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Storm Of London

<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> When the men and women of this powerful race make up their minds to anything, whether right or wrong, they neither hesitate nor do they allow any time to elapse between decision and consummation. So it was that on the morning of the twelfth day Lord Somerville sprang off his couch, took his tub and brushed his hair with unusual alacrity. He did not give a passing glance at his mirror, strange to say; perhaps, had he done so, his resolution would have slackened; but Lord Somerville was wise, and, not unlike the ostrich, he believed that no one would look at him because he had not looked at himself. He opened his bedroom door, walked along the passages without meeting one of his domestics, and reached the beautiful marble staircase for which this mansion was so renowned. As he crossed the vestibule he gave a furtive look at the footman ensconced in his basket chair; but the latter was asleep, or at least his innate delicacy prompted him to this subterfuge, to allow his master to pass by unnoticed. Lionel unbolted the front door with a sudden jerk, and as he did this he heard a successive unbolting of doors, which sounded throughout the silent city like a gun fired in honour of some royal birthday. In one or two seconds the streets were invaded. He stood amazed on the pavement and marvelled at this stupendous event! It was true that England, for centuries, had prided herself on her public opinion. But what was the England of twelve days ago to that of to-day? Few nations could boast of an Upper Ten capable of such abnegation, that of one common accord they all decided to put away personal feelings, vanities and principles, for the sake of their fellow-creatures. One huge wave of altruism had swept over Society, which cherished the fond idea that it initiated, ruled and guided the rest of the world. Indeed, this was a great event in the modern history of Great Britain, already so rich in philanthropic examples. Lionel took a deep breath as he walked away from his ancestral mansion; he watched men rushing past him; evidently they were going straight to their business. He saw women shuffling alongside of the walls, as if these would throw a shadow over their naked forms; but who they were was quite beyond him to tell, and perhaps it was as well, at first, to ignore who they were. It was a boisterous exodus, though one imposed by the sense of duty; and the violent exercise of hurrying brought vigour back to their weakened limbs. Naturally the first observation of Lord Somerville was that this colourless mass of humanity was slightly monotonous, although soothing to wearied eyeballs. He followed a good many people, just for the fun of it, and frequently thought he was on the point of recognising some friend or acquaintance; but no, it was hopeless to try and find out who was who; besides, they nearly all seemed to shun one another, and as they passed each other bowed their heads and looked on the ground. He reached Trafalgar Square; there the scene was full of animation: children were jumping in and out of the fountains, and shaking themselves as birds do their feathers after a good ducking; men ran round the Landseer lions for a constitutional, and women dodged them on the other side, in this way endeavouring to keep up a semblance of feminine coyness. There was no doubt that this part of London was different from the genteel Mayfair, and it threatened to be rowdy as you approached the City. Lionel walked past Charing Cross, which looked abandoned; but the Strand—the main artery of London’s anatomy—was surging with a buoyant population rushing to the City-heart. Lionel thought he would have great fun in watching office doors, and would perhaps recognise a few millionaire bounders who certainly were not like the Society men of his stamp, and therefore would be more easily recognised. He went up Fleet Street, leaving St Paul’s on his left, walked through Threadneedle Street, where he knew many of the City magnates. Pacing up and down the pavement he thought he would have a good opportunity of seeing the men who went in and out of offices and of conjecturing on their identity. Very soon he witnessed a wild scene of confusion: men darted out of offices suffused with deep blushes; managers of large warehouses ran in and out of houses in delirium! Another idea crossed Lionel’s mind: evidently these people were, like him, unable to recognise anyone; business men were at a loss to know their clerks from their financier friends, as they could not discern buyers from sellers. Of course in this terrible mystification, there was no attempt made at bowing or talking in the streets of London; it was a new departure from last week’s urbanity, when courteousness had been distributed according to the more or less respectability of external appearance. “I am afraid that insurmountable difficulties will stare us in the face,” murmured Lionel as he retraced his steps towards Piccadilly, after fruitless attempts at knowing his friends in the crowd. “We have not yet grasped what this new position means; at first we have thought of decency, some, I suppose, have dwelt on morality’s destiny; but I do declare that it means more than all that. If we cannot know employers from employees the whole status of civilisation is done with. This is a thing of which I had never thought.” He noticed, on his way home, that women had tears rolling down their cheeks, and men, as he brushed past them, swore in their moustaches. Lord Somerville felt a choking sensation in his throat as he realised that the old life with all its ease and luxury was over. Everything was so bare, so ugly. Where were the bewitching fashions that rejoiced his fastidious eye? Where the daintily-gowned young girls and women in our beautiful parks? As women passed by, he wondered to what class of Society they belonged. How could the shop-girl now be differentiated from the Duke’s daughter? He never could have believed such a dilemma possible. In front of his club he glanced through the swinging glass doors, and saw a portly individual standing; but he could not for his life tell whether it was the hall porter or one of the members. Solitary confinement for twelve days had nearly driven Londoners mad; but he now realised that isolation in the midst of a maddening crowd would soon turn them into drivelling idiots. What they had gone through for more than a week had been a conflict between virtue and self-interest; but the future was more fearful, for more than interest was at stake, as self-respect was threatened to sink in this universal levelling. When he thought of all the social solecisms likely to occur in this state of incognito, he shuddered. If it was impossible to know whom to bow to, whom to nod to and whom to snub, however could Society exist? Our exclusive circles owed their existence to those delicate nuances of politeness; and when the sliding scales of courtesy were abolished, Democracy was at hand, for no power on earth could stem the torrent of Anarchism from overpowering defenceless Society. The first exodus was decidedly a failure, and Lionel felt the galling bitterness of disappointment when, between twelve and one, he entered his house, refusing all the entreaties of his valet to partake of a dainty luncheon. All London was in the same discomfited mood that morning, and the fashionable beauty, reclining on her hard couch, wept bitter tears over her defunct wardrobe and hat-boxes. The company promoter behind his window, looking at the irritating butcher’s boy and callous milkman, grunted audibly, “These are the sort of people we are now to rub against at every turn!” There evidently was more behind feathers and furbelows than our friend Horatio could have known, and London would have to spell the first words of a philosophy which would be drier to them all than that of Plato, Kant or Carlyle. After two more days of keen despair, the same longing for fresh air seized hold of the Upper Ten; though this time bolts were not drawn with that vigour which had given to the first exodus the sound of a salute of musketry. It was more like a distant roll of thunder, forerunner of a clouded atmosphere. The exit from houses was not any more triumphant and didactic, it was slow and cheerless; and had not the air been balmy, the sky blue, citizens would have felt a shiver run down their spine as they realised their abandoned condition. This time Lord Somerville restricted his wanderings to the smart thoroughfares, leaving the mercantile City to its own confusion. He entered restaurants where he had known many of the habitués; but he went out of them shocked at not being recognised by any of his friends. Formerly all was so easy; one had but to step out, and one knew exactly who was who by the brim of a hat, the cut of a coat, the handling of a walking-stick; but not even a rude stare could help one now to identify anyone, and nothing could save one from committing a social faux pas. He strolled up the Haymarket. How difficult it was to walk in that attire. “I wonder if Adam rambled all over Paradise, and if he did not feel awkward? I wish I knew what to do with my hands.” There was a crowd at Piccadilly Circus, and he had great difficulty in advancing. What attracted the attention of the population were the empty windows of Swan & Edgar’s. Hundreds of women were peering through the deserted shops which had hitherto been over-crowded with ladies’ apparel of every kind and sort. He edged his way through and contrived to get on the pavement; but many pushed him, and he elbowed freely in this crowd of Adams and Eves. He was very much astonished to find himself saying “Beg your pardon” when he unconsciously collided with anyone. “After all, I do not know who I am knocking against, it might be my most intimate friend, and upon the whole it is better to be polite to someone you do not know than to be wanting in common civility towards a friend.” The Earl had unwittingly got hold of a vital problem, and one that would no doubt induce Society some day to transform the tone of politeness. In Hyde Park he noticed several groups, and towards the Serpentine the crowd became denser; but to escape the noisy clamour of urchins splashing in the water he took a small path leading to Kensington Gardens. Most of the smart world would be there, thought Lionel, though the outing was not one of fashion. Hygiene and reflection were drawing both sexes to the shady parts of Kensington; they felt their isolation less oppressively in this glorious verdure. The soft grass was more refreshing than hot pavements; the trees, hedges and flower-beds were more fragrant surroundings than high houses; and in this harmonious frame one would feel less at variance with a discordant world. The day was young yet, hardly 11.30, and the hot rays of the sun were piercing through the foliage of the broad avenue facing the Palace. Solitary individuals walked on the cool grass, sat on stone benches and iron chairs; but none talked to anyone, and there lacked in this mythological picture the animation that humanity generally brings into a landscape. Birds were busy chirping, making love, mock quarrelling, and the leaves rustled softly as a breath of hot wind caressed the branches of trees. Lord Somerville lay down on a stone bench, linking his arms behind his head. He let his fanciful imagination have full play: allowing philosophy to suggest to him queer problems concerning the personal appearance of some of his lady friends. A chuckle rose to his lips; a sparkling twinkle lighted up his pale blue eye. He saw at a distance a small, dapper man coming this way; his head was well set on his shoulders; there was no hesitation in his step, no awkwardness in his bearing; one of his hands was placed on one hip, the other dropped gracefully at his side, as he stood within a few yards of the young heir to large properties. “Who can that be? Can it be my tailor? I can only think of him recognising me at a glance, these fellows know us inside out. Deucedly awkward though to be accosted like this by tradespeople.” And as the newcomer stood close to him, the Earl sat up, and bowed as disdainfully as he could manage under the circumstances. “I daresay you do not know me, my lord, but I have that advantage over your lordship, having seen you often about town, and frequently admired your equipages in the Park, and noticed your presence in one of the boxes at the Tivoli.” This was a touch of kin, and something in the tone of his interlocutor cheered Lionel and put him in a happy train of thought. The link with the outer world, his world of ready-made pleasures and strong stimulants, was not quite broken. A rush of the past life came surging back to his mind, and he grasped the hand of his new friend as Robinson Crusoe must have done that of Friday when the latter made his appearance on the deserted island. “I seem to know you, sir; although I cannot put a name to your face; but let me, all the same, greet you warmly; you are the first that has recognised me since the storm.” “And that is a fortnight ago, my lord, a very long lapse of time for your lordship, who is such a favourite in Society. But I haven’t come here only to disturb your musings; I have a motive, a very serious one, that will ultimately affect you and all London. First of all, I am Dick Danford of the Tivoli, the White Bread, and of the Saltseller.” “Now I know where I have seen you, heard you and applauded you, Mr Danford. Your voice came home to me as would a favourite strain of music of which the title has slipped one’s memory. What can I do for you? I am at your service. Let us stroll under these shady trees, it will be cooler than here, and you will tell me all you have to say.” “Well, my lord,” began the little dapper Tivoli artist, when they had reached the shade of the long avenue, “you know, as we all do, what has happened. It is needless to remark any more on the deadlock of business, in whatever branch it may be, owing to manufacturers and weavers being on the streets and cheque-books having vanished into thin air.” “Yes, and we have no purses, and no pockets to put them in.” “We will not discuss the feminine point of view of this event, my lord; their coyness and pudicity are of course a credit to their sex, and we can but honour them for carrying so high the ideal of womanhood; but that must wear off in time, as the fair sex finds out that the world cannot wait for them, and that the rotation of our planet cannot come to a standstill because the modesty of our wives and sisters is in jeopardy.” The little mimic lifted his sharply-cut features and looked into the long, aristocratic face of his listener. “I am all ears, Mr Danford; but about modesty I have nothing to say. Mayfair is not the nursery for such delicate plants; besides, I think that coyness is already on the wane, for I see several groups of women lounging about. Do not trouble your clever head about that, and tell me in what way I can be of any use to you?” “The point is this, my lord, as you know, no one is able to recognise anyone. No high-collared cloak nor slouch hat and mask could be a better disguise than this general unmasking. You know the adage: ‘Tell the truth, and no one will believe you.’ We can add another truism: ‘Show yourself as you are, and no one will know you.’ No doubt, there is still a little mannerism that clings to the individual, by which one could recognise their identity; but it would require a strenuous effort of the mind, and a wonderful memory of personal tricks, to be able to arrive at knowing who’s who. So I have bethought myself of a plan. We artists of the Music Hall alone possess the art of observation. You see, we have made a special study of the physiognomy, and have stored our brains with all the particularities of Society leaders, the oddities of the clergy, of City magnates and gutter marionettes. Some remedy must be found at once for this present state of affairs, or else the whole edifice of Society will disappear, and we artists will perish in the downfall. The remedy cannot come from the Upper Ten, I am afraid, for they have no memory nor any observing powers. I beg your pardon, my lord, but I am speaking very openly on the subject, and you must excuse me if I feel the position very keenly.” “Go on, my dear Danford; what you say is very true and very interesting. I am beginning to see what you mean. By the way, I think I see the Duke of Southdown on that chair—shall we walk up to him? You might tell him of your plan.” “Do nothing of the kind!” hurriedly said the mimic, laying a firm hand on Lord Somerville’s arm. “The man you take for His Grace is a driver of the London General Omnibus Company. Now, my lord, you see what mistakes you are likely to make.” “By God, I could have sworn this was the Duke! But, Danford, do you never commit such solecisms?” “No, very rarely.” Danford shook his head knowingly, and over his thin lips flitted that indefinable smile for which he was so renowned on the boards. “But there you are, you have not made a special study of human physiognomy, and have not through hard plodding acquired that sense of observation, that keenness of perception, that we have, for you have had no need to retain the facial grimaces and queer movements of individuals. To-day the Music Halls are closed and we are broke, but in this wreckage, we artists have saved our precious faculty of memorising. The profession has therefore decided to make a new move; this morning I saw the manager of the Tivoli, who asked me to be the intermediary between the profession and the aristocracy—of which, my lord, you are one of the strongest columns. This state of things looks as if it were going to last, and as we cannot prevent it we must boom it.” “I follow you, Danford, and am curious to know what you will propose as a remedy.” “Well, my lord, I advise that we artists, men and women, should open in every district of London Schools of Observation, in which the art of memorisation will be taught, and prizes will be given to pupils who recognise the most faces in one hour. I myself believe that Society will not easily learn that art; for it has so long relied on outward signs to guide it in the recognition of folks, that its faculties are warped, and it will take us all our time to pull Society through this difficulty. Then a special branch should be started at once, or else the aristocracy will sink into the deep waves of oblivion. We must all—I mean the Music Hall variety artists—accept engagements for dinner-parties, receptions, afternoon teas; in fact, for every entertainment where more than two are gathered, and act as social guides. To give you a sample of what I can do, my lord, I propose to take a stroll with you along the favourite thoroughfares of town; not at present, for London will turn in for luncheon very soon, but between six and seven o’clock we can meet again.” “Are you sure, Danford, that we shall find anyone out at that time?” “Ah! You do not know Londoners as well as I do. They have had enough of seclusion. They have twice tasted fresh air, and they will long to taste it again. Public opinion is as strong as ever in our country; it is a wave that rolls incessantly over the London beach; the débris of wrecks cast up by the sea are very soon washed away by the next wave, and so does the tide of public opinion eternally sweep away some old political hobby, and bring back some moral crank. The smallest scheme becomes a national enterprise in this island of ours, and if once Society takes up our idea, the world is saved. This evening there will be more Londoners out than there are at present. Everyone, more or less—of course invalids excepted—is unable to sacrifice practical life to a preconceived idea of virtue; we are even very much to be praised for having given up ten of our precious days to a moral principle.” “This would not have occurred in any Latin country, for they depend so much on their intercourse with human beings; perhaps we have less merit, after all, in having remained confined so many days, as we are not so sociable as our Latin neighbours.” “Oh! What an error, my lord; I have always thought the reverse, and firmly believe that we Britishers are the most superficial of human creatures.” “Still, you cannot deny, Danford, that our lower classes take their pleasures gloomily?” “I am astonished that you should make such a remark, Lord Somerville; you are too much up-to-date to bring that exploded accusation against our race. If our lower orders take Sunday rambles in our City graveyards, it is not for the dead that they go there, but partly for the flowers and the trees; mostly, however, in search of excitement. They spell the In Memoriams on tombstones as they would devour penny novelettes. It gives them a glamour of romance and tragedy, as a jeweller’s shop window opens a glittering vista of luxury to the hungry stare of a beggar. It is always what lies behind the scenes that will for ever enthral the minds of human beings. You, of the Upper Ten, have excitements of all sorts, subtle and coarse; amusements of every descriptions, frivolous or cruel; passions of all kinds, high and low; but the wearied toilers have only the routine of an eventless existence; no wonder shop windows and graveyards are their arena, but it does not follow that they take their pleasures sadly. A child will play with a dead man’s skull if he has no painted doll.” They had reached Hyde Park Corner. “I have passed a very pleasant hour with you, Danford; perhaps one of the pleasantest for many years. Shall we say 6.30 at the foot of Achilles’s statue?” “Yes, my lord, and the place you name is most appropriate.” With a wave of the hand Danford walked away in the direction of Sloane Street, and Lord Somerville slowly went up Piccadilly. He felt what he had not experienced since his Eton days—an interest in life; and he was determined to see this farce through. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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