too, on the part of the “Acting Clerk,” whom I have always beheld with respectful admiration in his curly white wig marching in the Shakespeare Sunday or Mayoral processions to Church? He is my beau-ideal of a cultured Dogberry—his very look and movement express—“I am a wise fellow; and which is more an officer; and which is more a householder; and which is more as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina (Stratford) and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns and everything handsome about him! O that I had been writ down——” No—I will not finish the quotation; suffice it to say that I have never intentionally or to my knowledge caused offence to this excellent man. But both Church and State were in the persecution of my quite innocent personality; two dismissed outdoor employés of my own first started the mischief, and as one had found a temporary job on the local “food control,” it was easy to trace the work of hands guided by personal spite and desire to give me trouble. Afraid to start the accusation in Stratford itself, they quite ingenuously managed to transfer it through a mutual friend to London, from whence the “summons” was “arranged” to come—and since then, having found out the whole petty plot, I have been full of amused compassion for the miserable plotters. They must surely feel that the game was hardly worth the candle! Of course, press-reporters rushed down like hounds in full cry directly they scented possible injury to me—they would never have troubled themselves to note anything I did of good—but anything that savoured of meanness and disloyalty on my part was “nuts” to them! As they never saw me, and I made no appearance in court, these poor untidy pressmen were reduced to their usual fictions, and wired all over the world that I had “made a scene in court,” “attacked Lloyd George,” etc., etc.! (And yet, just before this comedy started, and â propos of sugar, I had sent Miss Megan Lloyd George some chocolate “eclairs” made at home, with which this charming little friend of mine was much delighted!) Yes—these chivalrous press-men labelled me from England to furthest Ind as a hoarder and hypocrite and I was left without remedy. I was assailed by the lowest anonymous letters and post cards; of course one knows how to take such off-scourings of depraved human minds, as no one but a villain, male or female, would write an anonymous letter. But with all the pain I felt at the misjudgment, amounting almost to cruelty, of the press, which deliberately did its best to injure me with my reading public, I had my compensations. I had hundreds of letters from our men at the front indignantly protesting against the wrong done to me—and a wonderful document signed by the officers and men of the Overseas Military Forces of Canada came to hearten me up by its generous testimony as follows:—

Here followed a long list of officers’ and men’s names; the kind and generous testimonial of their friendship was dated from Bramshott Camp, Hants, April 16th, 1918.

I make no comment on this most valued “vote of confidence” voluntarily given by brave and chivalrous men. I publish it just as it is—one of my most precious possessions. I can endure even dear Dogberry’s malice with such a battalion of fighting friends!

One other thing may be mentioned as showing the curious cross-purposes of the Stratford-on-Avon “justices” in the prosecution against me, and that is the letter written to me by the Deputy-Mayor on the eve of the trial—thus:—

So was the “Winter of my discontent” moved to try making a bit of “glorious summer” on the eve of the “Hoarding” case! I was grateful, of course—and I did not allow myself to dwell on the thought that perhaps, only perhaps, he was thus moved because long before the “hoarding” case, my “hoarding” tendencies had prominently displayed themselves in agreeing to pay £60 towards the restoration of his ancient house in the High Street, a sum which no one else volunteered! I did it for love and honour of the town’s antique beauty—not for any self-laudation or advantage; and I am glad to have been of some use in this direction. It is a quaint coincidence that this same Deputy-Mayor, when I previously aided the restoration of the now famous “Tudor” House opposite the Town Hall, accused me in the local press of doing it for “self-advertisement.” I am sure he must regret this temporary misjudgment now that his own house shows its Henry VIIth timbers to the light of day.

Briefly to sum up, I am and always have been absolutely guiltless of “hoarding” anything. I would rather give than receive, and am quite an adept at “doing without.” And if I may presume to quote finally from the original Much Ado About Nothing I can say that while I am perfectly aware of the local “Conrade” and “Borachio” who vented their spite against me, I think there are many now in Stratford-on-Avon itself who would say with the original Dogberry:—

“Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily they are slanderers; sixth and lastly they have belied a lady; thirdly they have verified unjust things.”

As for the excellent Sir Thomas Lipton, who was much more troubled in his mind about this little affair than I was, and who, though he supplied the contested sugar, escaped all fine and also escaped the contumely of the press which was heaped upon me like a cartload of bricks, without rhyme or reason, without honesty or justice, and without a single word of truth in the various reports cabled all over the world to do me as much injury as possible; he was so relieved and happy to think nothing was said about his own share in the matter that he was more genial and delightsome than ever. And I have reason to believe that he is “flattered to death,” as our American cousins sometimes say, by the parody I wrote for him “after Robert Burns,” which I call—