met a M.P. man. Said I: 'Can you please direct me to the Gare du
Nord?' 'Straight on,' said he, 'and you'll find it on your left. It's
about a twenty-minute walk.' So I went straight on, and sure enough I
came to the Gare du Nord, and I came on here and found Tom juggling
with the wheel of the old ambulance with its radiator against the
wall." "Yes," said Tom, "and look here, bloody old Bill, I had spent
half the night juggling with death with that wheel--thank goodness the
engine wasn't going. Then Fred woke me up. What do you make of it all,
Bill?" I couldn't make anything of it, so I dressed and we had
breakfast and they went off to their aerodrome in the Somme mud.

After this we became great friends and we had many happy evenings,    (p. 086)
in some of which Tom looked for a "spot of bother," and Fred warned
him "it was a bad show." On "good nights for the troops," which meant
that the weather was impossible for bombing (they were night-bombers),
they would come into Amiens for dinner. These nights were "not devoid
of attraction," and on the "bad nights for the troops" I would often
dine at the aerodrome and see the raiders off. It was uncanny, these
great birds starting off into the blackness--to what?

Tom and Fred lived together in a little hut in the Somme mud, off the
Péronne Road, which they called "Virtue Villa," and when I worked
anywhere away up this old East-West Road, I never could resist
visiting "Virtue Villa" on the way back. "Virtue Villa" with its
blazing stove, its two bunks--Tom's below, Fred's upstairs--its
photographs (especially the one of Fred with the M.C. smile), the
biscuit-box seats and the good glasses of whisky--truly "Virtue
Villa," with its Tom and Fred, was not "devoid of attraction" on a
cold October evening, with the rain splashing on the water in the old
Somme shell-holes.

They were a great couple and devoted to each other. One could not eat,
drink or be merry without the other, yet they were completely
different. Fred was a calm, thoughtful English boy, very much in love
and longing to get married; but Tom was just a heap of fun, a man who
had travelled to many corners of the earth, but at heart was still a
romping school-boy.

About this time George Hoidge's squadron came to a place near Albert,
and I had the pleasure of seeing Colonel Bloomfield there again, still
as hearty and full of fire as ever. He was going to sit, but things
began to happen too quickly then, and I never got a chance of         (p. 087)
painting him.

[Illustration: XXXVII. _Albert._]

Some weeks later, Hoidge came in and said: "I have bad news for you,
Orps. Tom and Fred have gone West." It was bad news. Tom and Fred, two
gallant hearts, dead! I was told afterwards how it happened. One of
the last days of the fighting, Fred went out to test his machine with
his mechanic. He taxied off down the aerodrome, which was a huge old
Boche one that his squadron had moved forward to. As he was taxi-ing
he hit a Boche booby trap, planted in the ground, and up went the
machine and fell in flames. The mechanic was thrown clear, but not
Fred. Poor Tom saw it all from the door of "Virtue Villa." Out he
rushed straight into the flames to Fred. I feel sure Fred's spirit
cried out when it saw Tom coming in to the flames: "You're looking for
a spot of bother, Tom, but it's a good show, Tom, a good show!"

When the petrol burnt out and they got to them, they found Tom with
his arms round Fred. Greater love hath no man. That is how Tom and
Fred "went West." I hope they have found another "Virtue Villa" not
"devoid of attraction" high up in the blue sky, where they were often
together in this life. Let us admit they were a "good show"--in death
they were not divided. Their Major wrote to me: "The Mess has never
been the same since." The world itself will never be the same to those
who loved Tom and Fred and their like who have "gone West."

Thinking of them reminds me of those good lines by Carroll Carstairs,
written in hospital after he was so badly wounded:--

  "I have friends among the dead,                                     (p. 088)
  Such a gallant company,
  Lads whose laugh is scarcely sped
  To the far country.

  "Jolly fellows, it would seem
  That they have not really gone--
  Rather while I've stayed to dream
  They have marched serenely on."

THE CHURCH, ZILLEBEKE                                                 (p. 089)

OCTOBER 1918

  "Mud
  Everywhere--
  Nothing but mud.
  The very air seems thick with it,
  The few tufts of grass are all smeared with it--
  Mud!
  The Church a heap of it;
  One look, and weep for it.
  That's what they've made of it--
  Mud!
  Slimy and wet,
  Churned and upset;
  Here Bones that once mattered
  With crosses lie scattered,
  Broken and battered,
  Covered in mud,
  Here, where the Church's bell
  Tolled when our heroes fell
  In that mad start of hell--
  Mud!
  That's all that's left of it--mud!"

CHAPTER XIII                                                          (p. 090)

NEARING THE END (OCTOBER 1918)

The Boche were now nearly on the run. I remember one day I went out
with General Stuart and Colonel Angus McDonnell--the General was the
railway expert, and was out to ascertain what amount of damage the
Boche had done to the lines, permanent way, etc. General Stuart was a
quaint little man. He seldom spoke, but when he did it was very much
to the point and full of dry humour. The Hon. Angus McDonnell, a true
Irishman, was a most attractive person, full of charm. He'd kissed
more than the Blarney Stone, and had received all the good effects,
and we had some most interesting days together. On the particular one
I mention, we went away beyond Cambrai to a place called Caudry, where
the General inspected the station and the general damage to the metals
and permanent way, after which we left and lunched by the side of a
road which ran through fields. All was peace, not a sound from the
guns--when suddenly shrapnel started bursting over these fields. No
one was in sight; a few Englishmen on horseback galloped past,
apparently for exercise. The Boche, I presume, couldn't see, but just
let off on chance. It was better than leaving the shells there for us.

After lunch we motored down to St. Quentin, and on the way stopped and
explored the great tunnel in the Canal du Nord. What a stronghold! It
seemed impossible that the Boche could have been driven out of it.    (p. 091)
On the way down we travelled along a road _pavé_ in the middle,
with mud on each side and the usual rows of trees, then a dip down to
the fields. These fields were full of dead Boche and horses. The road
had evidently been under observation a very little while back, as the
Labour Corps were hard at work filling in shell-holes, and the traffic
was held up a lot. In one spot in the mud at the side of the road lay
two British Tommies who had evidently just been killed. They had been
laid out ready for something to take them away. Standing beside them
were three French girls, all dressed up, silk stockings and crimped
hair. There they were, standing over the dead Tommies, asking if you
would not like "a little love." What a place to choose! Death all
round, and they themselves might be blown into eternity at any moment.
Death and the dead had become as nothing to the young generation. They
had lived through four years of hell with the enemy, and now they were
free. Another day I went to Douai, and there I saw the mad woman. Her
son told us she had been quite well until two days before the Boche
left, then they had done such things to her that she had lost her
reason. There she sat, silent and motionless, except for one thumb
which constantly twitched. But if one of us in uniform passed close to
her, she would give a convulsive shudder. It was sad, this woman with
her beautiful, curly-headed son. Later she was moved to Amiens, where
she had relatives. After about six months she became quite normal
again, and does not remember anything about it. The last time I saw
her she was cleaning the upstairs rooms at "Josephine's," the little
oyster-shop off the Street of the Three Pebbles.

[Illustration: XXXVIII. _The Mad Woman of Douai._]

One night at the "Hôtel de la Paix" a weird thing happened. One       (p. 092)
often hears strange stories of the powers different men and women have
over individuals of the opposite sex. As a rule, one hears, one
smiles, or one is rather disgusted; but seldom do we admit to
ourselves that these stories may be absolutely true--we nearly always
smile and think we are clever, and say to ourselves: "Ah! there's
something behind that." Rasputin, for instance, what was he? Had he
power? We wonder a little and dismiss the thought.

On this night, at about 9 o'clock, the early diners had gone, but
there were about thirty of us left who would testify to the truth of
this tale. A man walked in and sat down at a large empty table. He was
a French civilian, dressed in black, tall and slim, with an enormous
brown beard--a "Landru." Marie Louise, one of the serving-girls, asked
him what he required, and he said: "A glass of Porto." This she
brought him, but as she was placing it on the table, he put out his
hand and touched her arm, and let his fingers run very gently up and
down it. He never spoke a word. She retired and returned with another
glass of port, and sat down beside him and commenced to drink it; no
word was uttered. Again he raised his hand, beckoned to another
serving-girl; the same act was gone through, and she sat down with her
port. This continued without a word of conversation until he had all
the serving-girls, about eight of them, sitting round in silence. We
all sat and looked on in amazement for a while, but after about ten
minutes hunger got the better of us, and we started calling them for
our food. They took not the slightest notice of us, but in the end we
made so much noise that Monsieur Dyé, the manager of the hotel, came
in. He was a hot-tempered man, who never treated the girls under him
kindly, and when he saw and heard his customers shouting for food, and
saw all his serving-girls sitting down drinking port, his face went   (p. 093)
black with rage, and he rushed over to their table and cursed them all
roundly, but they took not the slightest notice. Then he turned on the
man with the beard and ordered him out of the hotel. He never
answered, but got up slowly, put on his hat and left. As soon as he
rose from the table all the girls went back to their work as if
nothing had happened, and we continued our dinner. It was a strange
affair--not one of those girls remembered anything about it
afterwards.

[Illustration: XXXIX. _Field-Marshal Lord Plumer of Messines, G.C.B.,
etc._]

Again I went to Cassel, to paint General Plumer. I arrived there one
evening, and had dinner with Major-General Sir Bryan Mahon, who was on
his way to Lille. I woke up in the morning, got out of bed and
collapsed on the floor. "'Flu!" After three days the M.O. said I must
go to hospital. I said: "Hospital be damned! I'm going to paint
to-morrow." So I wrote and told General Plumer I would work the next
morning if he could spare the time to sit. He replied he could. So on
a very cold morning I made my way rather giddily up the stone steps to
the Casino and on to his little château. There I was met by the
General's grand old batman. He stopped me and said: "Have you come to
paint the Governor's portrait, sir?" "Yes," said I. "Well," said he,
"let me have a look at you. You're feeling a bit cheap, ain't you? The
Governor told me you've been having the 'flu'." "Yes," I said, "I'm
not feeling up to much." "Well, now," said he, "the Governor is busy
for the moment, but he told me to look after you and fix up what room
you would like to work in, but first I want to get you a bit more up
to scratch. Just come along and have a glass of port." So he brought
me off and gave me an excellent glass. Then I chose the General's
bedroom to work in, and we fixed everything up. Then he said: "Now    (p. 094)
I'll go and fetch the old man." Off he went and back he came, and with
a wink, said: "He's coming," and in walked the General. A strange man
with a small head, and a large, though not fat, body, and a great
brain full of humour. He also was very calm, and made things very easy
for me, but his batman was not so easy to please. When I got the
General the way I wanted him, the batman leant over my shoulder, and
said: "Is the Governor right now?" "Perfectly," I replied. "No, he
ain't," said he, "not by a long chalk." And he went over to the
General and started pulling out creases in his tunic and said: "'Ere,
you just sit up proper--not all 'unched up the way you are. What would
Her Ladyship say if I let you be painted that way?" At last we got him
satisfied, and he departed. When the door was shut, the General said:
"Well, that's over," and settled down in comfort.

After I had worked for about an hour and a half there was a knock at
the door and in the batman came. He took no notice of the General, but
laid his hand on my shoulder and said: "Look up at me." I obeyed.
"Won't do," said he. "You wants keeping up to the mark," and retired,
and came back with an enormous glass of port. When the sitting was
finished, I went back to bed at the "Sauvage," very giddy and slightly
muzzed.

The next morning the batman again arranged the General "to Her
Ladyship's liking," and left. As soon as he had gone, the General
said: "We've got him on toast. He's worried to death because you
haven't painted the gold leaves on my red tab. Don't do it till the
very last thing." It worked splendidly. The old chap was really upset.
Every hour he used to come in and tap me on the shoulder, point to the
red tab, and say: "What about it? If you don't get them gold leaves   (p. 095)
proper, I'll get it from Her Ladyship." He was a great servant of the
true old class, one of those who never lose their place, no matter how
freely they are treated, and was ready to die for his master at any
minute.

[Illustration: XL. _Armistice Night. Amiens._]

Soon after this the General and his staff moved forward, and Cassel
became a dead little place as far as the Army was concerned. Things
were going very quickly, and scarcely a day passed that one could not
mark a new front line on one's map.

I went out to see the damage done to Bailleul. In a few days British
artillery had flattened it out as badly as Ypres. One could hardly
find out where the main _Place_ had been. Now one could wander all
over the Ypres salient. Was there ever a more ghastly place? Even the
Somme was outdone. Mud, water, battered tanks, hundreds of them,
battered pillboxes, everything battered and torn, with Ypres like a
skeleton. The Menin Road, the Zonnebeke Road, what sights were
there--mangled remains of superhuman effort!

I remember one day in the summer being down at Lord Beaverbrook's when
news came in that Locre had fallen. I had no knowledge of Locre, but
Lord Beaverbrook, I could see, felt that the loss of it was a very
serious thing. So I went to see Locre--a ghastly place!--the fighting
must have been terrific. Shell-holes full of dead Germans. Everything
smashed to pulp. I should imagine, before Hell visited it, Locre must
have been a very pretty little place. It is on a hill which looks down
into a valley, with Mont Kemmel rising up the other side.

Suddenly my blood poisoning came on again badly, so I returned to
Amiens on November 10. When we had just passed Doullens we got the    (p. 096)
news that the Kaiser had abdicated. Great excitement prevailed
everywhere. The next day, at 11 a.m., I was working in my room and
heard guns, so I went to the window and saw the shells bursting over
the town, but I could not see the Boche 'plane. It must be very high,
I thought. About ten minutes afterwards there was a sound of cheering,
so I knew the fighting was over. I went again to the window and looked
down into the courtyard. It was empty, except for one serving-girl,
Marthe, who had her apron to her face and was sobbing bitterly.
Presently, Marie-Louise came up to my room and told me the news, and
we had a drink together in honour of the great event. Said I: "What
has happened to poor Marthe? It is sad that she should be so upset on
this great day. What is the matter?" "Ah!" said Marie-Louise, "it is
the day that has upset her." "The day?" said I. "Yes," replied
Marie-Louise, "you see, her husband will come out of the trenches now
and will come back to her. C'est la Guerre!"

Later, Maude came in, and I asked him what on earth a Boche was doing
over Amiens just at the moment the fighting ceased. "Oh," said Maude,
"there wasn't any Boche, but the anti-aircraft chap got orders to fire
off his guns for ten minutes when the Armistice was signed, but, as he
had nothing but live shells, he thought he had better stop after two."
But why he burst his shells right over the centre of the town was
never explained.

Yet, on this day, looked forward to for years, I must admit that,
studying people, I found something wrong--perhaps, like all great
moments expected, something is sure to fall short of expectations.
Peace was too great a thing to think about, the longing for it was too
real, too intense. For four years the fighting men had thought of     (p. 097)
nothing except that great moment of achievement: now it had come, the
great thing had ceased, the war was won and over. The fighting
man--that marvellous thing that I had worshipped all the time I had
been in France--had ceased actively to exist. I realised then, almost
as much as I do now, that he was lost, forgotten. "Greater love hath
no man"--they had given up their all for the sake of the people at
home, gone through Hell, misery and terror of sudden death. Could one
doubt that those at home would not reward them? Alas, yes! and the
doubt has come true. It made me very depressed. The one thing these
wonderful super-men gave me to think that evening was: "What shall we
do? Will they do as they promised for us? I gave up all my life and
work at home and came out here to kill and be killed. Here I am
stranded--I cannot kill anyone any more, and nobody wants to kill me.
What am I to do? Surely they will give me some job: I have done my
bit, they can't just let me starve." "When you come back home
again"--yes, that crossed their minds and mine for them. Wending my
way home through the blackened streets that night, I met a Tommy who
threatened to kill me because of his misery. I talked him down and
brought him to my room, and told him I really believed he would have a
great time in the future. I doubted what I said, but he believed me,
and went off to his billet happy for that one night.

[Illustration: XLI. _The Official Entry of the Kaiser._]

Could anyone forecast the tragedy that has happened to so many of
these men since? That great human Field-Marshal, Lord Haig, the man
who knows, works for them still, and asks--but who answers? Great God!
it makes one think, remember, think and wonder, what impossibly
thankless people human beings are. It is sad, but very, very true!

CHAPTER XIV                                                           (p. 098)

THE PEACE CONFERENCE

Captain Maude left Amiens and became Major Maude, D.S.O., A.P.M.
Cologne. I missed him greatly, and it depressed me very much being
left in that old town, but the doctors flatly refused to let me move,
so I just had to grin and bear it.

I then got more ill and took to my bed. My recollections from that
time to the middle of January are very hazy. People were very kind to
me, and used to come and sit with me for hours, especially two Rifle
Brigade boys--Stevens and Riviere--two of the best. Stevens had just
come back from Brussels, where there had been great times, music and
dancing. Apparently the great tune of that period was "Katie"; anyway
Stevens could not get it out of his head. He never knew how near he
was to sending me completely mad, by singing gently to himself as the
winter afternoons drew in:--

  "K-K-K-Katie, beautiful Katie,
  You're the only g-g-girl that I adore,
  When the ke-moon shines on the Ke-cowshed;
  I'll be waiting at the Kitchie Kitchen door."

Long afterwards, during the Peace Conference, whenever I heard that
tune in the "Majestic," my mind went back to the misery and
semi-darkness in that dirty room in Amiens.

On New Year's Eve, Angus McDonnell came all the way from G.H.Q. and   (p. 099)
had me lifted out to dinner, so I must have been better then. General
Sir John Cowans also came all the way from G.H.Q. to see how I was.
Kindness is a wonderful thing.

[Illustration: XLII. _General Sir J. S. Cowans, G.C.B., etc._]

The Allied Press disbanded, and I gave a dinner to the boys at the
"Hôtel de la Paix." It was all arranged by my chauffeur, Gordon
Howlett, and my batman, Green, and it was well done. Great were the
songs and dances, and great was the amount of liquid put away. I was
lifted downstairs and laid out beside the table, and the lads
presented me with a magnificent silver ash-tray.

Towards the end of January, I was allowed out and about again, and I
went up to G.H.Q. to paint the Q.M.G., who put me up in his château. I
painted him, and also did some work down at "Bumpherie," including a
drawing of Lieutenant Brooks, who took the most wonderful official
photographs during the war, often at great personal risk. I remember a
story that went round in 1917, in which there was not a word of truth,
but it was amusing. A terrible-looking Tommy stopped Brooks in the
Street of the Three Pebbles and said: "Say, guv'ner, when are you
going to give me me photo?" "What photo? Who are you?" said Brooks.
"Blimy," said the Tommy, "you don't know me, and me the bloke as was
killed going over the top for you!"

I now got a reminder that I was due in Paris to paint the Peace
Conference. The whole thing had gone from my mind. I afterwards found
the letter, which I apparently had received and read, dated December,
telling me to go to Paris, but I was so sick I did not realise what it
was about. I realised now right enough, so I packed my bag and breezed
away to Paris, and found that great family gathering, the Peace       (p. 100)
Conference, and the life of the "Astoria" and the "Majestic" commenced
for me.

The great family really was composed of a number of little families.
Mine consisted of Lord Riddell, George Mair, Lieut.-Colonel Stroud
Jackson, D.S.O., George Adam, Sidney Dark and Gordon Knox, and great
were the meetings at Foucquet's before lunch.

For the most part, my life consisted now of painting portraits at the
"Astoria," or attending the Conference at the "Quai d'Orsay." During
these I did little drawings of the delegates. For a seat I was usually
perched up on a window-sill. It was very amusing to sit there and
listen to Clemenceau--"Le Tigre"--putting the fear of death into the
delegates of the smaller nations if they talked too long. Apparently,
the smaller the nation he represented, the more the delegate felt it
incumbent on himself to talk, but after a while, Clemenceau, with the
grey gloves whirling about, would shout him down.

President Wilson occasionally rose and spoke of love and forgiveness.
Lloyd George just went on working, his secretaries constantly rushing
up to him, whispering and departing, only to return for more whispers.
Mr. Balfour, whose personality made all the other delegates look
common, would quietly sleep. The Marquis Siongi was the only other man
who could hold his own at all with Mr. Balfour in dignity of
appearance.

As a whole there was just a little mass of black frock-coated
figures--"frocks" as we called them--sitting and moving about under
the vast decoration of "Le Salon de l'Horloge." Some of the little
people seemed excited, but for the most part they looked profoundly   (p. 101)
bored, yet they were changing the face of the map, slices were being
cut off one country and dumped on to another. It was all very
wonderful, but I admit that all these little "frocks" seemed to me
very small personalities, in comparison with the fighting men I had
come in contact with during the war.

[Illustration: XLIII. _Field-Marshal Sir Henry H. Wilson, Bart.,
K.C.B., etc._]

They appeared to think so much--too much--of their own personal
importance, searching all the time for popularity, each little one for
himself--strange little things. President Wilson made a great hit in
the Press with his smile. He was pleased at that, and after this he
never failed to let you see all his back teeth. Lloyd George grew hair
down his back, I presume from Mr. Asquith's lead. Paderewski--well, he
was always a made-up job. In short, from my window-seat it was easy to
see how self-important the majority of all these little black "frocks"
thought themselves. It was all like an _opéra bouffe_, after the
people I had seen, known and painted during the war; and these, as the
days went by, seemed to be gradually becoming more and more forgotten.
It seemed impossible, but it was true. The fighting man, alive, and
those who fought and died--all the people who made the Peace
Conference possible, were being forgotten, the "frocks" reigned
supreme. One was almost forced to think that the "frocks" won the war.
"I did this," "I did that," they all screamed, but the silent soldier
man never said a word, yet he must have thought a lot.

I remember when the Peace Terms were handed to the Germans at the
Trianon Palace, I tried my hardest to get a card to enable me to see
it, but failed. This may not seem strange, but it really was,
considering that about half the people who were present were there out
of curiosity alone. They were just friends of the "frocks." This      (p. 102)
ceremony took place at 2.30 p.m. on that particular day. I happened to
leave my room and go into the hall of the "Astoria" for something
about 3 p.m. There I met Field-Marshal Sir Henry Wilson. I said: "How
did you get back so soon, sir?" He said: "Back from where?" I said:
"From the handing over of the Peace Terms." "Oh," he said, "I haven't
been there. They wouldn't give me a pass, the little 'frocks' wouldn't
give me one." "I've been trying for days, sir," I said. "They expect
me to paint them, but they won't let me see them." "Look here, little
man," he said. "I've been thinking as I was walking back here, and
I'll give you a little piece of advice: 'Laugh at those who cry, and
cry at those who laugh.' Just go back to your little room and think
that over and you will feel better."

When I painted Sir Henry, he gave me his views on the brains and
merits of many of the delegates, views full of wit and brilliant
criticism, but when I had finished painting him I came under his
kindly lash. He called me "a nasty little wasp," and he kept a "black
book" for any of his lady friends who said the sketch was like him. In
it their names were inscribed, and they were never to be spoken to
again. With all his fun, Sir Henry was a deep thinker, and towered
over the majority of the "frocks" by his personality, big outlook and
clear vision.

General Botha was big, large and great in body and brain--elephantine!
Everything on an immense scale, even to his sense of humour. He had no
sign of pose, like most of the "frocks." He never seemed to try to
impress anyone. One could notice no change in his method or mode of
conversation according to whom he was speaking. The great mind just   (p. 103)
went on and uttered what it thought, regardless of whom it uttered it
to. In Mrs. Botha he had the ideal wife. Together they were like two
school-children. "Louis" and "Mother," how well they knew each other,
and how they loved their family and home! They were always talking of
"home" and longing to get back to it. Alas! Louis only got back there
for a very short time, and now "home" will never be the same for
"Mother."

[Illustration: XLIV. _The Rt. Hon. Louis Botha, P.C., LL.D._]

What arguments they used to have--fierce arguments which always ended
the same way! "Louis" would make some remark which would absolutely
pulverise "Mother's" side of the question, and as she was stammering
to reply, he would say very gently: "It's all right, Mother, it's all
right, you've won." And she would flash out with: "Don't you dare to
say that to me, Louis! You always say that when you get the best of
the argument."

She used to complain to me how terrible the General's love for bridge
was, and how she used to be kept up so late. He would laugh and say:
"But, Mother, you didn't get up till nine this morning. I was walking
in the Bois at half-past six."

I remember one afternoon they came to my room and Mrs. Botha said:
"Well, Louis, what kind of a morning had you?" He replied: "Not very
good, Mother, not very good. You see, Mother, Clemenceau got very
irritated with President Wilson, and Lloyd George the same with
Orlando. No, it wasn't a very pleasant morning. Nearly everyone was
irritable." Then "Mother" said: "I think it disgusting, Louis, that
these men, settling the peace of the world, should allow their own
little petty irritabilities to interfere with the great work." And    (p. 104)
Botha replied: "Ah! Mother, you must make allowances. Men are only
human." "I don't make allowances," jerked in "Mother," "I think it's
disgusting." "Don't say that, Mother," he replied. "I remember one
time, long ago, when we made our little peace, you used to get very
irritable at times, and I had to make a lot of allowances for you. You
must try and make the same for these poor people now." "Mother" never
even replied to this, but jumped from her chair and left the room, and
the big man's face broadened into a smile. Yes, Botha was big--a giant
among men.

Admiral Lord Wester Wemyss came along. He has a good head for a "Sea
Dog." He brought the sea into the heart of Paris with him. A man of
great charm, with a wonderful smile, which I did not paint.

I wrote and asked President Wilson to sit, and got a reply saying that
as his time was fully occupied with the Peace Conference work, he
regretted that he was unable to give any sittings.

I also wrote to Mr. Lansing and Colonel House, asking them. The
Colonel rang up the same afternoon and said, "Certainly," would I name
my day and hour? Which I did; and along he came, a charming man, very
calm, very sure of himself, yet modest. During the sitting he asked me
if I had painted the President. I replied: "No." He then asked me if I
was going to do so, and I replied: "No," that the President had
refused to sit. He said: "Refused?" I said: "Yes; he hasn't got the
time." "What damned rot!" said the Colonel, "he's got a damned sight
more time than I have. What day would you like him to come to sit?" I
named a day, and the Colonel said: "Right! I'll see that he's here,"
and he did. Mr. Lansing was also very good about giving sittings,     (p. 105)
and we had a good time, as he loves paintings, and knows all the Art
Galleries in Europe. He also paints himself in his spare time, and all
through the Conference at the "Quai d'Orsay" he drew caricatures of
the different delegates. President Wilson told me he had a large
collection of these.

[Illustration: XLV. _The Rt. Hon. A. J. Balfour. O.M._]

When Lord Reading sat he had the "'flu," and did not talk, so I got
nothing out of him except that he has a very fine head.

The Emir Feisul sat. He had a nice, calm, thoughtful face. Of course,
his make-up in garments made one think of Ruth, or, rather, Boaz. He
could not let me work for one minute without coming round to see what
I was doing. This made the sittings a bit jerky. I was going to paint
another portrait of him for his home, but we never hit off times when
we were both free.

I asked Mr. Balfour to sit, and he asked me to lunch to arrange it.
The subject was never mentioned, but the lunch in the Rue Nito was
excellent, and it was a joy to listen to Mr. Balfour. One could also
look down into President Wilson's garden, as Mr. Balfour's flat was on
the second floor, and one could see over the armed defences and view
the American Army on guard outside, with steel helmets and bayonets
flashing in the sunlight.

Mr. Balfour did sit in the end. I remember he came to my room about
12.15 p.m. He was sound asleep by 12.35 p.m., but woke up sharp at 1
p.m., and left for lunch. What a head! It put all other heads out of
the running. So refined, so calm, so strong, a fitting head for such a
great personality.

Dr. E. J. Dillon very kindly asked me to dinner to meet Venezelos, and
he arranged for him to sit, which he did at the "Mercèdes Hotel." He  (p. 106)
had a beautiful head, with far-seeing blue eyes, which had a
distinctly Jewish look. It was difficult to paint him, as he had no
idea of sitting at all. It was a pity, as he had a wonderful head to
paint. His flesh was fresh and rosy like a young boy's.

Da Costa, of Portugal, came along: a bright little man, full of health
and energy; and after him that quiet, thoughtful friendly person, Sir
Robert Borden, of Canada; even then he looked rather tired and
overworked.

General Sykes sat. What a strange head! A sort of mixture between Hall
Caine and Shakespeare.

The day arrived when President Wilson was to sit. He was to come at 2
p.m., so I went back to the "Astoria" about 1.30. When I got to the
door I found a large strange man ordering all the English motors to go
one hundred yards down the Rue Vernet. No British car was allowed to
stop closer. When I entered the "Astoria," one of the Security
Officers told me that an American detective had been inquiring the
direct route the President was to take to my room. I went on into
another little room I had, where I kept my paints and things; and
there I found two large men sitting in the only two chairs. They took
no notice of me, and were quite silent, so I proceeded to get ready.
Taking off my belt and tunic, and putting on my painting coat, I
started to squeeze out colours, when suddenly in marched an enormous
man. He looked all round the room and said in a deep voice: "Is Sir
William Orpen here?" "Yes, I'm here," I said. He walked up to me and,
towering over me, looked down and said in grave doubt: "Are _you_ Sir
William Orpen?" "Yep," I replied, in my best American accent. "Well,"
he said, "be pleased to dress yourself and proceed to the door and
prepare to receive the President of the United States of America."    (p. 107)
That finished me--I had been worked up to desperate action. So I
looked up as fully as I could in his face, and uttered one short,
thoroughly English word, but one which has a lot to it. Immediately
the two large men and the enormous one left the room in utter silence.

[Illustration: XLVI. _President Woodrow Wilson._]

Shortly afterwards the President arrived, smiling as usual; but he was
a good sort, and he laughed hard when I told him the story of the
detectives. He was very genial and sat well, but even then he was very
nervous and twitchy. He told endless stories, mostly harmless, and
some witty. I only remember one. A king was informed that all the men
in his State were obeying their wives; so he ordered them all before
him on a certain day and spoke to them, saying he had heard the fact
about their obeying their wives, and he wished to ascertain if it was
so. So he commanded, "All men who obey their wives go to my left!"
They all went to his left except one miserable little man, who
remained where he was, alone. The king turned, and said to him: "Are
you the only man in my State who does not obey his wife?" "No, sire,"
said the little man, "I obey my wife, sire." "Then why do you not go
to my left as I commanded?" "Because, sire," said the little man, "my
wife told me always to avoid a crush." It's a mild story, but it's the
only one I remember. The only other thing I recollect about President
Wilson is that he had a great admiration for Lord Robert Cecil.

General Sackville-West came, and we had some peaceful sittings. A very
calm, very sad man, but he was kindness itself. Many are the acts for
which I have to thank him.

Lord Beatty arrived in Paris. A lunch was given in his honour at the
Embassy, after which he came back with me to the "Astoria," and sat.  (p. 108)
A forceful character! I may be wrong, but I imagine he did not love
the "frocks."

George Adam gave a great dinner one night out at some little country
place near Paris. Mr. Massey, of New Zealand, and Admiral Heaton Ellis
were the two chief people present. Massey was a most pleasant big man,
with kind, blue eyes--a simple, honest, straightforward person, large
in body and big enough in brain to laugh at himself. He made me feel I
was back painting the honest people in the war. He had none of the
affectations of the "frocks."

I painted the Marquis Siongi in his flat in the Rue Bassano. There one
worked in the calm of the East. People entered the room, people left,
but I never heard a sound. The Marquis sat--never for one second did
his expression give an inkling of what his brain was thinking about.
He never moved; his eyelids never fluttered, and beside me all the
time I worked, curled up on a sofa, was his daughter--surely one of
the most beautiful women I have ever seen, soft and gentle, with her
lovely little white feet. I loved it all. When I left that flat I
could not help feeling I was going downstairs to a lower and more
common world, a world where passions and desires were thrust upon
one's eyes and ears, leaving no room for imagination or wonder. I
never pass down the Rue Bassano now that I do not think of the Marquis
and those lovely little white feet, the gentle manners and the calm of
the East which pervaded those apartments.

General Smuts sat, a strong personality with great love for his own
country, and a fearless blue eye. I would not like to be up against
him, yet in certain ways he was a dreamer and poet in thought. He
loved the people and hated the "frocks." He and I had a great night
once at the servants' dance down in the ballroom of the "Majestic."   (p. 109)
I found him down there during the evening, and he said: "You've got
sense, Orpen. There is life down here, but upstairs it's 'just
death.'"

[Illustration: XLVII. _The Marquis Siongi._]

Mary was, of course, the "Belle of the Ball." No description of the
Peace Conference could be complete without including Mary. One great
man said that the most joyous sight he saw in Paris was Mary. Mary
doled us out tea and cigarettes in the hall of the "Majestic"--doled
them out with a smile of pure health. Mary came from Manchester, yet
she made the Parisian girls look pale, pallid and washed out. Her rosy
cheeks had a smile for everyone, men and women; one and all loved
Mary. She really was the greatest personal success of the Peace
Conference. How the people of Manchester must have missed her, and how
lucky they are to have her back again!

Another delegate with no affectation was Mr. Barnes, a restful,
thoughtful soul. He brought Mrs. Barnes in one afternoon, a charming,
quiet lady. They should be painted together as an ideal English
couple.

Another good Englishman, Lord Derby, our Ambassador, sat to me. Some
day will be known all the good he has done in France. Loved by all,
this joyous, bluff, big-hearted Englishman has done great things in
keeping friendship and goodwill between the two nations through many
anxious moments. One felt better after being at the Embassy and
hearing his great laugh. He was not a bit like a "frock"; whether he
loved them or not, I don't know. He was far too clever to let me know,
but he was too kind-hearted to hurt anybody or anything, and he
certainly loved the fighting man--French, English or American.

Mr. Hughes made a big mark at the Conference. He was as deaf as a     (p. 110)
post, but he had a cutting wit. Many are the good stories told about
him, but they are not mine. Clemenceau and he used to have great
jokes. Often I have seen them rocking with laughter together,
Clemenceau's grey-gloved hands on Hughes' shoulders, leaning over him
and shouting into his enormous deaf cars. He came to sit one day with
_The Times_. He said: "Good morning." I asked him to sit in a chair.
He sat, read _The Times_ for about an hour and a half, murmured
something that I did not catch, got up and left. The next day he rang
up and asked if I wished for another sitting. I said: "No, sir," so
that was my only personal meeting with Hughes; but I gather he was
extremely cute and cunning, which is quite possible from the general
make-up of his head.

That warrior, General Carton de Wiart, V.C., came to sit: a man who
loved war. What a happy nature! He told me he never suffered any pain
from all his wounds except once--mental pain--when he temporarily lost
the sight of his other eye, and he thought he might be blind for life.
A joyous man, so quiet, so calm, so utterly unaffected. What a lesson
to the "frocks"!

Another man of great personal charm was Paul Hymans, of Belgium. He
was greatly liked and respected by the British delegates.

[Illustration: XLVIII. _A Polish Messenger._]

CHAPTER XV                                                            (p. 111)

PARIS DURING THE PEACE CONFERENCE

Shortly after I arrived in Paris I found one could get "Luxury Tax
Tickets." I had never heard of a Luxury Tax up North, but it was in
force in Paris right enough. So I went to H.Q. Central Area, and
inside the door whom should I meet but my one-time "Colonel" of G.H.Q.
"Hello!" said he. "What are you doing in Paris?" "Painting the Peace
Conference, sir," said I. "Well, what do you want here?" he asked.
"I've come for some Luxury Tax Tickets, sir." "To what are you
attached now?" he asked. "C.P.G.H.Q., sir," said I. "Well," he said,
"if you are attached to G.H.Q. you must go there and get your Luxury
Tax Tickets. You can't get them here." "Right, sir," said I. "Will you
please sign an order for me to proceed to G.H.Q. to obtain Luxury Tax
Tickets and return? and I will start right away, sir." "Well," he
said, "perhaps, after all, I will allow you to have some here, as you
are working in Paris." "Thank you very much indeed, sir," said I,
clicking my heels and saluting. But it was no good, we never could
become friends, as I said before.

One afternoon in the hall at the "Astoria" I saw a strange man--a
paintable person--and I asked the Security Officers to get him to sit
to me. He was a Polish messenger. He came along the next morning, sat
down and smoked his silver pipe. I said: "Can you understand any      (p. 112)
English?" "Yes," said he, in a strong Irish accent, "I can a bit."
"But," I said, "you talk it very well. Have you lived in Ireland?"
"No," said he, "but I went to the States for about six months some
fifteen years or more back, and that's where I picked up the wee bit I
have." I began to think he must be de Valera or some other hero in
disguise. Perhaps he was.

Field-Marshal Sir Henry Wilson asked me to dine at the "Majestic" one
night. In the afternoon I got a telephone message that the place for
the dinner had been changed from the "Majestic" to the Embassy. When I
reached there I was received by Sir Henry (Lord and Lady Derby were
also present). He apologised to me for the room being a little cold.
At dinner, which was perfect, he found fault and apologised for the
food, for the wine, for the waiting--nothing was right. It was great
fun. He kept it up all the evening. When saying good-bye to Their
Excellencies, he said: "I can't tell you how sorry I am about
everything being so bad to-night, but I'll ask you out to a restaurant
another night and give you some decent food and drink."

About this time I painted Lord Riddell, who, with George Mair and
others, was looking after the interests of the Press. Meetings were
held twice a day and news was doled out by Riddell, such news as the
P.M. saw fit that the Press should know. Great was the trouble when
George Adam would suddenly burst into print with some news that had
not been received through this particular official channel. Adam,
having worked in Paris for years, knew endless channels for news that
the others had no knowledge of.

Riddell was a great chap, full of energy, full of an immense burning  (p. 113)
desire for knowledge on every subject, too, in the world. One always
found him asking questions, often about things that one would think it
was impossible he should take any interest in. He must have a
tremendous amount of knowledge stored up in that fine brain of his,
for he never forgets, not even little things. He was most kind to us
all and was hospitality itself. He personally was a very simple
feeder, and he never drank any wine or spirits, but nothing was too
good for those he entertained. A lovable man, well worthy of all the
honours he has received. He had a great support in his secretary, Mrs.
Read, a charming, gracious lady, who probably worked harder during
those days than anyone else, except, perhaps, Sir Maurice Hankey.

[Illustration: XLIX. _Lord Riddell._]

One night I dined at "Ciro's" with George Adam and some others. I was
late when I came in. Before we went into the dining-room, Adam told me
to take notice of an English lady who was sitting a couple of tables
away from ours. This I did, and I remembered having seen her
constantly at the "Berkeley Hotel," London, years before. She was most
peculiarly dressed in some sort of stuff that looked like curtains,
tall and slim, with a refined, good-looking face, but a somewhat
strange look in her eyes. She was with two men. Presently a lady
joined the group from another table. Dancing began, and she left with
one of the men, danced and came back again. I could not remember her
name, so I asked Philippe, who told me she was an English duchess, but
he could not remember what she duched over.

After dinner we went out and sat and watched the dancing and I forgot
all about her. About eleven o'clock, during a lull between dances, she
appeared before me. The moment she appeared two large waiters seized  (p. 114)
her by the back of the neck and ran her up the dance-hall and threw
her out. A strange sight, surely! An English "duchess" being thrown
out of a dance-hall in Paris.

Having been given a most excellent dinner by Adam, my feelings were
roused at this peculiar treatment of the English aristocracy, so I
went over to Philippe and asked him what he meant by this disgraceful
behaviour to an English lady. He replied: "The men she was with left
an hour ago." "But," said I, "I never saw her behave badly. Why didn't
you ask her to leave?" "I did," said he, "but she just patted me on
the back, and said, 'Don't let that worry you, old chap.'" Still, my
feelings--thanks still to the dinner--were roused, so I went out into
the hall to try and find her, as I had noticed she was wearing about
twenty thousand pounds' worth of pearls round her neck. Not that I
meant to take these, but I hated the thought of someone else doing so,
and I wished to see her safely home, but she had gone--vanished! The
only thing I learnt was that she was staying at the "Ritz." But when I
inquired there they informed me that they were housing no English
duchess.

A few days later I was passing the "Hôtel Chatham" and I saw her
coming towards me, very well dressed, in white furs this time and the
large globes of pearls still round her neck. She walked straight up to
me: "I want you to do something for me," she said. I don't remember
what I replied, but she said: "Don't be frightened--it's not immoral.
I'm not that sort. I just want you to come along with me to 'The Hole
in the Wall.'" "Where is it?" I asked. "I don't know," she said.
"That's what I want you for. I want you to find 'The Hole in the
Wall.'" "I'm sorry, Madam," I said, "I can't do it. I've got an       (p. 115)
engagement." She wiggled her finger in front of my nose, and said:
"Ah, naughty, naughty boy!" and went on her way. I followed at a safe
distance. Every man she met, no matter what class or nationality, she
stopped, all the way down the boulevard, and asked them to find "The
Hole in the Wall" for her.

None did, however, even though she was quite near it all the time, and
the last I saw of her was when she disappeared down the steps of
Olympia alone. Not quite the place for an English "duchess" to go
alone, with twenty thousand pounds' worth of pearls in full view. I
wonder who she was and where she is now? Perhaps in "The Hole in the
Wall."

About this time I introduced Lord Riddell to Mrs. Glyn, and we had
some very amusing out-of-door dinners at Laurent's. During dinner and
afterwards, Mrs. Glyn would teach us many things about life, Nature
and love: why women lost their lovers; why men did not keep their
wives; the correct way to make love; the stupid ordinary methods of
the male; what the female expected; what she ought to expect, and what
she mostly got. It was all very pleasant, the modulated voice of
Elinor under the trees and twinkling stars. Her elocution was
certainly remarkable, and Lord Riddell's dinners excellent.

CHAPTER XVI                                                           (p. 116)

THE SIGNING OF THE PEACE

The great day of the signing of the Peace was drawing near, and I
worked hard to get the centre window in the Hall of Mirrors reserved
for the artists. In the end, the French authorities sanctioned this.
They also promised to do a lot more things which would have made the
ceremony much more imposing, but these they did not do. It is a
strange thought, but surely true, that the French as a nation seem to
take, at present, little interest in pomp and ceremony. The meetings
of the delegates at the "Quai d'Orsay," the handing over of the Peace
Terms to our late enemies, were all rather rough-and-tumble affairs,
and, in the end, the great signing of the Treaty had not as much
dignity as a sale at Christie's. How different must the performance
have been in 1870! One man, at least, was there who knew the
difference--Lord Dunraven, who attended both ceremonies.

I drove out in the morning to Versailles with George Mair and Adam,
and we all had lunch at the "Hôtel des Reservoirs." When we started to
go to the Palace I found they had yellow Press tickets, by which they
were admitted by the side gate nearest the hotel; but I had a white
ticket, and had to enter by the main front gate. When I went round
towards this gate I found that all the way down the square, and
further along the road as far as the eye could see, the route was     (p. 117)
lined with people, about one hundred deep, with two rows of French
cavalry in front. These people had all taken their places, and they
would not let me through. I thought for sure I was going to miss the
show, and the sweat of nerves broke out on me. By great luck I met a
French Captain, to whom I, in my very broken French, explained my
plight. He was most kind, took my card, made a way through the crowd,
explained and showed my card to the military horsemen, and I was let
through. Then the sweat began to run. I found myself about
three-quarters of a mile away from the entrance to the Palace, all by
myself in this human-sided avenue--thousands of people staring at me.
I expected every minute to be arrested. Naturally, no one else entered
on foot. They all drove up in their cars. Guards at the gates scanned
my dripping face, but not a word was uttered to me, no pass was asked
for--nothing!

[Illustration: L. _The Rt. Hon. the Earl of Derby, K.G., etc._]

The marble staircase was most imposing, lined on each side by
Municipal Guards, but the Hall of Mirrors was pandemonium, a mass of
little humans, all trying to get to different places. In the end I got
to the centre window. It was empty. I was the first artist to arrive,
and very satisfied I was to have got there safely. Suddenly, up walked
a French Colonel, who told me to get out. I showed him my card and
told him this was the window reserved for artists. He explained that
this had been changed, and that the next window was reserved for them,
and led me off there. There I found all the French and American
artists huddled together. As soon as the Colonel left, I crept back to
the centre window. I was turned back again. This creeping to the
centre window and being turned back continued till I spoke to M.      (p. 118)
Arnavon, who advised me to stop in the artists' window till just
before the show started, and then to go to the middle window. Just
before the beginning there was great excitement. A stream of
secretaries came up the Hall, two carrying chairs, and with them two
grubby-looking old men. The chairs were placed in the centre window,
and the old chaps sat themselves down. They were country friends of
Clemenceau's, and he had said that morning that they were to have the
centre window, and that artists could go to--somewhere else. When the
proceedings commenced I slipped in behind their chairs, and, except
for a glare from "Le Tigre," I was left in peace.

Clemenceau rose and said a few words expressing a desire that the
Germans would come forward and sign. Even while he was saying these
few words the whole hall was in movement--nothing but little black
figures rushing about and crushing each other. Then, amidst a mass of
secretaries from the French Foreign Office, the two Germans, Hermann
Müller and Doctor Bell, came nervously forward, signed, and were led
back to their places. Some guns went off on the terrace--the windows
rattled. Everyone looked rather nervous for a moment, and the show was
over, except for the signatures of the Allies. These were written
without any dignity. People talked and cracked jokes to each other
across tables. Lloyd George found a friend on his way up to sign his
name, and as he had a story to tell him, the whole show was held up
for a bit, but after all, it may have been a good story. All the
"frocks" did all their tricks to perfection. President Wilson showed
his back teeth; Lloyd George waved his Asquithian mane; Clemenceau
whirled his grey-gloved hands about like windmills; Lansing drew his
pictures and Mr. Balfour slept. It was all over. The "frocks" had won (p. 119)
the war. The "frocks" had signed the Peace! The Army was forgotten.
Some dead and forgotten, others maimed and forgotten, others alive and
well--but equally forgotten. Yet the sun shone outside my window and
the fountains played, and the German Army--what was left of it--was a
long, long way from Paris.

[Illustration: LI. _Signing the Peace Treaty._]

After seeing some of the great little black-coated ones leave, amidst
great cheering, George Mair, Colonel Stroud Jackson and I went to the
aerodrome and saw the Press photographs sent off to the waiting crowds
in the British Isles. Then back to Paris. Paris was very calm, not the
least excited. I remember Mair gave some of us dinner at Ciro's that
night. When the band played the Marseillaise, we stood up on our
chairs, held hands and sang and cheered, but no one else moved, so in
the end we got down, feeling damned fools. It was all rather sad!

The next great show was the triumphal march through the Arc de
Triomphe. It was fine! But it must be admitted that the Americans
scored. They had picked men trained for months for this march, and
along they came in close formation, wearing steel helmets. It was a
fine sight!

But there were great moments when Foch passed, and when Haig passed at
the head of his men, and the roars that came from the "Astoria" must
have been heard a long way off. The "Astoria" was the hotel reserved
by the Kaiser for his friends to witness his triumphal entry into
Paris, so we had a good view. He chose well.

I remember during the war, when a "frock" visited some fighting zone,
he was always very well looked after and entertained by whatever H.Q.
he visited, and I was amazed on this day to find Field-Marshal Lord   (p. 120)
Haig and General Sir John Davidson lunching alone at the "Majestic."
Lord Allenby was also lunching at another table and General Robertson
at another. To me it was ununderstandable. These representatives of
the dead and the living of the British Army, on the day of its glory,
being allowed to lunch alone, much as they might have wished it.

As far as I remember, Lord Derby gave a dinner in their honour that
evening, but I am certain the "frocks" did nothing. After all, why
should they fuss themselves? The fighting was over. The Army was
nothing--harmless! Why should they trouble about these men? Why upset
themselves and their pleasures by remembering the little upturned
hands on the duckboards, or the bodies lying in the water in the
shell-holes, or the hell and bloody damnation of the four years and
odd months of war, or the men and their commanders who pulled them
through from a bloodier and worse damnation and set them up to dictate
a peace for the world?

The war was over, the Germans were a long, long way from the coast or
Paris. The whole thing was finished. Why worry now to honour the
representatives of the dead, or the maimed, or the blind, or the
living that remained? _Why?_ In Heaven's name, _why not_?

I remember one day, during the Peace Conference in the "Astoria,"
asking a great English General about the delegates and how things were
getting on, and he said: "I wish the little 'frocks' would leave it to
us--those who fight know best how to make peace. We would not talk so
much, but we would get things settled more quickly and better." Surely
that was the truth!

[Illustration: LII. _End of a Hero and a Tank, Courcelette._]

[Illustration: LIII. _General Birdwood Returning to his
                     Headquarters--Grévillers._]

[Illustration: LIV. _A Skeleton in a Trench._]

[Illustration: LV. _Flight-Sergeant, R.F.C._]

[Illustration: LVI. _N.C.O. Grenadier Guards._]

[Illustration: LVII. _Stretcher-bearers._]

[Illustration: LVIII. _Man Resting, near Arras._]

[Illustration: LIX. _Going Home to be Married._]

[Illustration: LX. _Household Brigade Passing to the Ypres Salient,
                   Cassel._]

[Illustration: LXI. _Ready to Start._]

[Illustration: LXII. _German Prisoner with the Iron Cross._]

[Illustration: LXIII. _A Big Gun and its Guardian._]

[Illustration: LXIV. "_Good-bye-ee._"]

[Illustration: LXV. _The Château, Thiepval._]

[Illustration: LXVI. _German Wire, Thiepval._]

[Illustration: LXVII. _Thiepval._]

[Illustration: LXVIII. _Highlander Passing a Grave._]

[Illustration: LXIX. _M. R. D. de Maratray._]

[Illustration: LXX. _A Man Thinking, on the Butte de Warlencourt._]

[Illustration: LXXI. _Major-General Sir Henry Burstall, K.C.B., etc._]

[Illustration: LXXII. _Major-General L. J. Lipsett, C.M.G._]

[Illustration: LXXIII. _A Village. Evening. (Monchy)._]

[Illustration: LXXIV. _Christmas Night, Cassel._]

[Illustration: LXXV. _Blown Up. Mad._]

[Illustration: LXXVI. _A Support Trench._]

[Illustration: LXXVII. _Major-General Sir H. J. Elles, K.C.M.G., etc._]

[Illustration: LXXVIII. _Dead Germans in a Trench._]

[Illustration: LXXIX. _A German Prisoner._]

[Illustration: LXXX. _A Highlander Resting._]

[Illustration: LXXXI. _A Man with a Cigarette._]

[Illustration: LXXXII. _Mr. Lloyd George, President Wilson and
                       M. Clemenceau._]

[Illustration: LXXXIII. _A Meeting of the Peace Conference._]

[Illustration: LXXXIV. _Admiral of the Fleet Lord Wester Wemyss, G.C.B._]

[Illustration: LXXXV. _Colonel Edward M. House._]

[Illustration: LXXXVI. _Mr. Robert Lansing._]

[Illustration: LXXXVII. _The Emir Feisul._]

[Illustration: LXXXVIII. _M. Eleutherios Venezelos._]

[Illustration: LXXXIX. _Admiral of the Fleet Sir David Beatty, Viscount
                       Borodale of Wexford. O.M., G.C.B., etc._]

[Illustration: XC. _The Rt. Hon. W. F. Massey, P.C._]

[Illustration: XCI. _General the Rt. Hon. J. C. Smuts, P.C., C.H._]

[Illustration: XCII. _The Rt. Hon. G. N. Barnes, P.C._]

[Illustration: XCIII. _The Rt. Hon. W. M. Hughes, P.C., K.G._]

[Illustration: XCIV. _Brigadier-General A. Carton de Wiart, V.C., C.B.,
               etc._]

[Illustration: XCV. _M. Paul Hymans._]

[Illustration: XCVI. _The Rt. Hon. Sir R. L. Borden, G.C.M.G., etc._]

INDEX                                                                 (p. 121)

_(The Arabic figures refer to the pages of the Text;
the Roman figures to the Plates.)_

Adam, George, 100, 108, 112, 113, 116.
Aikman, Captain T. T., 12, 55.
_Albert_, 20, 37, 40, 79, 80, 86; XXXVII.
Allenby, General Lord, 120
_Amiens_, 16 ff., 40 ff., 59, 70, 71, 76, 79, 82, 92, 96; XXXV, XL.
_Ancre, Valley of the_, 38.
Antoine of Bourbon (Prince), 65.
_Armentières_, 31.
Arnavon, M., 118.
_Aveluy_, 39.

_Bailleul_, 33, 95.
Balfour, A. J., 100, 105, 119; XLV.
_Bapaume_, 20, 70.
_Bapaume Road_, 18, 48; II.
Baring, Maurice, 19, 29 ff., 50, 69.
Barnes, G. N., 109; XCII.
_Bazentin-le-Grand_, 20.
_Bazentin-le-Petit_, 20.
Beatty, Admiral Lord, 107; LXXXIX.
_Beaumont-Hamel_, 20, 23, 48.
Beaverbrook, Lord, 42, 67, 70, 95.
Bedelo, Signor, 56.
Belfield, Colonel, 45, 56.
Bell, Dr., 118.
_Bertangles_, 80, 81.
Birdwood, General, 19; LIII.
Bloomfield, Major, 50 ff., 86.
Borden, Sir Robert, 106; XCVI.
Botha, General Louis, 102; XLIV.
_Boulogne_, 12, 31, 42, 57, 67, 71.
Brickman, Captain, 56.
Brooks, Lieutenant, 99.
Buchan, Colonel John, 20.
Burstall, General, 49; LXXI.

_Cambrai_, 61.
Carstairs, Carroll, 46, 61, 87.
Carton de Wiart, General, 110; XCIV.
_Cassel_, 31 ff., 42 ff., 51 ff., 93; XI, XII, LX, LXXIV.
_Caudry_, 90.
Charteris, General, 14.
_Château Thierry_, 70, 76.
Clark, Lieutenant, 38.
Clemenceau, M., 76, 100, 103, 110, 118; LI, LXXXII, LXXXIII.
_Clermont_, 55.
_Corbie_, 37.
_Cough-drop, the_, 20, 48.
Courage, Ernest, 45, 56, 64.
_Courcelette_, 20; LII.
Cowans, General Sir J. S., 99; XLII.
Currie, General, 49, 67.

Da Costa, Senhor, 106.
Dark, Sidney, 100.
Davids, Lieutenant A. P. Rhys, 50; XX.
Davidson, General Sir John, 63, 72, 120.
Derby, Lord, 109, 112, 120; L.
_Dieppe_, 35.
Dillon, Dr. E. J., 105.
_Douai_, 91; XXXVIII.
Douglas, Captain, 75.
_Doullens_, 96.
Du Cane, General Sir J., 77.
Dunraven, Lord, 116.

Elles, General, 62; LXXVII.
Ellis, Admiral Heaton, 108.
_Estre Blanche_, 50.

Fane, Major F., 17, 25.
Feisul, Emir, 105; LXXXVII.
Fletcher, Colonel, 28, 63, 72.
Foch, Marshal, 76 ff.; XXXIII.
Forsyth, Dudley, 75.
Freeman, Colonel, 29.
French, Field-Marshal Lord, 31.

George, Mr. D. Lloyd, 100, 101, 103, 118; LI, LXXXII, LXXXIII.
Gibbs, Sir Philip, 32.
Glyn, Mrs., 115.
_Grandcourt_, 20.
Grant, General, 77, 79.
Gregory, Robert, 30.
_Grévillers_, 19; LIII.

Haig, Field-Marshal Earl, 27, 50, 64, 72, 97, 120; I.
Hale, Captain, 18, 56, 64; XXVI.
Hankey, Sir Maurice, 113.
_Hesdin_, 13, 42, 63.
_Highwood_, 20.
Hogg, Major, 56.
Hoidge, Captain, 50, 51, 86; XXI.
Holland, Captain, 76.
Hotblack, Major, 62.
House, Colonel, 104; LXXXV.
Hughes, W. M., 110; XCIII.
Hymans, M. Paul, 110; XCV.

Inge, Captain, 56, 64.
Inverforth, Lord, 55.

Jackson, Lieut.-Colonel Stroud, 100, 119.
Joffroy, M., 39.

Knox, Gordon, 100.

_La Boisselle_, 20, 40, 48, 70; III, XIV, XVIII.
Laboreur, M., 26.
Lansing, Mr. R., 104, 118; LXXXVI.
Lee, Major A. N., 67, 69, 72, 75; XXXII.
_Le Havre_, 35, 47.
_Le Sars_, 19, 49.
Lipsett, Major-General, 49; LXXII.
Little, Captain, 30.
_Locre_, 95.
Lucas, Lord, 29.

MacColl, Captain, 62.
McCudden, Major, 53, 69; XXX.
McDonnell, Colonel Angus, 90, 98.
MacDonough, General, 69.
MacDowell, Colonel, 56.
Macintosh, Mr., 64.
Mahon, Major-General Sir Bryan, 93.
Mair, George, 100, 112, 116, 119.
Maratray, M. R. D. de, 18, 44; LXIX.
Masefield, John, 40, 41.
Massey, W. F., 108; XC.
Maude, Captain F., 44 ff., 56, 61, 66, 80, 84, 96, 98; XXXV.
_Menin Road_, 95.
_Miraumont_, 20.
_Monchy_, LXXIII.
_Montdidier_, 70.
_Mont St. Eloy_, 29.
Müller, Herr, 118.
Munnings, A. J., 65.

_Nieuport_, 31.

O'Connor, Major, 49.
Orlando, Signor, 103.
Orpen, Captain, 57.

Paderewski, 101.
_Paris_, 49, 55, 70, 98.
Peace Conference, 98 ff.; LXXXIII.
Peace Treaty, 116 ff.; LI.
_Péronne_, 20, 37, 70; V, XV.
Phillips, Percival, 32.
Plumer, General Lord, 93 ff.; XXXIX.
_Pozières_, 19, 70; IV.

Rawlinson, General Lord, 80, 81; XXXVI.
Read, Mrs., 113.
Reading, Lord, 105.
Riddell, Lord, 100, 112, 115; XLIX.
Riviere, Captain, 98.
Robertson, General Sir William, 120.
_Roeux_, 28.
Rogers, General, 80.
_Rollencourt_, 13, 21.
_Rouen_, 35.

Sackville-West, General, 107.
_St. Denis_, 79; XXXIV.
_St. Omer_, 31, 57.
_St. Pol_, 26, 67.
_St. Quentin_, 90.
_St. Valery-sur-Somme_, 72, 75.
Sargent, John, 16.
Sassoon, Sir Philip, 27, 35, 51, 63.
Seely, General, 65, 67; XXVIII.
Siongi, Marquis, 100, 108; XLVII.
Smuts, General J. C., 108; XCI.
_Soissons_, 70, 76.
_Somme, the_, 16 ff.
Stevens, Captain, 98.
Strang, Ian, 67.
Stuart, General, 90.
Sykes, General, 106.

_Thiepval_, 20, 36 ff.; LXV, LXVI, LXVII.
Thomas, Beach, 32.
Trafford, Captain Rudolf de, 64, 72.
Trenchard, Air-Marshal Sir H. M., 29, 50, 52; IX.
Tyl, Colonel du, 80; XXXV.

_Vaux_, 79.
Venezelos, M. E., 105; LXXXVIII.
_Villers-Bretonneux_, 70, 76.
_Villers-Carbonelle_, 81.

_Warlencourt, Butte de_, 19, 49; XIX, LXX.
Watson, General, 49.
Wester Wemyss, Admiral Lord, 104; LXXXIV.
Weygand, General, 77.
Williams, Brigadier-General Dame Vaughan, 82.
Wilson, Field-Marshal Sir Henry, 102, 112; XLIII.
Wilson, President, 100, 103, 104, 106, 107, 118; XLVI, LI, LXXXII, LXXXIII.
Woodcock, Colonel, 45, 56.

_Ypres Salient_, 31 ff., 95.

_Zillebeke_, 89.
_Zonnebeke_, 95.

End of Project Gutenberg's An Onlooker in France 1917-1919, by William Orpen