The Storm
of London
THE STORM OF LONDON
KINDLY READ THESE REVIEWS
“‘Clothes,’ said Carlyle, ‘gave us individuality, distinctions, social
polity; Clothes have made men of us; they are threatening to make
Clothes-screens of us.’ This truth has been developed in an audacious
manner by the author, who is not lacking in sarcasm and humour, and in a
lucky moment of inspiration he has produced a book which will find hosts
of readers for its originality, will be a topic of the moment for its
daring, and will demand more permanent recognition for the truths which
it unveils.”—_St James’s Gazette._
“A book which is as amusing as it is audacious in its pictures of
Society compelled to adopt the primitive attire of an Edenic
age.”—_Truth._
“London is turned into a huge Eden peopled with Adams and Eves in all
the pristine simplicity of the altogether nude.”—_Aberdeen Journal._
“Any amount of wit and literary skill ... the audacity of such a
literary enterprise.”—_Scotsman._
“A perfect saturnalia of nudity.”—_Glasgow Herald._
“Everybody should read this uncommon and curiously persuasive fiction,
that by the aid of realism, humour, and of wistful fancy, conveys an
impression not likely to be quickly lost.”—_Dundee Advertiser._
“Clever work.”—_Times._ (First Notice.)
“Daringly original.”—_Outlook._ (First Notice.)
“The author is at once bold and restrained in his picture of a London
entirely deprived of clothes.”—_T. P.’s Weekly._
“A daring idea ... a book which should have many readers.”—_Daily
Mirror._
“The shocks and complications that ensue should appeal to all lovers of
fiction.”—_Pall Mall Gazette._ (First Notice.)
“The author has written an extraordinary book, daring and
remarkable.”—_Daily Express._
“A daring theme treated with admirable discretion. The story is
singularly well told.”—_Birmingham Gazette._
“Everybody is in a state of nudity, and the developments are interesting
as all England is in the same interesting predicament. The book is
distinctly peculiar, and the writer may be congratulated on his
development of Carlyle’s speculations upon the state of Society rendered
clothesless.”—_Bristol Times & Mirror._
“Truly original and amusing.”—_Bookseller._
“Very clever; smartly conceived and ably written.”—_Western Daily
Mercury._
“A clever variation of the theme of Sartor Resartus.”—_Bystander._
“We have seldom perused a more fascinating book; a most daring idea,
most capably worked out. It is a book that no one should
miss.”—_Varsity._
“The idea is certainly original, the book is selling wildly, critics
praise it ... one of the books of _the_ season.”—_Hearth & Home._
JOHN LONG, PUBLISHER, LONDON
The
Storm of London
=a Social Rhapsody=
By
F. Dickberry
“Clothes gave us individuality, distinctions, social polity; Clothes
have made men of us; they are threatening to make Clothes-screens of
us.”—CARLYLE’S _Sartor Resartus_.
[Illustration]
_SEVENTH EDITION_
London
John Long
13 & 14 Norris Street, Haymarket
[_All Rights Reserved_]
_First published in 1904_
Dedicated
TO
M. E. H.
THE STORM OF LONDON
CHAPTER I
The Earl of Somerville was coming out of the Agricultural Hall and just
stepping into his brougham, when a few drops of rain began to fall and a
distant clap of thunder was heard. But it would no doubt be over in a
few minutes; only a passing shower which would dispel the clouds, clear
the leaden atmosphere, and in no way interfere with the midnight picnic
to which Lord Somerville was going.
The day had been oppressively hot, and although it was only the second
of May, one might have easily believed it to be the month of July. It
was fortunate, for several entertainments were organised in that early
period of the London Season—theatricals and bazaars, private and public,
were announced for every day of the first weeks in May, for the benefit
of soldiers’ widows, East-End sufferers and West-End vanities. In fact,
never had Londoners’ hearts beaten more passionately for the sorrows and
miseries of their fellow-creatures than at the present moment; and it
would have been a pity had the charitable efforts of Society leaders
been chilled by cutting east winds or drenching downpours of rain. The
picnic to which the Earl was going, was to be held in Richmond Park, by
torchlight, between midnight and the early hours of the morning. All
Society was to be there. The Duchess of Southdown was to take a
prominent part in the entertainment. Object lessons in rat catching were
to be the chief attraction, as fashionable women had been chosen to take
the parts of the rats, and to be chased, hunted, and finally caught by
smart men of Society. Great fun was expected from this novel game, and
the Upper Ten looked forward to that picnic with excitement. Before this
nocturnal episode, there was to be a Tournament at Islington’s
Agricultural Hall. “London, by Day and by Night,” was to be represented,
in all its graphic aspects, by amateur artists of the Upper Ten, who
were always ready to give their services for such a good cause as the
S.P.G. But then Society is invariably ready to enter the lists where
combatants fight for a noble cause, and it is never seen to shirk
ridicule or notoriety, but on the contrary to expose the inefficiencies
of its members to the gaping eyes of an ignorant public.
“By God!” exclaimed Lord Somerville as he leaned back on the cushions of
his brougham, “I never realised the brutal ferocity of London life until
I saw its nocturnal Bacchanals synthesised within so many square feet.”
He passed in review, in his mind’s eye, what he had seen:—Lady Carlton
in the leading part of the wildest of street rovers, cigarette in her
mouth, reeling from one side of the pavement to the other, nudging this
one, thrusting her cigarette under the nose of another, pulling the
beard of a stolid policeman, vociferating at the cab drivers. Lord
Somerville had seen a good deal of what these women were trying to
impersonate, but he never remembered having blushed so deeply, nor of
having been so conscious of shame, as he felt that night. But this was
only the beginning of the show. The last tableau was most striking. The
front of the houses, represented by painted scenery, suddenly rolled off
as by enchantment, and there, in view of a breathless public, were to be
seen the interiors of gambling houses, massage establishments, night
clubs—you can guess the rest! This final scene was all pantomimic, and
although not one word was spoken, still, the despair of the man who sees
his gold raked away on the green baize, the heartrending bargains of
human flesh for a few hours of oblivion, were vivid pictures which left
very few shreds of illusions in the minds of a dumbfounded audience.
Then came the grand finale of hurry and skurry between the police and
the gamblers and night revellers of all sorts; and this was a triumph of
_mise-en-scène_ and animation. To make it still more realistic, the
Countess of Lundy had elected to appear in a night wrap, as two
constables made a raid on the so-called massage establishment. But what
a night wrap! The Earl smiled as he recalled the masterpiece in which
Doucet of Paris had surpassed himself, revealing with subtle
suggestiveness the lissome shape of arms and legs, and full curves of
the breast through a foam of white lace and chiffon. As he sat in the
darkness of his brougham, he closed his eyes and saw the Countess as she
had stood in front of the footlights, unblushingly courting the approval
of her public; and he still heard in his ears the furious applause of
London Society gathered that night in Islington Hall. What had most
struck this leader of fashion was the total ignorance in which one class
of well-fed, well-protected human beings lived of all miseries that
unshielded thousands have to bear. He thought of the many women on whom
he daily called, dined with, joked with; how many possessed that
ferocious glance of the pleasure-seeker, the audacious stare of the
flesh hunter; but he had never noticed in any of these fearless women of
his world the slightest slackening of tyranny, nor had he ever noticed,
for one moment even, the pathetic humility of the hunted-down street
angler, which is after all her one redeeming feature in that erotic
tragedy.
Evidently the performance had been a decided success, and would
doubtless be a pecuniary triumph. The Bishop of Sunbury, seated near the
Earl at the show, had largely expatiated on the good of rummaging into
the puddle of London sewers, as he called it in his clerical language.
It was by diving deep into the mud that one could drag out one’s erring
brothers and sisters, and by bringing London face to face with its
social problems one was able to grapple with the enemy—sin. At least, so
thought the Bishop, and he endeavoured to persuade the Earl, which was a
more difficult task than he believed. The prelate, holding Lord
Somerville by one of his waistcoat buttons, had tried to make him
appreciate Society’s unselfishness. “My dear Lord Somerville, we hear
all about the frivolity of our privileged classes; much is said against
them—too much, I fear, is written against the callousness of fashionable
women; but I assure you, it is unjust. Many of these sisters of ours,
who have to-night moved the public to enthusiasm, have themselves their
burden to bear, and many have wept bitter tears over some lost one in
Africa. Well, to quote one of them: as you know, the Countess of
Lundy—who personified the matron of one of these disgraceful
establishments—has last week lost her cherished brother (poor fellow, he
died of wounds); but there you see her at her post of duty.”
“More shame on her,” had murmured the Earl, but the Bishop did not hear,
or would not, and had walked away.
“By God!”—and the Earl brought down his fist on his knee—“these women
have made me see to what depth a woman can sink. And I am going to
another of these exhibitions—I am heartily sick of it all.” As he was
putting down a window to tell his coachman to turn back to Selby House,
the brougham suddenly stopped, and a torrent of rain came through the
open window.
“By Jove, Marshall, it is pouring.”
“My lord, I cannot get along. We’ve reached Barnes, but the wind and
rain is that strong, the ’orses won’t face it.”
“Turn back by all means. The picnic could not take place in such a
storm.” And he closed the window, laughing heartily at Society’s
disappointment.
“Well, they are defrauded of their new game, and I am spared another
display of female degradation.”
Whether it was owing to the violence of the storm, or to the morbidness
into which the last performance had thrown him, is difficult to tell,
but Lord Somerville was in a despondent mood and on the brink of mental
collapse, and as they are wont in such cases, visions of his past life
kept passing to and fro before his half-closed eyes. He was going home!
In any case it was better than this infernal comedy of fun and pleasure
which invariably ended in gloom and disgust. His home was loneliness
made noisy. He lived alone in that palatial mansion in Mayfair; but
solitary his life had not been, since his father had left him heir to
all sorts of properties, privileges and prejudices. His house had ever
since been invaded by men and women of all descriptions. Some were
morning callers, some afternoon ones; these were the dowagers and
respectable members of the Upper Ten who accepted his invitations to a
cup of tea, and made it a pretext to submit to his inspection some human
goods for sale. The others were night visitors, and easily dealt with,
for their business was direct and personal. Men found him
unsatisfactory, for he objected to being made use of, was inaccessible
to flattery, and steadily rebuked all attempts at familiarity. He never
showed himself ungallant towards the fair sex, but on the contrary was
liberal and even grateful for all he received; in fact he was thoroughly
just and business-like in the market-place of life, and treated his
visitors well, whether they were guests from 10 a.m. to 8 p.m., or
carousers from 10 p.m. to 8 a.m. One thing he strongly disliked, that
was any man or woman peeping at a corner of his heart. He often thought
he had none, for it had never yet been in request in all his business
transactions with Society. Although he had paddled in all the filthy
sewers of London and foreign capitals, he somehow had a knack of
brushing himself clean of all outward grime; but what he never had been
able to get rid of was a nasty flavour which clung to his lips, and
which no woman’s kiss could ever take away, nor any Havana cigar dispel.
That mephitic taste of life was always on his lips, and to-night it was
more deadly bitter than ever. Perhaps the flavour became more noxious as
before his mind’s eye passed the vision of Gwendolen Towerbridge, the
famous Society beauty. Not only did he thoroughly dislike the girl, but
his pride was sorely wounded at having been caught by her. Yes, he was
engaged—what the world called engaged—to her. How did it happen? Ah! Few
men could really tell how they had been captured. A supper, the top of a
coach when returning late from the races; sometimes even less than that:
a glass of champagne too many, or a bodice cut too low. These certainly
were not important primal causes, but they often were found to be at the
fountain-head of many family disasters. The women he had known were
divided into two classes: the one that had run the social race, won the
prize, and who certainly looked the worse for the course, mentally
sweating, and in dire need of a vigorous sponge down; and the other that
started for the post, all aglow with the desire to win at any cost and
whatever the means, foul or fair, for a little cheating was encouraged,
and often practised, on the Turf.
How many more seasons would he have to stand there and watch the ebb and
flow of the feminine tide? He had for such a long time felt on his brow
the breath of the mare as she galloped past him; and he had too often
heard the feverish snort of the winner as she came back, led by her
master’s groom. He knew no others. Perhaps a country lass, purely
brought up by Christian parents, would modestly wait on a stile until
she was won; but that girl would have no _repartie_, and would look
mystified at a problem play. No doubt, in the suburbs there existed
women whose sole ambition was to help a life companion in the search of
true happiness, who padded the monotonous life of some City clerk who
regularly came back by the 6.15 train, bringing home _Tit-Bits_ for the
evening recreation, and _Home Chat_ for household requirements. Bah!
that woman never could analyse the psychology of cookery, and besides,
she was not a lady. He was an epicure in the culinary art, and thirsted
for something he had not yet met with: a lady who would be a perfect
woman. Then came the war; and he longed to escape the routine of London
life and Gwendolen’s incessant requests for presents: he started for
South Africa, hoping to lose there the nasty taste that was forever on
his lips. Gwendolen soon followed, escorted by some of her friends and
their numerous trunks. New frocks were shaken out, bonnets were twisted
back into their original shapes, and an improvised season was
inaugurated in one of the South African towns, to the utter disgust of
her _fiancé_, who, having been wounded, had the misfortune of seeing her
parade daily round his bed. The sights he witnessed sickened him unto
death; the amalgam of frivolity and callousness seemed to him more
irrelevant in that new country, and the physical excitement and interest
of danger having worn itself off, he very soon realised that the old
game of war must necessarily be played out in a civilisation that boasts
of commercial supremacy, and whose scientific discoveries are daily
endeavouring to bring nations nearer to one another. He returned to
England on sick leave, more embittered than heretofore with Gwendolen,
London, and himself. He frequently sat at twilight in his large library
at Selby House, wondering whether this was all a fellow could do with
his life, and whether the other side was not more entertaining than this
rotten old stage? To-night, as he drove in his carriage, listening to
the crashing of the thunder, every event of his life came back to him in
strong relief and vivid colours, and the prospect of joining in holy
matrimony with Gwendolen seemed more than he could bear. Perhaps the
taste of death that he so nearly met with in Africa came to him at this
hour of night, when all the elements were at war against man; and he
came to the conclusion that he was not obliged to submit to life’s
platitudes any longer. A gentleman should always quit a card table when
he has been cheated. Life had cheated him, and he resolved to leave
life. The other side of Acheron could not be a worse fraud than this;
besides, he knew all about this world, there was nothing that could
astonish him any more, nor keep his attention riveted for more than five
minutes. Why not try the experiment? If it were complete oblivion, so
much the better, he did not object to a long sleep out of which he would
never wake. If it were, as so many declared, eternal punishment—well,
the retribution could never, in all its black horror, be any worse than
the gnawing heartache of the life in which we were chained.
The brougham rolled on, and very soon Lord Somerville knew he was in the
heart of London. The streets were flooded, passengers were rushing
along, in vain trying to get into omnibuses or hansoms; shouting,
whistling, rent the damp atmosphere, competing with claps of thunder
which at times alarmed the inhabitants, especially when the electric
lights suddenly went out and Londoners were plunged for a few minutes
into utter darkness. Lord Somerville could not remember having ever
witnessed such a thunderstorm in town; still, he welcomed its magnitude
with joy, for it was the proper accompaniment to his frenzy against an
inadequate state of Society. The wheels turned the corner of Piccadilly
and Park Lane, not without risk, for the obscurity was dangerous, and in
a few seconds the carriage halted before his stately mansion; he opened
the door, jumped out, and went into the house without turning round to
give orders for next day to his coachman. This seemed peculiar to the
servant, as he knew my lord to be very methodical in all that concerned
his household.
The Earl entered his library, and after lighting a few electric lights,
which were only now throwing a dim and lurid light into the large room,
he sank down into a huge armchair. It was very quiet in that room;
double doors and double windows shut out the noise of the splashing rain
against the window-panes, the thunder even was less violent in this
well-padded room, and the lightning could not pierce through the
shutters and the thick brocaded draperies. After the _fracas_ of the
streets, it seemed to him as if he had already entered the Valley of
Death as he sat in this silent place. The picture of his late father was
hanging on the panel in front of him, and he looked at it for a
considerable time. What could that face tell him at this critical hour,
when for long years of his time he had never found one convincing
argument with which to enlighten his son on all the grave problems of
existence? It was always the same answers to the same inquiries: “My
boy, others have gone through life besides yourself, and found it no
worse than I have. Don’t think too hard, leave that to those who have to
use their brains for a livelihood. You have a bed ready made to lie on,
do not complain that it is too soft; but do not forget that you are a
gentleman, and that when you have passed a few turnpikes of life—let us
say, Eton, Oxford, the War or the Foreign Office—you can do whatever you
like, for you are then innocuous; and no one, not even the most
Argus-eyed dowager, will consider you dangerous, however wild your mode
of life may be. My advice to you is, never fall into the clutches of any
woman; to my mind the sex is divided into two dangerous species: the one
that kill you before they bore you, the other that bore you before they
kill you. But in either way you are a doomed man; though for myself I
should prefer being killed to being bored—and as you know, I chose the
former.”
Was this all that the aristocratic shape framed in front of him could
tell him? It was not enough. He was too robust to be killed by the
London Hetaires, and too fastidious to allow himself to be bored by the
other species. He listened, but no sound came from the outside; the
walls were too thick, the draperies too rich to allow any _fracas_ to
disturb the owner of that dwelling. He was hermetically shut out from
every outward commotion, and might have lived in a vault. Was not that
an image of his privileged life? All things had been so ordained and
smoothed down in his easy existence that he could see nothing beyond his
own direct surroundings, and could never penetrate into another heart,
nor allow anyone to hear the throbs of his own heart. That was called
the privilege of the well-bred, and it was all that generations before
him had done for his welfare: a double-windowed house and a well-padded
life, out of which he never could step. There were barriers at every
corner of the road in which he had walked. Harrow, Oxford, the Guards,
Downing Street, watched him, reminding him, by the way, that he could
prance, kick, roll, do anything he had a mind to, within his boundary;
and he heard that haunting whisper in his wearied ears that, however low
he sank—he was a gentleman. But outside the boundary was a world called
life, with a real, throbbing, howling humanity, a pushing and elbowing
crowd with which he evidently had nothing to do; out there he had no
business, for over there people answered for themselves, were
responsible for their own actions, and he would no doubt fare badly were
he to push and elbow for his own sake, independently of all the
privileged institutions that propped him up through life. He suddenly
remembered that next day there was a Levee, and that he was to be there.
No, he would not go, he would escape for once, and for good and all,
these recurring functions of social London which seemed to narrow the
horizon of life. The best was to make a suitable exit and bring down the
curtain on a Mayfair episode; it would puzzle, interest, amuse half of
London for the inside of a week, and it would be over. He got up and
went to a large bureau that stood in the middle of the room, and began
to open drawer after drawer; he brought out some business papers, laid
them carefully on the bureau, pulled out bundles of letters, read a few,
burnt a great many. Amongst all the correspondence he came across there
was not one note from Gwendolen; she did not write, she sent wires about
anything, for an appointment at Ranelagh, a bracelet she had seen at
Hancock’s, or some more trifling matter; and even then, she hardly sat
down to pen these cursory remarks; she sent her wires when at breakfast,
close to the dish of fried bacon, at lunch, at tea, on the corner of the
silver tray. He opened another drawer and took out a revolver; it was
loaded, and he examined it minutely. How long had it been in that drawer
and when had he loaded it? He could not recall when last he had seen the
arm. He slowly lifted it to his temple and pulled the trigger, as a
violent clap of thunder shook the house to its very foundation, causing
the electric lights to go out. Lord Somerville fell heavily on the
Turkish carpet.