month in a house with broken windows, in a court off the Gray’s Inn
Road.
He had undertaken to produce a piece of Humorous Fiction to the length
of 75,000 words.
The Comic Author, a man of experience (for this was his forty-seventh
book), had sat down to begin his task. He calculated how long it would
last him. He was good for 1500 words a day, if they were short words,
and even when doom or accident compelled him to the use of long ones he
could manage from 1163 to 1247.
The specification was lucid and simple. There was to be nothing in
the work that could offend the tenderness of the patriot nor the ease
of good manners, let alone the canons of decency and right living. A
powerful love interest which he was compelled under Clause VII of his
contract to introduce immediately after each of the wittiest passages
had been deftly woven into the fabric, and (as was clearly laid down
in Clause IX) no matter already published might appear in those virgin
pages. If any did so, be sure it was so veiled by the tranposition
of phrases and other slight changes of manner as to escape the
publisher’s eye.
So far so good. But upon the 13th of August, a day of great beauty, but
of excessive heat, the Comic Author, sitting at his desk, was struck by
Apollo, the God and patron of literary men.
It was the custom of the Comic Author, who was a teetotaler and a
vegetarian, to wear a soft shirt entirely made of wool and devoid of
a collar, which ornament, he was assured by Members of the Faculty,
exercised a prejudicial effect upon the health. It was equally his
custom to compose his famous periods with his back turned to the light.
This habit he had also adopted at the dictation of the Faculty, who
had proved to him beyond possibility of refutation that the human eye
is damaged by nothing more than by reading or writing with one’s face
towards the window. With his back, therefore, to the window in his room
(it was unbroken), it was the Comic Artist’s wont to sit at a plain
and dirty small deal table and express his mind upon paper, his head
reposing upon his left hand, his fountain pen grasped firmly in his
right, and his lips and tongue following the movement of his nib as it
slowly crawled over the page before him.
The Comic Author (again under the impulse of the Faculty) kept his
hair cut short at the back; to cut it short all over was more than his
profession would allow. You have, then, the Comic Author sitting at his
desk with his back to the unbroken window, his neck exposed from the
shortness of hair and the absence of collar, under the brilliant light
of the 13th of August.
A fourth condition must now be considered: by some physical action
never properly explained, glass, though it may act as a screen to
radiant heat, will also store and intensify the action of sunlight.
So that anything placed immediately beneath it upon a bright day will
(it is notorious) suffer or enjoy an effect of heat far greater than
that discoverable upon its outer side. The common greenhouse is a proof
of this. The Comic Author was therefore in a situation to receive the
full power of Apollo. It took the form of a sunstroke, and with his
story uncompleted, nay, in the midst of an unfinished phrase, he fell
helpless.
His Landlady, summoning a neighbour to her aid (for the charwoman never
stayed after ten o’clock, and it was already noon), dragged him to his
room and sent for the parish doctor, who, after a brief examination of
the patient, declared him to be in some danger; but the poor fellow was
not so far gone as to forget his obligations, and he murmured a few
words which, after some difficulty, they understood to be the address
of the publisher whom he would not for worlds have disappointed.
Imagining this address to be in some way connected with a pecuniary
advantage to herself, the Landlady sent to it immediate word of his
accident, and within half an hour a motor-car of surpassing brilliance
and immense power was purring at the door. From this vehicle descended
in a gentlemanly but commanding manner One who seemed far too great
for the humble lodging which he entered. And the Doctor, leaving his
patient for a moment, was pleased to receive the visitor in a lower
room, while the Landlady, who was also interested in the event,
listened with due courtesy in the passage without.
The Publisher (for it was he) learned with increasing concern the
desperate position of the Comic Author, and while he was naturally
chiefly concerned with the financial loss the little accident might
involve, it should be remembered to his credit that he made inquiries
as to the state of the patient and even asked whether he suffered
physical pain. Upon hearing that the Comic Author, though fuddled
by cerebral congestion, did undoubtedly suffer the Visitor’s brow
perceptibly darkened; he pointed out to the Doctor that if this
accident had but happened ten days later it would have had consequences
much less serious to himself.
The Doctor was eager to point out that the fault was none of his. He
had come the moment he had heard of the case, and, moreover, sunstroke
was a disease which betrayed itself by no premonitory symptoms. He
assured the Publisher that if the Comic Author’s survival could in any
way be of service to the firm he would do everything in his power to
save his life.
The Publisher replied, a little testily, that the value of the Comic
Author’s survival would entirely depend upon the talent remaining to
him after his recovery, and pointed out what the Doctor had overlooked,
that a sensational death, if it received due recognition from the
Press, often caused the works of the deceased to sell for a week or
more with exceptional rapidity.
He next asked whether the Comic Author had not left manuscripts, and
the Landlady was pleased to bring him not only all that lay upon the
deal table, but much more beside, and all his private correspondence
as well, which she found where she had often perused it, in various
receptacles of her lodger’s room.
The Publisher upon receiving these seemed to feel his position less
acutely, and sending the sheets out at once to his secretary in the car
(with instructions that those stories or sketches hitherto unpublished
should be carefully noted) he resumed his conversation with the medical
man. He was first careful to ask how long cases of this sort when they
proved fatal commonly endured, and expressed some relief at hearing
that certain benignant exceptions had lingered for several days. He
was further assured that lucid intervals might be counted on, and in
general he discovered that the lines upon which the story had been
intended to proceed might be recovered from the lips of the dying man
before he should exchange the warm and active existence of this world
for the Unknown Beyond.
He re-entered his motor-car, therefore, with a much lighter heart,
promising to send an Expert Stenographer who should take down the last
and necessary instructions from the lips of Genius. The motor-car
then left that court off the Gray’s Inn Road where the tragedy was in
progress, and swept westward to the larger atmosphere of St. James’s.
At this point again, when the activity and decision of one master brain
seemed to have saved all, Fate intervened. The Expert Stenographer,
having lacked regular employment for nearly eighteen weeks, was
so overjoyed at learning the news and the price attached to his
immediate services, that he could not resist cheerful refreshment and
conversation with friends in celebration of the occasion. He reached
the Gray’s Inn Road, therefore, somewhat late in the day; he was
further delayed by a difficulty in discovering the house with broken
windows which had been indicated to him, and when he entered it was to
receive the unwelcome news that the Comic Author was dead.
The Doctor, whose duties had already for some hours called him to other
scenes where it was his blessed mission to alleviate human suffering,
was not present to confirm the sad event, and the Expert Stenographer,
who could not believe that he had been baulked of so unexpected a
piece of fortune, insisted upon proof which the Landlady was unable
to afford. He even sat for some few moments by the side of the Poor
Lifeless Clay in the vain hope that some further indication as to the
general trend of the book might fall from the now nescient lips. But
they were dumb.
How many consequent misfortunes depended upon this untoward accident
the reader may easily guess. The Landlady, to whom the Comic Author
had owed thirty shillings for a month’s rent and service, was in a
very natural anxiety for some days, an anxiety which was increased by
the discovery that her former lodger had no friends, while his few
relatives seemed each to have, in their own small way, claims against
him of a pecuniary nature.
His dress clothes, upon which she had confidently counted, turned out
to belong to a costumier of the neighbourhood, who loudly complained
that he had had no notice of this intempestive demise, and was at least
a sovereign out of pocket by so awkward a conjunction; nor was he
appreciably relieved when it was pointed out to him that the suit would
at least carry no contagious disease.
The Stenographer, as I have already indicated, lost the remuneration
dependent upon his Expert Services, and was further at the charge of
the refreshment which he had foolishly consumed in anticipation of that
gain.
The Doctor, indeed, was not disappointed, for he had expected nothing,
but by far the worst case was that of the generous and wealthy man who
had been at all the risk of advertising, partly printing, and already
ordering the binding of the work which he now found himself at a loss
to produce.
There is no moral to this simple story: it is one of the many tragedies
which daily occur in this great city, and from what I know of the Comic
Author’s character, he would have been the last to have inflicted so
much discomfort had it in any way depended upon his own volition; but
these things are beyond human ordinance.
On certain Manners and Customs
I was greatly interested in the method of government which I discovered
to obtain in the Empire of Monomotapa during my last visit there. I
say “during my last visit” because although, as everyone knows, I have
repeatedly travelled in the more distant provinces of that State, I had
never spent any time to speak of in the capital until I delayed there
last month for the purpose of visiting a friend of mine who is one of
the State Assessors. He was good enough to explain to me many details
of their Constitution which I had not yet grasped, and I conceive
it--now that I have a full comprehension of it--to be as wise a method
of governing as it is a successful one.
I must first put before the reader the elements of the matter. Every
citizen in Monomotapa takes a certain fixed rank in the State; for
the inhabitants of that genial clime have at once too much common
sense and too strict a training to talk nonsense about equality or
any other similar metaphysical whimsey. Every man, therefore, can
precisely tell where he stands in relation to his fellows, and all
those heart-burnings and jealousies which are the bane of other States
are by this simple method at once exorcised. Moreover, the method by
which a man’s exact place is determined is simplicity itself, for it
reposes upon his yearly revenue; and there is a gradually ascending
scale from the poorest, whose revenue may not amount from all sources
to more than 40 Tepas a month, to the Supreme Council, the wealthier
members of which may have as much as 10,000,000 Tepas a month, or
even more. There is but one drawback to this admirably practical and
straightforward way of ordering the State, which is that by a very
ancient article of their religion the Monomotapians are each forbidden
to disclose to others what the state of their fortunes may be. It is
the height of impertinence in any man, even a brother, to put questions
upon the matter; all documents illuminating it are kept strictly
secret, and though religious vows and binding oaths are very much
disliked among this people, yet one is rigidly observed, which is that
forbidding the divulgence by a bank of the sums of money entrusted to
it by its clients. Certain rash spirits have indeed proposed to destroy
the anomaly and either to make some other standard arrange the order
of society (which is unthinkable) or else to allow questions of money
to be freely debated, and the incomes of all to be matter of public
comment.
Now, like many excellent and rational attempts at religious or social
reform, these propositions must wholly fail in practice. As for setting
up some other standard than that of wealth by which to decide the
importance of one’s fellow citizens, the Monomotapians very properly
regard such a proposal as fantastic to the point of buffoonery. Nor,
to do them justice, do those who propose the scheme seriously intend
this part of it. They rather put it forward to emphasise the second
half of their programme, which has much more to be said for it. But
here a difficulty arises of a sort that often upsets the calculations
of idealists, namely, that however much you change the laws you can
with more difficulty change the customs of the people, and though you
might compel all banking accounts to be audited, or even insist upon
every man making a public return of his income, yet it is certain that
the general opinion upon this matter would result, in practice, in much
the same state of affairs as they now have. Men would devise some other
system than that of banks; their returns would be false, and there
would be a sort of general unconscious conspiracy among all to support
fraud in this matter.
My host next explained to me the manner in which laws are made among
the Monomotapians and the manner in which they are administered. It
seems that by a fundamental rule of their Constitution no law may be
passed in less than twenty-five years, unless it can be proved to have
its origin in terror.
If indeed those who are the wealthiest and therefore the most important
in the State can prove to the satisfaction of all that they have gone
blind with panic, then indeed the passage of a law is permitted even
in a few hours. Thus, when a certain number of young gentlemen had
so far forgotten their good breeding as to torture by way of sport
considerable numbers of the poorer classes, one of these in his turn,
oblivious to the rules of polite behaviour, so far forgot himself as to
strike his young master in the face. It was under these circumstances,
when the greater part of the governing classes had fled abroad, or were
closely locked in behind their doors, that the “Tortures Restrictions
Bill” was passed; but this haste was even then regarded as somewhat
indecent, and it would have been thought more honourable to have
discussed the matter for at least two days. Nominally, however, affairs
of real importance cannot be legislated upon, as I have said, in less
than twenty-five years. It is customary for the Monomotapians first to
wait until some neighbouring State has attempted a particular reform.
When that reform has been working for some years, if it be successful
in its working, the wealthier Monomotapians begin to talk about it
according to set rules. And it is again a fundamental point in their
Constitution that one-half of those who so debate must be for, the
other half against the proposed change. The discussion is carried
on by some seventy or eighty men, of whom two-thirds at least must
possess a fortune of at least 1000 Tepas a month, but it is customary
to mix among them one or two men of exceptional poverty, as this is
imagined in some way or other to please the Gods. The middle class,
on account of their intolerable habit of referring to learned books
and to the results of their travel, are very properly excluded. These,
then, debate for a term of years, and when they are weary of it they
will very often begin to debate again. Meanwhile the institution or
the reform upon which their discussion has turned will have taken
root in those foreign countries which it is their pride to copy, and
they can at last be certain that in following suit Monomotapa will
have nothing to lose. When all this is decided a certain number of
men are set apart, the poorer of whom are given a sum of money and
the wealthier certain titles on condition that they vote in favour of
the change; while another body of men are set apart and rewarded in a
precisely similar manner for giving a pledge of the opposite sort. But
great care is taken that the first body shall be slightly larger than
the second, for by an unexplained decision of their priests the force
of a law depends upon the margin between the two bodies so chosen.
These electors once named are put into an exceedingly narrow passage
in which it would be difficult for any very stout person to move at
all. At the end of the passage doors still narrower open upon the
street, the door upon the left being used to record affirmative, that
upon the right negative votes. The whole mass, which consists of near
a thousand men, is then kindly but firmly pushed by Assistants of
the King (as they are called) until its last member has been squeezed
through one of the two doors. This process is immensely popular among
the Monomotapians, who will gather in crowds to cheer the wretched
men whom avarice or ambition has devoted to so pleasant a task. And
when they have come out, covered with sweat and perhaps permanently
affected in their hearts by the ordeal, they are very often granted
civic honours by their fellow-townsmen over and above the sums of money
or titles which they have already received. With such frenzied delight
do the Monomotapians regard this singular practice that even women have
lately petitioned to be permitted to join in the scrimmage. This they
will undoubtedly be granted in cases where they can prove a certain
wealth, for, indeed, there is no reason why an exercise of this sort
should be confined to one sex. But it is understood that a certain part
of the women of Monomotapia, many of them also wealthy, are willing to
pay money to prevent such a result, and if this indeed be the case a
very curious situation, almost unknown in the annals of Monomotapia,
will arise; for since all government is in the hands of the rich, it
is necessary that the rich should act together in serious affairs of
State. And what on earth will happen when one section of the wealthy,
whether men or women, are opposed to the actions of another section, it
would indeed be difficult to determine. Nor are the older men and the
more experienced without grave misgivings as to the issue of such an
unprecedented conflict.
I cannot conclude without telling you briefly the manner in which
their Kings are elected, for it reflects in every detail at once the
originality and the wisdom of this people.
There are in Monomotapa some three or four hundred public halls in
which is conducted the national sport, which consists in competitions
between well-known talkers as to who can talk the longest without
exhaustion, and it rapidly becomes known, through well-developed
agencies of information as well as by public repute, which individuals
have attained to the greatest proficiency in this regard. Sometimes
in the remotest province will arise a particular star, but more often
it is in the Metropolis or its neighbourhood that your really great
talkers can be found; a man in the tradition of that great King of the
last century who upon one occasion talked the clock round and was in
reward for that feat permitted to hold the Kingship for three terms in
succession.
When by a process of elimination the two strongest talkers have been
discovered, they are brought to the capital, set up upon a stage before
a vast audience of Assessors (of which my friend, as I have told you,
was one), and begin talking one against the other with great rapidity,
starting at a signal made by an official who is paid for this duty a
very high salary indeed. It may well be imagined that the interest
in the struggle grows keen after the first few hours have passed. The
panting breath, the discoloured cheeks, the drooping attitude of either
competitor, call forth cheers of encouragement from his supporters and
even murmurs of sympathy from his numerous judges. At last, it may be
in the sixth or the seventh hour, one of the two goes groggy--if I may
so express myself--he falters in his words, perhaps repeats himself,
passes his hand to his forehead or takes a drink of gin (which, from
its resemblance to water, is greatly favoured in these contests). Such
signals of distress are the beginning of the end. His successful rival,
straining himself to one last effort, will pour out a great string of
sentences of an approved pattern, dealing as a rule with the glories
and virtues of those who have listened to him, of their ancestry, and
their hold upon the Monomotapian State, and as the defeated competitor
falls lifeless to the floor this successful fellow is crowned amid the
applause of the vast assembly. I was at the pains to ask whether it was
necessary that these long harangues should make sense, for it seemed to
me that this added labour would very materially handicap many men who
might otherwise possess all the physical requirements of victory, and
I was free to add that it would seem to me, at least, as a foreigner,
very foolish to weigh down some fine athlete worthy of the Crown by
demanding of him the rare characteristics of the pedant. I was relieved
to hear that there was no obligation as to the choice of words used
or the order in which they were to be pronounced, saving that they
must be words in the vulgar tongue. But it seems, oddly enough, that
the trainers in this sport after generations of experience have
discovered that the competitors actually suffer less fatigue if they
will repeat certain set and ritual phrases than if they take refuge in
mere gibberish, just as men marching in step are said to suffer less
fatigue than men marching at ease. So at least I was assured, but my
insufficient acquaintance with the Monomotapian tongue forbade me to
make certain upon the matter.
The Statesman
“HÔTEL DE FERRAS, PARIS, _August 1, 1846_.
“My dear Father,--I got in here last night, after a very painful and
tiresome journey, at eleven o’clock. At least it was eleven o’clock
by Calais time, but they are so careless in this country about their
clocks that it would be very difficult to say what the right time
really was were I not able to consult the excellent chronometer
which you and Mamma were so kind as to give me after my success in
the Schools at Oxford this summer. I confess to the childishness of
having rung the chimes in it five or six times during the night to
while away the tedium of the journey in the Diligence from Beauvais.
Beauvais contains a really remarkable cathedral, but it is unfinished.
I notice, indeed, that many of the buildings undertaken by the French
remain in an incomplete condition. The Louvre, for instance (which is
so near this hotel, and the roofs of which I can see from my window),
would be a really fine building if it were completed, but this has
never been done, and the total effect is very distressing. I fancy it
is the numerous wars, in which the unhappy people have been engaged
at the caprice of their rulers, which have led to such deplorable
inconsequence. You have often warned me not to judge rashly upon
a first impression, but I confess the people seem to me terribly
poverty-stricken, especially in the country districts, where the
children may often be seen hobbling about in rough _wooden_ shoes,
without stockings to their feet. I say no more. I hope, dear Papa,
that when Parliament meets I shall be returned from Italy, and that I
shall be able to follow your action in the House of Commons. You know
how ardently I attend to the great struggle for Free Trade, to the
attainment of which, as of every form of Righteousness, you have ever
trained my early endeavours.
“I am, your affectionate son,
“JO. BILSTED.”
“HÔTEL DE FERRAS, _January 15, 1853_.