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Storm Of London

<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> “You have taken the first step towards the plastic reform of London, my lord.” “Then you think the party was a success?” “A tremendous one! They have now grasped the idea that they have only their skin to cover them, and must therefore improve their appearance, as their artificial tournure has vanished.” “What do you think of my excluding the old dowagers of Society?” Lionel was enjoying this freak of his more than anything he had yet done. “Capital, my lord! Very brave of you. As long as you all invited them, they came, because they knew no better; now that you have banished them from festivities, they will retire. It is simply a question of time, in which a new atavism will be developed. Our Society must be taught that there is a fitting time for everything—for learning, and for playing; for sorrow and for abdication.” “Perhaps, Dan, we shall make them see that in politics also there is an age for retiring; for we are doomed to be guided by dotards who will not acknowledge the necessity of a graceful exit on their part, and who are deaf to the broad hints given them.” “Wait a little, my lord; Rome was not built in one day, and the greatest reforms have been effected by trifling incidents. Rest satisfied with your first triumph—it was complete. You had the right number of guests, the marble lounges were placed at the right angles of your reception-rooms; the whole thing was in good taste.” “How did you like my idea of men carrying on their shoulders amphoras filled with champagne?—Rather novel and graceful, wasn’t it, Dan?” “Charming! and the fruit baskets on boys’ heads were fetching, my lord. It is the first time I really enjoyed a peach or a bunch of grapes; it reminded me of the Lake of Como on a hot afternoon, lying down on the steps of the Villa Carlotta.” “Yes, I really thought the whole picture was pleasing in perspective; the women reclined on their black marble couches with more grace than heretofore, which very probably inspired the men to move about more harmoniously.—You see, Dan, Gwendolen never came.” Danford looked wistfully at his pupil, and imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders. “Her father, when he came yesterday, told me he had not seen her since the storm. It appears she persists in closeting herself, and refuses to go out. Poor Gwen! It is abnormal, and her brain must give way sooner or later.” “This is one victim of this new state of nature; there must be some more of these abandoned creatures who lost all joy and sympathy in life when the storm rent them of their clothes;—but as your lordship is aware, this is beyond my power. I have undertaken to show you how to know your friends, in which art you have made wonderful progress;—I only wish my colleagues could say as much of all their pupils.” “Still, my dear fellow, things are looking brighter; I watched a few groups conversing yesterday, without the assistance of any guides, and Sir Richard Towerbridge actually remembered me five minutes after he had shaken hands with me. But we need more than this, Dick. It is all very well recognising one’s friends, though at present the method of doing so is only empirical; but we long for something more.” “My lord, how unjust you are. Nothing new! when the Lord Chamberlain has announced through the telephone that no Levees nor any Drawing-rooms will be held during the season!” “My dear Dan, something is lacking in this new Society. What is it?” “My lord, the powers of the social guide are very limited; he throws out hints, as the sower throws the seed; after that is the great unknown. I will teach you how to use your eyes, how to move your limbs, how to remember, perhaps how to laugh, perchance how to cry, but I cannot teach you how to love. This is the hidden closet to which we have no key, for the very good reason that the door opens from within. In the silence of the night, in the peace of lovely gardens, when men are far and nature is near, listen to the melody singing from within that secret recess, and open the door. Then maybe you will see what I cannot show you, hear what I cannot make audible.” “Do not trouble about me, dear fellow; I shall never love any mortal woman!” “Is the Paphian already dead in you, my lord? Then indeed you are nearer to the goal than I ever believed. I hear the hoofs of your Arab pawing the ground of the courtyard.” Danford looked out of the library window. “Yes, it is your chariot. Watkins has carried out your idea to perfection, and I congratulate your lordship on having once more saved London from galling ridicule, in providing for its inhabitants this suitable mode of conveyance.” “I think I have also arrived at relegating the automobile to country use.” “There, I think you are wise. The morning is cool, the drive to Richmond will be lovely; my lord, I must say good-bye to you.” “A ce soir, Dick.” The dapper little artist left Lionel and was soon out of sight under the trees of Hyde Park, while Lionel jumped into his Roman chariot, took up the reins and dashed out of the courtyard. He drove down Park Lane, turned sharply the corner of Hyde Park, taking the straight road to Hammersmith. Although charioteering was not a violent exercise like rowing, cricket or football, still it was exhilarating, and needed a firmness of posture, a suppleness in all movements which had given to Lord Somerville’s figure a grace formerly hampered by stiff collar, waistcoat, and top hat. This new fashion of driving was improving the physical appearance of the British male; for, the present charioteer was no more to be compared to the man who had jumped in and out of a hansom, than a mythological centaur could be contrasted with a rustic crossing a ferry on his cattle. The sluggish, indolent exponent of Masherdom fell down the very first time he took the reins into his hands; the rigid, unyielding representative of soldiery stiffened a little more, and managed to keep his balance, though the effect was ugly and the result, lumbago. But, little by little, the indolent straightened himself, the unbending relaxed his rigidity; and in a fortnight London could boast of a good average of chariot drivers, whom even Avilius Teres would not have disowned. Lionel met many friends on his way to Richmond; it was the fashion to drive in the morning to neighbouring parks before luncheon. Here was Lord Roneldson, who had lost a stone since the storm. Poor old Harry! the first days must have been trying to him! The self-indulgent fop, incapable of the slightest mental or physical effort, had had no alternative between standing or falling; and only after many days of bitter experience, had he discovered his centre of gravity. There came along old Joe Watson, puffing and blowing, redder than ever. At his side drove Lord Petersham, who held his reins well in hand and felt his steed’s mouth as tactfully as he did many other things in life. He guided Watson through the labyrinth of London life, but he had often found his plebeian friend’s mouth harder to handle than any horse’s. Watson had been taken up by Petersham, and pulled through his election by him, for he was member for East Langton. Lord Petersham did Watson the signal honour of accepting heavy cheques from him before the storm, for which, in exchange, he gave him a lift up the social ladder. Watson in return helped his Mentor to directorships of several companies, and brought to his clubs all the bigwigs on the Stock Exchange. At times the noble Amphitrion muttered under his grey moustache, that they were infernal cads, but very soon his steely eyes preached common-sense to his tempestuous lips, bringing back to his mind the practical philosophy, “Make use of all,” which is, after all, but reading backwards, “Forgive everyone.” These two most antagonistic companions went arm in arm along Pall Mall, into clubs, Music Halls and all sorts of haunts in which a liberal education is afforded to all sorts of men. Watson was very proud of his vulgarity, which he called straightforwardness; he was equally vain of his insular ignorance, which he benignly termed patriotism; but of all things he was most proud of the shop in Oxford Street, where he had for years past walked up and down, asking the ladies what was their pleasure. He had a few decided opinions, or prejudices if you like, which hung round his plebeian form like labels, and which no Peer of the realm could have torn off: he hated clever women, recherché dinners, and foreign countries. His temper was strange; he was generally of an opposing turn of mind on all intellectual subjects and of the most agreeing disposition when conventional topics were on the tapis. He never spoke in the House, and no one spoke about him. Such men are surely the pillars of a party, for they never think, never interrupt, and are never thought of. They possess a few signposts in their brains, and rarely go wherever danger is posted up. Such men keep England together, as cement fastens the stones safely to one another, but, like cement, are ugly and thick. Petersham often kicked at this bundle of grotesqueness. Watson was so totally devoid of the discerning powers which graced his lordship’s individuality; he did not know Chambertin from Sauterne, took a Piccadilly wench for a Society Aspasia, and was sorely lacking in the sense of the ridiculous. Since this new fashion of vehicle had come in, Petersham and Watson got on better together. There was a give-and-take in their present life which had never existed formerly. To obtain something or other under false pretences had been a code of morals closely interwoven with the Church Catechism and the State constitution, so that no loophole had been left through which one could see any other standpoint than one’s own. But since the contents of the shop in Oxford Street had vanished into thin air, as the chrysalis withers when the insect is formed, old Watson had lost all incentive to his pride; and old Petersham had equally lost all motive for his stinging epigrams directed at the thick-skinned Plutocrat. Charioteering through London soon showed these two types of distinct worlds that their safety depended more on their own initiative and prudence than on the police. Policemen, we know, had been dismissed, and every citizen, from the smallest child to the feeblest octogenarian, had to go through a course of thoroughfare gymnastics, so as to enable them to escape runaway horses; whilst lectures were given in Scotland Yard to instil into drivers’ minds the true sense of altruism and proper regard for the public’s safety. This new departure in outdoor polity had upset a good many pet prejudices of Watson, and knocked out a great deal of Petersham’s conceit. Ah! There darted through Brompton Road Tom Hornsby with his comic little face cleanshaven. He was one of the few men who had taken at once to the chariot; his supple, nervous frame and perfect equipoise made him master of the art in a few hours. He was a satirist, Tom Hornsby! He had never succeeded in diplomacy, nor in his migration to the City jungle, and unable to control his outbursts of scurrilous wit, he had sharpened his tongue into a steel pen and edited the <cite>Weekly Mirror</cite>. There were many more dashing along the Hammersmith Road on that lovely summer morning; some had been trained to soldiery, others to Parliamentarism, but the majority were inadequately provided with the suitable faculties with which to play the game of life. The soldiers were too spiritless, the politicians too bellicose. One little trifle had been omitted in the curriculum of a man’s education, but such a small item that it was hardly worth mentioning—for everyone agreed that to make a gentleman of a man was the great desideratum of college training—well, this little item neglected in all educations was: the training of life. This life-drill, by which all humanity is made akin, had been left out of educational programmes, and the results of such an omission had been painful; for men like Petersham and Watson would walk, dine, drink together, but they no more understood each other than if they had been two different species. Men were surprising and disappointing in this civilisation in which— <div class='lg-container-b c009'> <div class='linegroup'> <div class='group'> <div class='line'>“Hatred is by far the longest pleasure;</div> <div class='line'>Men love in haste, but detest at leisure.”</div> </div></div> </div> Men were at intervals Titans or monkeys. Hence the patchiness of life’s texture. Titan greeted monkey, the latter jeered while the former roared; and that was called Society. <hr class='c008' /> The first fashionable hostess who followed Lionel’s hint to Society was the Ambassadress of Tartary. One morning she sat wearily in front of her Venetian mirror, resting her pensive head on her right hand. What endless hours had she spent before this same mirror formerly, combining artistic shades, using ingenious cosmetics to hide the damages done by time! Now, all these were of no earthly use; nature had stepped in and strongly advised women to have silent tête-à-tête with their inner souls. She then and there made up her mind that the lines round her eyes, and the discoloration of the flesh of her neck and arms should never more be the object of rude stares on the part of her guests, and she resolved never more to stand at the top of her staircase to greet her visitors. Of all places in the house that spot was the most unbecoming for complexion, owing to the light being badly distributed. The Marquise de Veralba represented one of the great nations of Europe, at the Court of St. James, and she felt that to her had been given the mission of teaching a lesson to Englishwomen. Orders were promptly given and speedily executed; carpenters and floral decorators were summoned to the marble couch of the Marquise, and after a few days the house was ready for the projected reception, which she intended to be a new move in social gatherings. As Lionel and Dick walked up the staircase decorated with garlands of exotic flowers, they found, instead of their hostess, her social guide waiting to escort them through the vast rooms of the Embassy to an improvised bower of plants, rose trees and azaleas. There, on a floral lounge, reclined the Marquise. At first the visitors stood amazed before the scene mysteriously lighted by electric bulbs ensconced in the petals of flowers. Gradually they became conscious of her presence, and their attention was riveted by the beauty of her dark eyes; whilst her voice, subdued by restful and homogeneous surroundings, took her friends by surprise, as formerly they had been provoked at the shrillness of her tone, and the flurry with which she was wont to greet them at the top of the staircase, unceasingly fanning herself, whether it was summer or winter. Well, the fan had gone, like so many more useless things! It was an interesting evening that one at Madame la Marquise’s. In the first place it revealed to an ignorant Society that a new beauty could be given to evanescent youth and departed charms. Then they realised that they had not made great progress in the art of observation and still had need of their guides; and having consciously, during the last weeks, lost a good deal of the old false pride, they talked indiscriminately to those standing or sitting near them, although they ignored the name, social standing, or banking account of the person they were addressing. Was not courtesy after all the best policy in an emergency? Thus acted Society—prompted by personal interest, it is true—but we are not to look too closely at the strings that move the limbs of human marionettes. “That is all very well, Dick,” said Lionel, “but how will you hint to a waning beauty that a shady bower is the best place for her to ponder the vanities of this world and the greater glory of the next? You see, the Marquise has a long lineage of witty women behind her, and in this emergency her wit and taste have no more failed her than they deserted the brilliant women of the Renaissance who united the wisdom of life with intellectual supremacy.” “Your lordship is right, there are no laws to enforce woman to resign her social post; but, her mirror is her assize, and it sits night and day in judgment over her declining bloom; whilst self-interest and opportunism will suggest to her many ways of avoiding ridicule. Mind you, my lord, I firmly believe that this new mode of life will keep us all young much longer, for we shall have to improve our personal appearance through diet, instead of reverting to unbending corsets and padded limbs, to restore the injuries done to the human figure by continual intemperance.” The Earl, leaning on a porphyry column, gazed at his surroundings. He was struck by the loveliness and simplicity around him; the red-brocaded panels had vanished from the walls, and left the plain white wainscot, which of course had been repainted; all superficial luxury was gone, only a few lovely Louis XVI. tables remained in the room, whilst a few gold-caned settees were scattered about, and at right angles stood a few pink and black marble lounges. “Danford, look at that woman over there talking to Tom Hornsby; whoever she may be, she has already acquired a firmness of footing, a single-mindedness of posture that really delights me. Still, Dan—no Gwendolen!” “You seem to be very anxious about her, my lord. I heard last night from several lady guides, that many of the girls engaged last season could not bring themselves to meet the men they had chosen. You can hardly believe that the same girl who, a few weeks ago, fearlessly exposed all her moral ugliness and mental deficiency, could blush to-day at the idea of allowing her ‘fiancé’ to see her as God made her.” “Do not remind me of that Inferno, Dan; you, my Virgil, must show me beauty, not disfigurement; purity, not indelicacy. But is this all we are able to do for ourselves?” and Lionel looked all around him. “We have no doubt arrived at a certain physical discipline. I grant you that the faddiest nincompoop has managed to pull himself together and could, at a stretch, run a chariot race with any champion of the Roman Empire. I also think that our social intercourse is taking a turn for the better; but you cannot deny that we are at a standstill. What is to happen next? We are completely isolated from the rest of the world; no one comes to England from abroad, since the storm, and no one goes out of the island.” “Ah! only a matter of false pride on the part of the Britishers, my lord, and as to the foreigners not coming to England at present, I should give no thought to that. They very probably believe us to be the prey of a Boer invasion, and by this time every nation is celebrating in all their churches the disappearance of the British Empire.” “You are always turning everything into a joke, my dear fellow; still, the problem remains the same: what are we going to do with our new state of nature? Then we have no newspapers! We know nothing of what is going on.” “I think, my lord, that newspapers told us more of what was not going on than anything else. We have written enough; let us think, now that we are condemned to a sort of isolation. Now is your chance, my lord, and for your party to solve the problem; for no one can really help you out of this but yourselves.” “You must not forget, Dick, that there are thousands of men and women without any work, owing to this breakdown of the factories. Those have to be thought of, or else we shall perish in an East-End invasion.” “It is no worse than a general strike, my lord. I saw a few of the Music Hall artists of the Mile-End Road, Hackney and Poplar, and they all say the same thing: the people are not at all thinking of rioting; the injustice of their condition is robbed of its bitter sting, because they know all England and all classes to be in the same predicament. Besides, they do not believe for one minute that this condition will last, and are convinced there will be a recrudescence of luxury, and therefore work, to compensate their present loss a thousandfold.” “Lucky state of bliss is that apathy, so wrongly called self-control! But I am asking for more, Dick, for I am not wholly satisfied with the remedies you have suggested to me, and I thirst for something fabulous.” “Your lordship is fastidious, but I have told you before: we give hints, we do not develop theories. Look inwardly, my lord, and perhaps in that secret chamber of which I spoke to you will you see something to arrest your attention.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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