Plentywood herald. [volume] (Plentywood, Mont.) 1908-current, 1929-02-21

"NLIFFE? Let me see-are you the
Cliffe who wrote The Devil
~ Monk Would Be'?"
mo, that was my father"
Your father? O yes, then you mus
be the Cliffe who wrote that wonderful.
ironic thing-a poem, wasn't it?-'Not
at Home to Hannibal?"
mo. That is my son."
Hilary Cliffe was the son Of the IA
nous Lawrence Cliffe; the father OF
Christopher Cliffe. famous in a more
modern style; less spectacular. Chris
topher seemed to prefer his fame like
that. Yet he was only twenty-three
Hilary was proud of him, of course. He
never interfered with the boy, though
he did not wholly understand him. II
vas not as though Chris were likely
to rebel against authority! he belonged
to that new post-modern gang whose
cult it was to be old fashioned in be-
havior. So he actually lived at home
with his father: they shared a flat in
South Kensington; and nobody ever
thought this amusing.
Hilary, who represented the DINNER
ages before enlightenment, was puzzled
by his sons impersonal attitude to-
wards personal matters, and his fiery
chivalrous agony on behalf of what
ever did not concern him. Lawrence
Cliffe, that genial, cynical old ruffian
rebel in the seventies. and celebrity in
the eighties, merely laughed at these
new young men, as he had once
laughed at Hilary and his friends
engagingly. He and his grandfather
were apparently excellent companions
Hilary himself was not even a dis
tinguished failure. His work as the
editor of a comber monthly journal
He was responsible for an annotated
edition of the works of the Roman his
torian Ammianus Marcellinus; and his
History Of the Monastic Orders OF
Knighthood" would, no doubt, go on
selling for many years. But from the
point of view Of scholarly research he
had cared most for his collection OF
Sogdianan coins until his dear ole
father was inspired to write a gay sa-
tire on the same theme, a fairy tale
which somehow captured and expressed
all the magic, all the vitality of the
great M~acedonian's last outpost, which
Hilary had vaguely hoped to assemble
into the collection itself. And after
this amusing success of "Alexander's
Ragtime Town." the coins appeared
rather flat and lusterless.
The sensational reputation Of "St,
Lawrence" had been built up without
effort, in an hour. "St. Lawrence
could not fail to be in his nickname,
considering his role as the debonair
hero of at least seventeen luscious
scandals-the kind Of society scandals
which grows like plump sweet straw
berries, half hidden by their protecting
loovoc Naturally bic rrnnipc cQ1lp0
his home 1.-The Gridiron!" -. And
then, gradually, in his fastidious pro-
cession through the difficult years from
fifty to seventy, it became evident that,
hitherto outtwinkled by his diamond
glitter, was his diamond philosophy,
capable of cutting through the soft
glass of sentimentality, and proving it
useless. 1t was said Of him, gratefully,
that he was the only veteran with a
marvellous memory and no reminls-
cences.
With his elegant lean figure, his
white pointed beard, and hooking up
turned mustache, the quality OF bra
vado in his eyelashes that also curled
up towards the crisp silver in his hair
he was predestined, in his un~repentant
old age, to be most respectfully placed
in the cher maitre category.
Hilary had had much to suffer, as a
child, from his sophisticated parent.
For his mothers sake, he could not
appear to approve either of st. Law
renee nor of the atmosphere Of THE
Gridiron." His mother, a Victorian
martyr, was always plaintive and never
complained. Sensitively sure that Law
renee Cliffe must consider him q bore
and a prig, Hilary stood with passion
ate zeal for his mothers aus Yet
now and then, and only deep IN his
soul, he could not refrain from q muf-
fled disloyalty. . . The rake was SO
amusing, SO popular, so plausible even
when he scoffed. What fun 1t might
be, if only you had a chance, if only
a door were suddenly to open. i.
What breathless fun actually to be