“Yes,” he said, “I saw they was going to meet and talk about it. It’s just as well they’ve waited till now. Seems to me they’ll be just in time for the next war, if they keep on. What’s the sense of putting up a War Memorial now? The poor chaps know now that they diden end war, like they was told. They’ve made war certain, seems to me; another war, only worse, and not even so much hope in it as there was in the last. Well, if I was to go to the meeting, I’d say the best memorial they could put would be a statue to a statesman; any statesman, they’m all the same; not a pennorth of difference, seems to me; and under it I’d put a poem:
only he’d never see that I meant it sarcastic. He’d think I meant it as praise.”
On the evening appointed, Frampton went to the Committee Meeting, which had been called in the hall of what was called the Guild House. It was a pleasant old Tudor room, with greenish ancient glass in the windows, and a fine timber roof, with carved, painted and gilded rafters and wall-pieces.
He was met at the door by Harold, who introduced him to the people who had already arrived: Lady Susan Drachm, a tough-looking old woman, in a dirty, whitish mackintosh and riding-boots; Miss Paundy, an erect, fresh-coloured handsome old maid, with very beautiful grey hair; Mr. Urch, a grocer and provision dealer; Mr. Ock of Font and Vespers; Mr. Fence, builder and decorator. He had spoken with each of these, when the Rector came in to explain that he was sorry to be late. Harold introduced Frampton to him, and the Rector spoke some words of welcome. Then he took his seat as Chairman and said:
“I don’t think we need wait for Captain Connar-Downs; the hounds have been out at Wicked Hill to-day.”
People smiled and the meeting began. The Rector explained how earlier Committees had been unable to agree, how the matter of the Memorial had been shelved and forgotten, and how it had happened that the matter came to be discussed by them now.
He recapitulated the various suggestions made by the past Committees. They were:
1. A water system for that part of Stubbington known as Budd’s End, which had no water nearer than Joneses Fountain and had to carry from there daily.
2. A window in the church.
3. A stone inscribed with names, to be in the church or in the churchyard.
4. A recreation room.
5. A playing field, with a pavilion and some endowment for the equipment of games.
6. A monument in the Market Place.
7. A cross at the cross-roads outside the town, where the Stubbington Cross had once stood.
8. The figure of an angel, to stand pointing to a list of the fallen in the Market Place.
“Now that we are starting afresh,” he said, “with a new Committee, I hope that we may reach agreement. We have now the great benefits of knowing the Memorials put up elsewhere, and of having with us Mr. Mansell, of Mullples, who has kindly consented to advise us, when necessary, in artistic matters. Mr. Mansell has the name of having done more than almost any living man to encourage living artists, and I have much pleasure in welcoming him here to-night.”
As he ceased speaking, a man who had been following with impatience rose to his feet, and said:
“As a practical builder, may I say a few words? I won’t keep you a minute. I was on the old Committees. I’m one of the few here that was. The old Committees came to nothing because they were not practical; they was anything but practical. There was a lot of talk about artistic and what-not, but sense was the last thing I found among them. First they would have this and then they would have the other, and as a result they got nothing. To give an instance, now, I told them of a reputable firm well used to putting up War Memorials. I won’t mention names, but I might say he’s put up more War Memorials than almost any two firms; that shows the experience they have. You can’t beat experience in a practical question, that’s well known. This firm had offered to put them up a solid masonry plinth, with Britannia weeping, or a model white marble with the names in gold surrounded by a flowerbed, for £287. 10. 0. But Colonel Purple Tittup had said that they didn’t want any of that sort of humbug in Stubbington, but a roll of honour under the colours in the church; but when they looked into it, his roll of honour according to the estimates came to over four hundred pounds. They ought to be advised by that and cut your coat according to your cloth and go by the advice of people who do know what it is they’re dealing with. I hope that now that this question comes to be settled it will be by practical men.”
Another member, who had said “Hear, hear,” several times during this speech, now rose and said, that in one way it was a good thing that Stubbington had waited for so long, for now it could profit from the mistakes of other parishes.
“I’ve been,” he said, “I’ve been about a lot of England, following my business, and I’ve seta a lot of so-called War Memorials. They’ve been two classes in the main, as you might say: the class the people have had some say in, which is what they think their dear ones would have liked, and the class foisted on them by people who can’t be satisfied with what their own country produces, but go bringing in all sorts. They think these things are very artistic, but if you’d heard the complaints I’ve heard about some of those things, complaints which can’t get into the papers, mind you, you’d agree that these matters are best left to practical men.”
Several people came in here; indeed they came in at intervals all through the evening. In a lull, Frampton asked the Chairman if he might speak, and having been asked to do so, said:
“My work has taken me over most of England since the War; I suppose I have seen hundreds of War Memorials. I’ve studied them carefully. I have photographs of hundreds of them, over eleven hundred, certainly; my books of them are here at your service. Most of these Memorials are works of dignity, as all works must be which proceed, as these do, from very deep feeling. Some of the best of them, all the very best of them, are works of art. I do not doubt that you in Stubbington want your Memorial to be among the very best in the land, a real work of art.”
A little, excitable, pale-faced man, with side-whiskers and very bright eyes said that they wanted the best value their money could buy, but it must be what would seem the best value to those whose money it was; they did not want any of this foreign stuff that was coming over, not in Stubbington.
The grocer, who was portly, rosy in the gill, and with a reek of cloves about him, which cloves he chewed to disguise the smell of alcohol, said that the last speaker had hit it.
“Don’t be too artistic; give us something that we can understand, Mr. Mansell,” he said.
Mr. Ock, of Font and Vespers, said, that as many memorials had to be in public ways, the man in the street was the best judge; the plain taste was the best. You could not fool the people. Put up the dozen competing designs, and have a plebiscite, and you’d find the people reject the artistic thing, so-called, in favour of the thing they understood.
“You say you can’t fool the people,” Frampton said. “That is not the whole quotation. The sage said: ‘You can’t fool all the people all the time.’ But the life of any successful politician will show you, as the sage said, that you can fool them all for some of the time. But we are not thinking of fooling the people, but of honouring brave men, who died in misery, so that we might live more quietly, and to do that, we ought to get and give the very best obtainable.”