Evening Star Newspaper, March 22, 1925, Page 70

S THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, MARCH 22, 1925—PART = = [lfreda and the Mad Busman = = BY I. A. R. WYLIE. A Tale Which Abounds in Sentiment, Action and Surprising Developments. HERE are a number of persons in this story. First there is Elfreda, who might be de- scribed as “the woman in the case”; there is Mrs. Melrood, with her attendant, Sarah; Mrs. Judd of Rosemary lane, a policeman, a frightened bus conductor, a stout gentleman and, of course, Mr. Gud- geon himself, with whose my terious and extraordinary fate the story is primarily concerned. Nor must we forget the 20 ragamuffins. Mrs, Judd was Mrs. Judd of Rose- mary lane because she had lived there longer than any of the other inhabit- ants. Mr. Gudgeon she had known since he had come to Rosemary lane as a red-haired, freckled-nosed young man with a rosy complexion. In those da Mr. Gudgeon drove the old Atlas horse-bus from Camden Town to London Bridge. Later the red hair had become a sandy halo round a shiny, dald head, and the rosy complexion 8 veined and weather-beaten purple, and the horse-bus a thundering, roar- ing, bustling motor Juggernaut. It was the latter change that had mark- ed the turning-point in Mr. Gud- geon's development. Mrs. Judd could tell you all about that, for hadn't he lodged with her without a grumble for 30 years? “It was them three motor busses be- gun it she told her listners. “Up to then 'e was as nice-spoken, pleas- ant sort of chap you could wish to meet—not larky, mind you. Alwa a bit on th say, but 'appy full of 'Is ‘orses, " < off her feed today, Mrs. tell me. If she'd been 'e couldn’'t 'ave fussed more. then them there motor busses!” Not that Mr. Gudgeon had failed in any way. He had faced the change manfully, carrying over into his new job that feeling for a wayward creat- ure's moods without which no man can become a successful motor driver. He had even transplanted his affection and tended it with a kind of passion- ate absorption which had first given Mrs. Judd the idea that he was going “queer.” “It weren't natural” she declared, “calling a bloomin’ old bus Gwindo- line and pattin’ it on its ‘ead and talkin’ to it. I didn’t 'old with it, and I told 'im so. Much good that did! When a man goes queer, he's queer, and there ain’'t no 'elpin’ "im.” Mrs. Piggot wiped a rheumy eve with the corner of her shawl. “And now 'e’s gorn, poor fellow.” * *x ¥ ¥ LFREDA lived in the top room of the last and most decrepit house in Rosemary lane. It was inhabited not only by Elfreda, but by Mrs. Go- lightly and Mrs. Golightly’s husband and her three bouncing boys. Mr. Golightly was a house painter by pro- fession and an artist by instinct. The artist tended to come home in the small hours, singing at the top of a shaky baritone in the sheer joy of life, and the house painter who rolled out of his frowsy bed the next morn- ing was a surly person who would as soon throw a boot as look at you. Mrs. Golightly was a practical, Vig- orous woman. She believed in “every- body pulling 'is weight in the ‘ome,” and as Elfreda weighed exactly four stone, Mrs. Golightly had no opinion of her pulling powers. And she had a playful way of expressing her opinion which left Elfreda not quite sure whether she were standing on her head or feet for hours after- ward. Mrs. Golightly was not El- freda's mother, for which Mrs. Go- lightly gave Heaven constant and eloquent thanks. Elfreda herself didn't know where she came from or where she was glong to, and didn't think about it. In the morning she went to school and for the rest of the day she made flowers. It was wonderful the way she made flowers, because she had never seen any. Her teachers remarked little Elfreda was backward. They had never met her on her high stool by the attic window, trying to catch the last gleam of the dirty afternoon light over the tumbled chimneys, the stumpy, chilblained fingers making marvellously lifelike rosebuds out of strips of pink silk and the contents of a paste pot. They might even have been astonished had they seen her later still, under the candle light, not quite so steady on her perch, the in- tent small face a shade grubbler, the blue, little fingers a shade bluer, making daffodils. That was what Mrs. Golightly meant by “pulling one’s weight.” * ¥ ¥ X 'WENDOLINE, officially known as No. 47X, began her career at the Crown and, having made her way across London, drew up in a rather over-heated state at the top of Hill Rise—the outpost of a suburb, and guarded by the King's arms, where Mr. Gudgeon and his brethren gath- ered strength for the return journey. What lay beyond that barrier of seedy and tawdry villas Mr. Gudgeon did_not know. He had brought Gwendoline to her Journey’s end, and he had to take her back again, avolding the pedestrians seeking slaughter under her wheels, and keeping to the company's time. That was Mr. Gudgeon’s business in life. Life, if you were one of the lucky ones, consisted of doing today what you did yesterday and what you hoped to do tomorrow. That was life—everybody's life. Some men, of course, had wives and children. Or they took to drink. Once Mr. Gudgeon himself had had a love affair, but that had been a long time ago—way back in the vil- lage whence he came and whose name he had almost forgotten. Nothing had come of it. For Mr. Gudgeon, like so many red-headed, freckle-nosed people, was awkward and diffident. And s0 he had just settled down. arah Jane: Judd,’ ‘e'd ‘is own child And — VAR A iy g \ Instead of a wife and children or the drink Mr. Gudgeon had Gwendo- line. There was an understanding be tween them. He knew he ways— when she liked to be “changed down,” how to co her up Hill Rise, and when in spite of the garage she was feeling below par. And in return she had never failed [ him. Eeven when suffering. cruelly from neglected plugs ghe had heen known to limp home with a full cargo | rather than that he should be' strand- ed and miss his supper. And because of Gwendoline Mr. Gudgeon did not know that he was a lonely, little ma growing old. Ao % (QVE dripping Wintet's evening Mra. Golightly, according to. eustom, became depressed, and, .dep celoping into “an ‘orrible sinKing celing,” Elfreda was hustled out for fh only known remedy. And it was while trying to edge through the swing doors of the public. house without spilling her beery burden that she saw Mr. Gudgeon talking to Gwendoline. 'He even patted her, running his hand over her black wing with a lingering tenderness that made Elfreda gulp loudly—she did not in the least know why. Whereupon Mr. Gudgeon turned and became red and embarrassed and said, “Now then—" very severely But for once Elfreda. was not dis- She knew now that No. 47X was not a terrifying monster at all. And Mr. Gudgeon was a nice man who vas kind when no one else was look- ing Mr. ‘Gudgeon stared at Elfreda. “Ought ter be in bed,” said Mr. Gudgeon. “Where's yer mother?” “I dunno.” “Well, run ‘ome t be in bed hours ago. “I don't go to bed,” she said, “not for hours and hours.” “Oh, you don't eh? And why not?” “’'Cause I'm working.” “Tush!” said Mr. Gudgeon. er. Ought ter “What fakin “What things?” F-flowers.” Well, T never ‘eard tell of any one makin’ flowers” Mr. Gudgeon con- cealed his skepticism tactfully. “'Ere, warm those paws of yours a bit any ‘ow. I'll 'old your beer for you. Putiem there.” By stretching up she was able just to touch the top of Gwendoline's radiator, and an almost overpowering wave of comfort poured over her tense, shivering little body. She said huskily, “’Oe—It's alive, ain't it?” Mr. Gudgeon looked shy. dunno. “Wot's 'er name Mr. Gudgeon blushed. “Well—I calls ‘er Gwendoline.” “I likes ‘er, she's warm.” Mr. Gudgeon tried to look casual and indifferent. “Oh, she ain't a bad sort—as busses go.” Then in a burst ot loyalty, “There ain't many of 'em can go up 'Ill Rise like she do—I can tell you that any ‘ow.” So, after all, the great question came quite easily. “Where's 'Ill Rise, Mister “'IIl Rise? It's a might of a way from 'ere. Straight across London as far as you can go. Three hours ac- cordin’ ‘to schedule.” “And are there trees—lots and lots of 'em?” Mr. Gudgeon was about to explain that Hill Rise was just a “pub” as far as he was concerned, but at that moment he caught sight of the up- turned face, and it was %o small and white and eager that in a burst of intuition he lied. ‘“Trees enough.” “And f—flowers?" “P'raps. I don’t ’'ave much time for plckin’ ‘em.” ’ Elfreda went home, slip-slopping through the puddles ang the mist of rain like a scared, little phantom. His last shift over, Mr. Gudgeon went home, and Mrs. Judd gave him a de- scription of the Golightly menage— whereat Mr. Gudgeon swore. And as Mr. Gudgeon never swore, Mrs. Judd marked the occasion as the beginning of the end. So from being the least and most despised of ragamuffins Elfreda be- came an important person. She and Gwendollne and Mr. Gudgeon knew each other. And gradually a deep intimacy sprang up between the three of them—a sort of wordless understanding. * % K X HINGS changed. Winter melted into a warm and kindly Spring, and one became restless and inclined to fall into a kind of dazed dream about one didn’t know what. One didn't make one's roses and daffodils s0 quickly, and Mrs. Golightly's de- pressions were more frequent and more painful in their expression. Mr. Gudgeon's little flicker of an- ger became a small, smoldering fur- nace. He didn’t know, either, what he was angry about. But he was gruff to the inspectors and said rude things “Well—I Elfreda said, “’cause X ! expert’| ession | | | | under his breath about tiresome pas- sengers and people who tried to get him into trouble by making Gwendo- line run over them—which was what they richly deserved. And altogether matters gvere getting very strained and eritical when the most amazing thing of all happened. One dusky April evening Elfreda and her mug of beer came out of the stifling, evil-smelling bar and found Mr. Gudgeon crying. Elfreda let her mug fall, and Mr. Gudgeon turned ow you've gone and done it,” he croaked 0ddly enough, Elfreda didn’t seem to care. She said, “Ullo!" tentatively and came and stood close to him, rub- bing -herself against his sleeve like some small, friendly animal, and Mr. Gudgeon put his hand on her shoul- det and squeezed till it hurt “Well, that's that.” Wot's wot?” Serapped.” He doline. “Scrapped. knackers. Like Sarah Jane. Like the lot of us. Got to make way for the new-fangled ones. Well, it'll be me next. That's life, Eify.” “Yus,” sald Elfreda. He gave her a little push. He didn’t want even her to see him so broken-down. “You get along home. Tell 'er I did it. 'Ere's twopence to buy some more. Don't you fret.” Elfreda left- Mr. Gudgeon standing there, and explained to Mrs. Golight- 1y about the beer, and Mrs. Golightly, Whose deprgssions had become posi- tively homicidal in the delay, accused her of having drunk it herself and beat her with a broken broomstick. As a punishment, Elfreda sat up until midnight making roses, and the candle guttered and she fell asleep, and the next morning the roses re- vealed themselves as a hideous fall- ure. All except one. That one. Eltreda, nerved by desperation, slip- ped into the bosom of her dirty jump- er, and crept downstairs into the dawn, while the Golightly snores pur- sued her, thick with menace. his * X ok ok CHES setting past thought the Inspector. “ ‘Ere—" said Blfreda. The Inspector went into the “pub’ to tell the Bus Conductor that it was high time 47X was on its way. A Stout Gentleman with a heavy gold watch chain settled himself in the in- side cormer away from drafts. Mr. Gudgeon paused on his upward climb. Ho looked, as the Inspector judged, o little, old man. He hadn't shaved, and there was a sort of baffied, gone- to-seed air about him No self-re specting , bus company could have thought of retaining such a person on their pay roll. 5h?" sald Mr. Gudgeon Ere,” Elfreda repeated. It was all she had to give, the only thing that was really her own, and Mrs. Golightly would certainly kill her for steallng it. That didn't mat- ter much. Even Elfreda knew that you could only be killed once, and In a sort of way it would be nice to get it over. “I made it.” Mr. Gudgeon took the pink object held up to him, He tried to smile. “Well—I never!_ Did you, now?" It's a rose, Mister.” “Like as two pins” Gudgeon. Mr. Gudgeon put it in his button- holé with clumsy, shaking finger Then for the first time he really looked at Elfreda e didn’t beat you, bit” aid Mr. Gudgeon piteously. Wot can a man do?” “I dunno. I—I couldn’t come along, too, could 12 I—T'd like to come. I'd like to see them trees. Law!” sald Mr. Gudgeon agaln. Much as my job's worth.” “Just them trees” she repeated humbly. “Just once. Mr. Gudgeon climbed into his seat. The Bus-Conductor had come out—a young man, pert and self-important. “Got to Eet a move on” he said. “Late alread Mr. Gudgeon wrapped himselt in his blanket. Rage blazed up in him. Rage against the Inspector and the Bus Conductor, against life, against the Golightlys and all people who beat children and animals, rage against the Stout Gentleman who so obviously ate too much, and against all the monotony of things. Mr. Gudgeon put in his clutch, loosened his brakes. It was to be his and Gwendoline's last journey to- gether. “Give us a ride, Mister.” Mr. Gudgeon blinked at the crowd of white, upturned faces. They weren't just “varmints” now. They were all Elfredas and embryo Mr. Gudgeons—little human beings that were being brought to serve some faceless, senseless tyrant and to be tossed aside when their day was done. They clamored, “Give us a ride, pointed to Gwen- Going to _the work,” said Mr. she?” % " il Mister,” as If they were clamoring for the moon. There wasn't a real hape among them. It was then Mr. Gudgeon went mad. He leaned over Gwendoline's side. you want a ride—get in,” he said. Nobody could hidve blamed the Bus Conductor. By the time he had re- covered his presence of mind No. 47X was well under way and there was nothing to do but go in and say “Fares, please,” as though 21 raga- muffins were normal freight. The Stout Gentleman said, “One twopenny,” and added, “I think the man is driving much too fast. I shall write to the company,” and Elfreda, who was sitting next to him, breath- less and bewildered, said nothing. “'Ere—where’s your fare?” Elfreda could only gaze and gaze. The other ragamuftins piped In chorus E sald we was to"—which was neither grammatical nor flluminating —and pointed at Mr. Gudgeon's head, just visible through the glass par- tition. The Bus Conductor opened the lit- tle glass window over Mr. Gudgeon's head and shouted, “Wot do you think you're doing?” By this time it was apparent to the meanest {ntelligence that Mr. Gudgeon and Gwendoline were running away together. “There'll be an accident,” sald the Stout Gentleman. “I shall write to the papers.” THE first policeman slgnaled to was a stout man and hopelessly out- classed by Gwendoline.. The second —Constable XZ—happened to be the best runner of his division, and he landed on Gwendoline’s back step, He and the Bus Conductor consulted rapldly. The Policeman opened the glass window. “Look here, my man—you pull up at once. Mr. Gudgeon could not possibly have mistaken the accents of author- ity. Gwendoline gathered speed. ou're under arrest,” sald the Po- licem, He hung out from the side rail and blew his whistle, and the policeman on point duty stood out in the middle of the road and held his hand up, and Gwendoline made a sort of skittish side curtsey and was past him and up the hill opposite before you could count 20. Constable XZ glass window Gudgeon's ear. “Look here, my man, you can't do that sort of thing, you know.” And, having thus announced the law in unequivocal terms, he ex- plained that he would have to report the whole matter to his superiors; who would no doubt deal with the situation, and jumped clear. “If you think," shouted the Bus Conductor hysterically, “that I'm go- ing to be left here with a bloomin® madman and a bunch of kids, you're very much mistaken!" He added something about a wife and children and vanished overboard. He missed his footing and landed in an_inconvenient puddle. The ragamuffins whooped with joy. Gwendoline at this point lurched | round an unexpected corner, and the | Stout Gentleman got up and spoke to Mr. Gudgeon himself. “My dear fellow,” he said, breath- less but propitiating, “I quife under- stand that you Intend this for a treat, | but would you mind telling me our | destination? I'm not a policeman, and I'm perfectly willing to enter Into the spirit of the thing, but I er to know. Mr. Gudgeon shook his head. He didn’t know. That was the whole business. Perhaps Gwendoline knew. He had given her her head. He him- self was simply obeying a blind in- stinct—a homing instinct. Perhaps homing birds, too, hardly know where they are going when they turn homeward—or how they are going to get there. They just start out blind- :’y;dund keep on going, as Mr. Gudgeon ok went back to the and shouted into Mr. e iy LFREDA, leaning snugly the Stout Gentleman, could see through the window opposite miles upon miles of hill and valley, field and forest, veiled in a Spring mist of ethereal golds and greens. And not a house in sight—if you excepted the thatched cottage before which Gwen- doline had halted. A gayly-lettered sign hung over the porch informing you that “The Case Is Altered” and that you could get Whitney's Ale here, and there were real daffodils swaying in a side garden so that for one moment Elfreda imagined that they were her daffodils come here to greet her. But a moment afterward she saw that they were quite differ- ent. There was such a glow and brightness about their green and yellow dres The Stout Gentleman, who had had to sit very still so that Elfreda should not be disturbed, groaned and stretched himself, against “1e | “It seems this is our first halt,” he said. And he lurched out in front of the twenty ragamuflins, who were rather tired by this time, and a red-faced man with a green apron round his walst stood in the porch and greeted him very respectfully. Sorry, sir. Afraild we can't do much. We weren't expecting a large party. If you only let us know you was coming.” “I didn’'t know myselt, Stout Gentleman grimly. “Well, sir, we could do cheese and eggs and sausages and coffee.’” The ragamuflins rustled and twit- tered like excited sparrows in a nest. “Yus—yus.” We're 'ungry.” 1 never 'ad no breakfus' even.” “Give me sawsidges. The “sawsldges”’ became a chorus, The Stout Gentleman sighed deep- ly. “Well—I suppose so. I can'thave ‘em starve before my eyes. Though who'll pay me back, I don't know. Do what you can, Landlord. And while we're waliting, get me a trunk call to London.” “No phone here, sir.” “Well, send round station.” “There Thornton doubtfull, of him.” “Is this a civilized country?" the Stout Gentleman demanded of no- body in particular. “Get him any- how. I refuse any further respon- sibility.” He followed the landlord into his inn, and the twenty ragamuffins charged in after him like a pack of velping puppies. But Elfreda stayed behind. She went and stood very close to Mr. Gudgeon. To her he was still won- derful. Before him authority had collapsed like & toy balloon into which he had stuck a contemptuous pin® To her he wasn't a little, old man gone queer in the head, but a hero. And vet the look on his face made her ache all over. “Wot's the perliceman comin’ for, Mister “I dunno—dearfe—I dunno.” “He ain’t a-goin’ to take us 'ome, is e?” ““Ome!" his breath. “Don't you you let im.” A wild light flashed man's face. He picked Elfreda up and set her by the driver's seat. He gave one strong pull at Gwendoline's starting handle. And then they were away again . X ¥ % DMITTEDLY this is very late in the story to introduce Mrs. Mel- rood. But we have classical prece- dent for the delay. Whoever heard of a Dea ex Machina in the first act? Mrs. Melrood lived with Sarah, who was very old, at Melrood Court, a fine, tumble-down Georglan house in a fine, gone-to-seed park—full of deer and sheep and weeds. Mrs. Mel- rood herself was obstinately poor. If she had chosen, she could have sold Melrood for twice its value to any one of a dozen war-time mil- lionaires and settled down to a lux- urious and respectable old age in Kensington. Not that any one could have im. agined her in Kensington. Mrs. Mel- rood, rheumatics and all, could still ride to hounds over the worst county in England with the best of them, and her language, when aroused, would have shattered the bric-a-brac of a Kensington drawing room to frag- ments. In the daytime she wore shabby tweeds and a high collar and a deer stalker, and in the evening very punctiliously she changed into what one can only describe as tailor- made decollete. So attired, and oddly imposing with her aquiline profile and cropped, snow-white hair, she 1a the savage to the police is a policeman at Little the landlord ruminated —*"at least I've heard tell said Mr. ‘Ome let Gudgeon under 'im, Mister—don't up the old alone at the head of an oak table spread with linen and the finest sil- ver and partook of a mutton chop or a stew from yesterday's joint. Op- posite her, shadowy—almost living in the flickering candle light—were full-length portraits of three men in uniform. These Mrs. Melrood toasted rregularly in a glass of ancient port. Now, on the night of the day on which Mr. Gudgeon, Elfreda and Gwendoline set out on their great ad- venture, Mrs. Melrood finished her after-dinner coffeo and a gasper in a mood ag near melancholy as was possible to a person of her tempera- ment. 5 It was a disagreeable business— this growing old with only one decent horse in the stable so that onco a weelc's hunting was the outside limit, and not a soul, except Sarah, to ask after one’s rheumatism. And then Sarah was getting old, too. And at that moment Sarah burst in “Oh, ma'am—if you please, ma'am—if you'd come at once—oh, dear, such a shock I've never had—I'd just gone out for a breath of alr—and thers it was—staring at me—large as life— oh, dear, and it's there this very minute.” “Where?" demanded Mrs. with splendid calm “In the lake, ma’am! What's in the lake? Melrood Sarah repeated faintly, and sat down regardless of decorum “To my certain knowledge,” sald Mrs. Meirood, “there isn't a bus within 50 miles. My plex.’” However, there it was. Unmistak- able. In the pale moonlight it did, in faot, look rather like some prehis- toric monster—a slightly befuddled plesiosaurus that had floundered into the lake and stuck there ankle-deep in slime. Mrs. Melrood, from dry land, flashed a light over her sign- board. “The Crown, Old Kent road. Hill Rise,” she read aloud. ‘“Seems to have come a little out of its way * ok x x HE torch whisked round to the figure standing close to her. There was 2 moment's silence. “Oh, it's you, Gudgeon, is it?" sald Mrs. Melrood Mr. Gudgeon touched his cap. ma’am.” “I told you you'd get sick of that rackety town life and want to come back,” Mrs. Melrood reminded him. “But 1 do think you need not have brought a bus into the park. You know how I hate the beastly things.” “She ain’'t the usual eort of bus ma'am. She's a good sort. She was a real friend to me. And now I done ‘er in.” Mrs. Melrood regarded Gwendoline critically. “You shouldn't have driven her into the lake, Gudgeon.” “I know, ma'am. 1 got all muddled like. It didn't seem to me the road used to go that way.” “It didn't. Col. Melrood altered That was after your time.” “Yes, maam,” said Mr. sadly “Things have changed, Gudgeon.” “That's true, ma'am.” “The - colonel's gone. heard? “Yes, ma'am—T ‘eard.” And Master John and Robert—to- gether—at Neuve Chapelle.” “I saw it in the papers, ma'am. I didn't write. 1 was ashamed-like.” He hung his head. He didn't want any one to see that he was crying again. When she had said to him, “You'll come back one of these days, Gudgeon,” she had been young and beautiful. He felt how old and tired he was Mrs. Melrood leaned cautiously over the strip of water and poked Gwendo- line in the ribs. “I suppose it isn't your bus, is it, Gudgeon?" “Yes, it Gudgeon Perhaps you good woman, | you must be suffering from a com- | No, ma‘am—not o to spe: “You stole it “Ye ma'am—I #&pose that's would seem to most people. “Well, why any sane person shou want to steal a bus ‘The torchlight wavered and fell a point. “And what on earth is that?’ demanded Mrs. Melrood sharply. “It's & little girl, ma’'am.” “Your little girl? “No, ma'am.’ Eloping—at geon Elfreda clung to h last strength. The bright torch blinded her. W v she did not know—policeman, Mrs. Golightly, inst dr struction—and yet the voice Elfreda’ rozen, l e legs shc her. She wasn't a pretty c time, and now she looked like a fu white-faced gnome w a red- nose caught in the act of stea stools, its eves wide with bew and black-rimmed with dirt an n “It looks very commented. it properly. You with other people understand them. I ting herself to death.” People were always Elfreda’s mother. “She ain't got no mothe geon blazed up. “No one me. They beat ‘er. I biack and blue they was—and I couldn't stand it T wouldn't stand it. goes on and on—like an old bus 'orse puttin® up with things, seein’ 'em "appen d_l,\' in, day out—and then all of a sud- dint ‘e can’'t stand no more. I'd 'ad enough—enough of the whole blasted business. 11 go back and die where I belong.’ I ses. And when she ses, ‘Take me along too, mister, I see to ‘er, “You get in f H ter about me. your a adful thin, “You haven't Mrs bee shouldn't r children, o 1 You don’t be f talkin g about Mr. Gud- he's got. Only sees 'er arms— * ok 4 x gulped and began to tremble Beg pardon ma'am. It don't They'd pped me any'ow—like they'd sc - my old Gwendoline. She's roc in ‘er engines, and I'm getting queer- like in the 'ead, and that's the truti “All the best people are queer in the head, Gudgeon. I am, myself. ‘But she's such a little 'un A man | IN THE MORNING TO SCHOOL, REST OF FLOWERS, SHE WENT AND FOR THE THE DAY SHE MADE her dro hay Gudg = | marr chose ted I's groom bring that was th nothing Lon Rosemary | knew that away with himseif. so0, and what Mrs As to Elfre | was forgottext al lightly, who d said_that she ha | and Rosemary lane opined that wher was, & omldn’t be { of. And whom one | missed he 1 | ognized h World’s Perfume Hub at Grasse Fears America Will Take Business BY STERLING HEILIG. ANNES, frivolous pleasure city on the Mediterranean for fashionable Americans and Europeans, has a working sister—close by, up the hills s an aristocrat of beauty products when Cannes was a poor fishing village. Today, at Cannes, they could not lipstick or perfume themselves with- out Grasse. Eight hundred years ago Europeans who washed simply had to get their soap from Grasse! “This town of Grasse, in the twelfth century,” says Torrin, in his “Procls de I'Histoire de Provence,” “supplied the whole of France, Italy and Spain with its famous leather, soap and ofls skilfully purified” 'In another place he affirms that “the whole of Europe obtained its soap from Grasse Today it remains true for the basic essences of Europe's perfumes—and all but true for those of the whole world! Grasse holds “the trade” in per- fume essences and striyes to hold it in essential elements and “short cuts” for all beauty products. Grasse fears no European city—Europe cannot touch her. Grasse fears America! Grasse loves America! Grasse fears America! When fashionable American women motor up from Cannes Grasse trembles while she worships their elegance and riches—fearing that America will calmly reach out and take what of “the trade” she may need, now that great perfumers of Paris have set up In America! * % k % HEN fashionable Americans mo- tor up to Grasse they see what looks like an unbeatable world of flowers and essences, because of cli- mate and cheap labor. Here, they state, in a quiet way, that 2,600 tons of orange blossoms and 2,000 tons of roses, to name no others, are swept into the iron maw of the perfume distillery every year. Weight is misleading . when you deal with rose leaves and mimosa blossoms. So, for jasmine alone, nine billions six hundred millions of jas- mine flowers are picked by hand, to provide the world’s chief supply of superior jasmine essence. The flower harvest lasts nearly the year round. 1t begins in February with the vio- let, which lasts until April. Over- lapping (this is understood of many), but chiefly in March and April, hya- cinths, jonquils and narcissus are plucked. May marks the great activ- ity of roses and orange blossoms— whose harvest terminates, for the most part, in June. Mignonettes ana pinks are cut in May, and straggle on. The great jasmine picking be- gins in July and the harvest lasts until near Midoctober. The tuberose {s plucked in August and September. And throughout the year quantities of other flowers and aromatics are grown and handled— some, famous in scent, like the ver- bena, heliotrope and geranium; others, absolutely important In the blends of THE TUBEROSE HARVEST AROUND GRASSE. SIX THOUSAND MEN, WOMEN AND CHILDREN ARE EMPLOYED IN HARVESTING THIS ONE FLOWER. great perfumeérs, which you may or may not find in the department stores. One such illustrious, but humble, must be mentioned—the lavender of the Alps! Old maids, once, were sup- posed to love its cool, chaste, severs fragrance. On the route of the Alps sunburned children run beside your car to sell you dusty bunches of it, like a Stiff weed in the style of heather, and in the villages they club together, buy a “still,” and, in the style of good old homemade “hooch,” produce spirlts of lavender, which they sell direct to Paris and Grasse. It is the one homemade, rule-of- thumb exception. All the rest is scientific—very. * ok ok % N and around Grasse 30,000 men, women and children are busy throughout the year, cultivating and “killing” flowers and “putting their souls in bottles"! Of course, it is a privileged land, wonderfully sunny, heavy in dew, temperate in rainfall, protected from inclemencies by the Alpine screen of mountains. Naturally, you suppose a Garden of Eden. So it is, for the one visitor in ten who sees ft. It is a glory in pink and white, in mauve and purple. It is a peach of a scene in gold and almond blossoms! But most women are buying soap. In their motor cars they rush by 50,000 acres of roses, jonquils and hyacinths. Then, vlan! rocks and dusty road again, In a rush to “the perfume factory — which, Sir ' Frederick Troves says, those who love flowers should avoid as they would & slaughter housel “You will see soft orange blossoms lying dead in the bottom of a pit, sodden and mashed, and jasmines crushed on the rack! Yet all rush to the perfume fac- torles. Sir Frederick calls it the tri- umph of soap over sentiment. But there is a secret reason! Mon! Male visitors! Men get more wildly exeited at Grasse than women. All men love per- fumes; but, at present, they may not use them, some Britisher having de- creed it bad taste for men to smell of anything but castile soap and water. And here is Grasse, fountain- head of fragrance. Men and women alike are disap- pointed. There are no honester or more skil- ful houses in the world than Rousse- Bertrand, Jean Giraud fils, Court, or Mero & Boyvean. Yct do you see their names on bottles or in color page ads? No, non, not. They slaughter a ton of roses to make a quart of essential oil of rose, which they sell, wholesale for, say, 12,000 francs, ($630) one quart. They cultivate, pluck and distill more than a ton (1,200 kgs.) of orange flowers to make a quart of mneroli, worth, wholesale, up to $125. Jasmine ab- solute essence wholesales near $1,000 per quart. Iris, about $700, Of course, the visitors don’t even smeil them, but others, weaker, diluted down for them. * ¥ ¥ X 'HO buys these terriffic essences —by dozens of gallons? the great perfumers of Paris and New York, principally, who manipu- late them, improve them, and blend them along with other products (as a painter uses colors) to “create” fa- ‘mous mixtures—the formula and Bruno | Why, | name of each of which becomes wor a fortune. 1 know streets, kerchi “Que “Mar. men who sneak down lonaly their hand- Apres I'Onedec “I'Origan sniffing with Fleurs,” den” on it But they don’t sniff jasmine, Iila pink, tuberose, or any other simple “flower soul” for any length of t Here's the disillusion, Simple flowar scents pall. They need help. Amber- | gris, called “the perfumer’s talisman” is the product of a sick whale (and it costs 14,000 fr: the kilo, or, say $730 per two pounds). Musk is the contribution of the Himalaya deer (In grains, from Tonkin, $350 per pou Civet is from the wildcat of Arabia (550 per pound in native horns)! Ben 2oin and styrax are cheap as dirt, but they've got to have 'em And there are volatile oils buds, green leaves and barks, roots, seeds and fruit rinds. are spices and aromatics. by the way, is from moss of the {Mediterranean oak. It has to -be touched up. No two Chypres are alike. Here, they tell those American woman visitors, as they told a famous girl newspaper corfespondent recently: “The basic materials for the per- fumes of the Far East, the Near East, Europe, Amerfca—in fact, the entire world—are distilled and shipped from | this delightful little town of Grasse.” It is preity near true. And there 1s more | Wil America from from There Chypre.” continue to ‘“use Grasse, now that the perfume center of gravity is shifting westward? Grasse fears & new factor—chem- istryl