Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3826/The Peace Cigar
"By the way, Lorna was there this morning," said Celia. "Her brother's in the War Office."
"And what did Kitchener tell him when they last had lunch together?" I asked.
"Well," smiled Celia, "he does say that———"
I get all my best news from Celia nowadays. When I meet you in the City and mention that I know for a fact that the Kaise is in hiding at Liverpool, you may be sure that Celia saw Vera yesterday morning and that Vera's uncle is somebody important on the Liverpool Defence Committee.
Twice a week Celia ties up parcels for the Fleet. Ordinary people provide the blankets, sea-boots, chocolate, periscopes and so forth; Celia looks after the brown paper and string, which always seems to me the most tricky part. There are a dozen of them, all working together; and you can imagine (or, anyhow, I can) Vera or Kitty or Isobel, her mouth full of knot, gossiping away about her highly-placed relations, while Beryl or Evelyn or Lorna looks up from the parcel she is kneeling on and interrupts, "Well, my brother heard——— I say, where did you put my scissors?"
"Well," smiled Celia, "Lorna's brother in the War Office says the war will be over by Christmas."
"Hooray," I said; and I went out and looked at my cigar.
This cigar arrived at my house in a case of samples last July. The samples went up from right ot left in order of importance, each in his own little bed—until you got ot Torpedo Jummy at the end, who had a double bed to himself. Starting with Cabajo fino in the right-hand corner, the prices ranged from about nine a penny to five pounds apiece, the latter being the approximate chrage for T. James or any of his brethren.
Calia was looking over my shoulder when I opened the case, and she surveyed my brown friends with interst.
"When are you going to smoke that one?" she asked, touching Torpedo Jimmy's cummerbund with the tip of her finger.
"On your birthday," I said.
"Bother, then I shan't see much of you. Couldn't you smoke it on two ordinary days instead?"
"You can only smoke a cigar that size after a very good diner," I explained.
"What was the matter with the tapioca pudding last night?" said Celia sternly.
"I mean you must have champagne and bands and lots of lights, and managers bowing all round you, and pretty people in the distance, and—all that sort of thing. You can't do that at home. Besides, I shall want a waiter or two to hold the far end of it while I'm smoking. It'll be all right going there; we can put it on the top of a cab."
"Of course it will be lovely going out with you," said Celia, "but Jane will be very disappointed. She'd have liked to hear it buzzing."
"I hope it won't buzz," I said.
"Couldn't you smoke it now, and then we'd go out next week and celebrate your recovery." She sighed. "My birthday's a long way off," she said wistfully, thinking of the band and the lights and the pretty people in the distance—and not necessarily in the distance either.
"Well, p'raps we'll think of another excuse. Anyhow it will be a very great day, and if I survive we shall often look back upon it."
Celia stroked it again.
"It's just like a torpedo, isn't it?" she said. And so we called it Torpedo Jimmy. A torpedo is actually a little bit bigger. Not much, however.
That was July. When August came we knew that there would be no excuse before the birthday and that the birthday would be no excuse. The great dinner was postponed. It didn't matter, because we forgot about the great dinner.
But towards the end of September Celia came across the sample case again. All the beds were empty now but one. Torpedo James still lay in his four-poster, brown and inscrutable.
"Better put him away," she said, "and on the day that peace is signed you can take us both our."
And so Torpedo Jimmy became a symbol. The more I long for peace, the more I long for that historic smoke. When Louisa's brother or Nora's uncle has a long pessimistic talk with Kitchener, then I look sadly at my cigar; but when French and Joffre unbend to Vera's stepfather or Beryl's cousin and give him words of cheer, then I take it out and pinch it fondly, and already I see the waiter coming round with a torch to light it.
I have been looking at it to-day, and I see that it is giving a little at one end. I fancy that the moth has been getting at it. Well, if it does not last till peace is signed, it will be a peace that I shall not believe in. For a stable peace, as all our eminent novelists keep pointing out in all the papers, many things are necessary, and one of them is that I should smoke my cigar happily on the first night of it. Torpedo Jimmy must do himself justice. No premature explosions; no moths flying our from the middle of it; no unauthorised ventilation. The exact moment must be chosen by the Allies. My cigar must be ripe... and yet not too ripe.
Celia says she is sure it will be just lovely. So sure is she that she suggests hanging the cigar in the hall and tapping it to see how the war is going. "When it taps exactly right, then we shall know the war is just over."
But I think we shall know that anyhow. Edward Grey will break it to Beryl's nephew all right; Belia will climb down off her parcel and rush home to me with the news; I shall ring up the restaurant and order dinner... and at eight o'clock, in great spirits, we shall get into our taxi ans drive off together—Celia and I and Torpedo Jimmy.