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Storm Of London

<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> Lionel often sat in his library pondering over all kinds of abstruse questions. He did not know his old London again, and smiled at the revolution in social life. Nowadays, one house was as good as another. Mrs So-and-So’s luncheon parties, Lady X.’s dinners and bridge réunions were no longer sought for, since frocks and frills had vanished and packs of cards crumbled to dust. Dancing also was impossible under the present régime, for the laisser-aller of a ball-room seemed intolerable in the new Paradise regained. In fact, no respectable mother would consent to take her daughter to any of these brawls. Lionel recalled the first—and the last—ball of this season. It was at Lady Wimberley’s. When the ball opened, the hurry and scurry of London apes was such, that he had turned to his faithful guide and told him,— “Nothing on earth would induce me to dance this evening—or ever. Not even with Gwen.” “Especially not with Miss Towerbridge,” had replied the funny little buffoon. “Happiness has no need to bump, elbow or kick, to manifest its gladness.” They had both left the house, and given the hint to London Society. And thus the fashion for balls, late dinners, evening receptions died out, as smart women lost the taste for such vulgar dissipations. Lionel laughed outright at Lady Carey’s remark that the end of the world was nigh, for Society was perishing from dulness. Still, all the fussiness of the little woman could not alter the bare fact that it was quite unnecessary to turn night into day, since the days were quite long enough to contain the occupations of the present Society. Complexion and figure greatly benefited from this normal mode of life; and the absence of corset and waistcoat urged the English man and woman to watch over their diet, if they did not intend to turn their bodies into living advertisements of their passions and depravities. Had anyone told Lionel a year ago what London would be like at the present moment, he would no doubt have burst into Homeric laughter; but now that the thing was done, it all seemed so simple and so rational, that he hardly realised it. It amused him very much to see daily, at the Pall Mall Committee of Public Kitchens, Lord Petersham conversing with a well-known butcher of Belgravia. But Petersham, whatever he may have thought, dissembled artfully, and argued with himself that they were both, he and the butcher, sitting on the Board to judge of the quality of the meat—and who would be more likely to judge impartially of the catering than a butcher, especially when he consumed the victuals each day. He recalled how hard it had been to persuade Sinclair the fastidious, to breakfast with him at the dining-hall of the ex-Swan & Edgar. Although the critic partook of the delicious meal, he would not be won over to the cause; but he admitted that the butter and the eggs were extra fresh; that the meat was irreproachable, the fish first-rate; he even went so far as to recognise that all things were transacted on a bona-fide method. But when Lionel told him that the whole secret lay in the fact that the interest of all was the interest of each, then Sinclair laughed and said—“tommy rot.” There was nothing more to say to a man who pooh-poohed the greatest and noblest of reforms. “But why on earth, if your are so anxious to reform the depravity of our Society, why have you begun by administering to their appetites? It seems to me that you might have found some nobler mission for the regeneration of Britishers.” “My dear fellow,” had calmly replied Lionel, “to stem a chaotic revolution, after the total collapse of all manufacturers, we had first of all to think of feeding our hungry populations. Before you lift up the soul of man, you must feed his body. But at the same time that we are satisfying the physical need of men and women, we are unconsciously weaving into a close tissue the contradictory codes of morals of buyers and sellers. Every producer is a member of our dining-halls, and benefits directly by the genuineness of the goods he delivers to the Committee. Is it not a colossal triumph?” Danford, who was close by when Lionel had spoken to Sinclair, had added,— “These are the bloodless victories that will enrich our civilisations with greater happiness than ever the conquests of Cæsar, Napoleon and Wellington endowed their epochs with glory.” “First of all, we aim at feeding all classes, on the principle that there should not be one food for the rich and another for the poor; but our ultimate plan is to give self-government to every branch of business, so as to ensure honest dealing, prompt measures, and efficiency.” “Yes, my lord,” sententiously remarked Dan, “you have to bring strong proofs to bear on the apathetic minds of Britishers. You must show them endless examples of your reformatory work before they will follow you one step. John Bull has not a speculative brain, and will not listen to any of your dreams; but, on the other hand, there is no limit to what he can do when once he is convinced of your power of common-sense.” And Lionel had made up his mind to take his countrymen as they were. He had consulted his club friends about transforming clubs into places of general meetings, where anyone, from a Peer of the realm down to a coal-heaver, would each week meet to suggest any new plans or denounce any abuse. Our reformer made them see that in the present condition of Society, clubs had lost the principal charm of their organisation—exclusiveness. In fact, their raison d’être had disappeared. The collapse of centralised government, the vanishing of daily newspapers had deprived these smart haunts of all political and social interest; and the members saw no objection to lending their rooms for the use of public meetings. On the contrary, they rather enjoyed the change, for they longed for agitation, and thought that any kind of life was preferable than social decomposition. At the first meeting, the telephone question was on the tapis, at the second meeting the whole thing was settled, and a service of telephones was organised in every house. What were dailies, posters, letters, telegrams compared to the very voice which you knew, and which told you the very latest news? “Ah! my lord,” had again exclaimed Dan, “distance will some day have no signification whatever, between Continents, when telephone brings the Yankee twang close to the Cockney burr.” Lionel and Dan had looked at each other, and for one instant a mist had dimmed the brilliancy of their eyesight. These two had the public’s welfare truly at heart. “One thing is certain, Dan, that our dream will be realised sooner than we believe. Man will be able to see his fellow-creature, hear his voice who knows? perhaps he will touch his hand from one hemisphere to another; but never will man be able to demonstrate scientifically or ethically the governing right of one class over another, or of one man over millions.” “Your lordship is running too fast. You will bewilder the British public without persuading it to follow you. Show your fellow-citizens a materially reformed London before you can interest them in a regenerated universe. You have already developed their altruism in teaching them to be their own policemen; you have very nigh persuaded them that honesty is the best policy in replacing self-interest by fair dealing: you may, with your system of telephone, bring them to see that veracity is the only means of communication, now that sensational journalism has disappeared from our civilisation.” One morning, as Lionel was sitting in his library, he looked up at his father’s portrait, and wondered whether the latter would have approved of all that was going on in London. Perhaps, had he lived to see this social metamorphosis father and son would have understood each other at last. It filled Lionel’s heart with pity to think of the tragic life of past London. Next day he sent his father’s portrait to the In Memoriam Museum with a few others, amongst which was his mother’s portrait in Court dress. He could hardly view this likeness of a past glory without shuddering, while an aching pain gnawed at his heart as he recalled the whole bearing of the model who had sat for the picture. In a few days nearly all the Upper Ten had despatched their family pictures. The In Memoriam Museum was over-crowded with ancestral effigies; so much so that Lionel determined to speak to his architect for the purpose of building, in the suburbs, another Museum. This raised an uproar amongst the fastidious critics of the Vane and Sinclair type. “Where is art going?” “What, that glorious Gainsborough picture of your celebrated grandmother! Is that to be relegated to a country gallery?” said Vane to the Duchess of Southdown. “And that suggestive Lely of your great-great-grand-aunt! Is that to come down from your wall?” apostrophised Sinclair. “Fie, for shame! Where is your family pride?” indignantly echoed Lord Mowbray, who had sold his last ancestral likeness the year before to a picture-dealer. No doubt there was a small minority of malcontents that failed to see any good in the efforts of the majority who worked at public reforms. To men like Montagu Vane, Sinclair, Murray; to women like the Honourable Mrs Archibald, Lady Carey, this present condition of social pandemonium was the beginning of the end. A Society in which a lady could be mistaken for a night rover, and vice versa, and in which an omnibus driver was taken for a member of the peerage, was not tolerable, and it would inevitably lead to a general rising of the lower classes against their betters. They argued that point hotly, and there was no persuading them, or even discussing with them this point, that perhaps there would be no mistaking a lady for a trull in our reformed world, for this very reason, that there would be no longer any need for marketable flesh when all social injustice and inadequacies had been removed. They declared, it was quite impossible: human nature was human nature all over the world, and as long as man existed there was to be a hunt for illicit enjoyment. They even affirmed that the present state of nature would surely end in licentious chaos, as there was nothing to repress personal lust now, and that very soon London would surpass Sodom and Gomorrah in vice and crime. There was nothing to say to that, and Danford advised Lionel to let them talk all the nonsense they liked. Facts again were to be brought to bear on the social question, as nothing else could alter the opinions of the malcontents. Another point which Montagu Vane was very fond of arguing was the question of cleanliness. According to him, the great unwashed would more than ever exhibit their filth, to which the little humourist of past Music Halls replied in his practical philosophy, that dirt would disappear with the downfall of outward finery. He analysed thus: vanity was inherent with the human race, therefore, when the flesh was the only garment man could boast of, he would keep that spotlessly clean. Vane pooh-poohed all these views; besides, he did not like philosophy, and he only tolerated buffoons on the platform. It is true that Vane was an object lesson in daintiness, and had carried this external virtue to the highest point; in fact, as Danford said: “No one feels properly scrubbed and groomed when Mr Vane emerges from his Roman bath exhaling a perfume of roses and myrrh.” Montagu Vane was of a small stature, but admirably proportioned; his hair, now grey, was very fine, and curled closely to his scalp; his walk had a spring which added suppleness to his limbs. He was a boudoir Apollo who had grown weary of Olympic games, and of gods and goddesses, and who had one day daintily tripped down from his pedestal to join the crowd of modern pigmies. When the storm broke over London, Vane was close on tearing his curly hair, as he realised that something had to be done to save his position. For was he not arbiter in all matters of art? Still, he was not the sort of man to be baffled by a few buckets of water, and he set to work redecorating his house. Suddenly he bethought himself of a struggling Italian, who, the previous year, had come to see whether London Society would take up the art of fresco, of which the secrets had been handed down to him by ancestors skilled in that primitive art. Montagu always made a point of helping young artists up the social ladder; he gave them a lift up the first step, advised them for the second rung, and invariably said by-by to them until they met at the top, which they rarely ever did. From that day Paolo Cinecchi worked at Vane’s walls, and the fantastic arabesques and subjects he designed on black-painted backgrounds turned out to be a suitable set-off for groups of Apollos and Venuses. The Upper Ten at once took to this mode of decoration, and Cinecchi’s name was in every mouth. Montagu was past master in worldly savoir-faire, and as an Amphytrion surpassed every London hostess by his ability in gathering round his table the idlers and toilers of smart Society and Bohemianism. He was no philosopher, and lived artificially, harbouring a profound horror of intensity; it made him blink. Greek in his tastes, he was thoroughly British in his selfish isolation. He saw many, mixed in the social and artistic world, but he merely skimmed people. He was busy with trifles, and utterly devoid of any sense of humour. His success in Society had principally lain in his many-sided mediocrity; for mediocrity is always pleasing, but when it is varied, it is delightful. His views on politics, his impressions on social problems reminded one of an article out of the <cite>Court Circular Journal</cite>; whilst his experiences of life had been taught him in the shaded corners of a Duchess’s drawing-room, or in the smoking-room of a smart Continental hotel. After all, Society was responsible for the creation of this hybrid—the dilettante. The Upper Ten in its hours of ennui had conceived this strange cross-breed; but in its mischievousness it had taken good care to endow their offspring with the same impotency that characterises the product of horse and donkey! Society loved these unfruitful children, it fondled them, shielded their deficiency from the world’s sneers, and although it had doomed them to eternal barrenness, still it guarded the approach to these home-made fetishes, and surrounded them with barriers with this inscription affixed: “Hands off.” But in the present emergency, Society showed itself ingrate towards these little mannikins who had amused it, and it turned away from them, to seek the help of the Music Hall artists, into whose arms the smart men and women of London Society threw themselves. Thus the majority unconsciously worked at the regeneration of London; although they would have sneered had anyone told them that they were all endeavouring to realise the Socialist’s dream—self-government. The proroguing of Parliament—for an indefinite period—had removed one stumbling-block on the road to that goal. Honourable members, Peers of the Realm, had migrated to their country seats, or retired to private life in town, awaiting patiently for better times; for they firmly believed that the country could not prosper without them, and they absolutely denied that the British lion could ever rest quiet with the reins of Government loose on his mane. Was the Earl of Somerville conscious of his evolution? He was certainly developing into a seer, although he was in no danger of being carried away by speculative theories, as long as Danford stood at his elbow, raising his sarcastic voice whenever my lord was tempted to fly off at a tangent. When the latter suggested that they should consult the venerable scientists of Albemarle Street, Danford stopped him very sharply. “My lord, do not look to the Royal Institute for any explanation of this phenomenon. They have not yet grasped the cause of the storm, and remain quite obdurate in their opinions. They cannot understand what has suddenly occasioned the collapse of every loom in England; and I know for a fact, that they are actually meditating to lead back the men and women of the twentieth century to the primitive usage of the spindle!” “Ah! my dear buffoon, let us leave the sages of Albemarle Street to their Oriental beatitude; they may be useful later on when we have solved the problem.” “Yes, my dear Lord Somerville, for the present look inwardly to find the solution of some of life’s mysteries. Do the work that lies close to you, as the parish curates say, and do it promptly. We are in the same plight as Robinson Crusoe on his island. Keen observation, patience and indomitable will-power saved the two exiles from sure death; and the dogmatising of sedentary dry-as-dusts would have been of no avail to them, as it is of no earthly use to us in this terrible crisis.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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