Dick Danford was as good as his word. After an hour’s stroll through
London, Lord Somerville came to the conclusion that, for the present,
his eyes were no more to him than a tail would have been. The old world
of before the storm seemed to have vanished in a bottomless pit, and
what he viewed instead was as prodigious as what he had hoped to see on
his travels across Acheron. He noticed that tricks and mannerisms were
as yet clinging to both sexes: women still grasped their invisible
dresses as if they had been bunches of keys, twisted about their fingers
absent chains round their necks; men tried to put their hands in
vanished pockets, and held imaginary umbrellas in front of them (the
latter Danford declared were clergymen), and their necks, stiffened by
the long use of high collars, gave them the appearance of turkeys. But
as to knowing anyone in this Babel of faces, that was quite out of the
question; and Lionel went from one ejaculation to another as Dick
enumerated the different notabilities of Society, the theatrical world
and financial booths. It was like a transformation scene at Drury Lane.
The world was not what he had altogether taken it to be, and if he found
himself to have been even more swindled than he had believed, still,
there were surprises for which he had not been prepared and which were
worth living for: the beautiful women were not all as beautiful as he
had thought them, but the plain ones had a great many points that
commended them to a connoisseur. As to the men whom he had feared as
rivals in the arena of good fortunes, they made him smile as he gave an
admiring glance at his spinal curve reflected in a shop mirror. The
little artist’s conversation was a succession of fireworks; never on the
boards had he been more entertaining than this afternoon, acting the
part of a humorous Mephistopheles to this masher Faust. He informed Lord
Somerville that after he had left him in the morning he had done some
good work for the public welfare, and had come to a final arrangement
with the Commissioner of Police.
“What for, Danford?” had inquired Lionel.
“Well, I do not know whether it struck you as it did me at your first
exit, my lord, but the very first observation that impressed itself on
me was the difficulty women had in distinguishing a policeman from an
ordinary civilian. I watched many in distress, who gave an appealing
look all round for the kindly help of a bobby. It was hard to tell
whether that man on the left with a dogged expression and thin legs was
the policeman, or whether it was this other on the right, with limbs
like marble columns and a puny face. Such dilemmas puzzled the public
all through the day, and decided the Committee of Music Hall artists to
take the matter in hand and confer with the heads of the Police.”
“Have you come to some understanding, Dick?”
“The thing is settled. Scotland Yard is to be turned into a public
gymnasium, and a staff of picked policemen are to instruct the citizens
in the art of being their own policemen.”
“How very expeditious you are in your profession. Had this been in the
hands of Parliament, we should never have heard anything about it,
however pressing the need might have been.”
“Then, another feature of our School of Observation will be special
prizes to be awarded to husbands who will recognise their wives, or
_vice versa_, when out of their homes. I think that will take in
Society, for I have noticed that the nearer the relationship the more
difficult it was to know one another.”
“You are very neat in your remarks, Danford,” said Lionel.
“You see, my lord, every judgment I arrive at is the result of keen
observation. I heard once, during our ten days of seclusion, the most
awful row in the house next to mine; it belongs to the Longfords—you
know, the Longfords who took the Regalia Theatre for a season. Well,
their housemaid reported to my landlady what the row was about, and she
told me the next morning through the keyhole what had been the matter.
The fact was this: Mrs Longford had entered her husband’s room and had
had the greatest difficulty in persuading him she was his lawful wife.
If such a scene could occur between a couple of twenty years’ standing,
in their own house, how much more difficult it would be to recognise
your wife in the crowd.”
“And hence your idea of a prize. I think that had you decided to award
it to the man who recognised another man’s wife you would have been more
successful.”
“We should have been bankrupt by the end of a week, my lord; besides,
this was a feature of the old Society, and we want to launch it on a
totally novel basis. Originality must be our watchword.”
Lord Somerville, having been struck by the keen judgment and foresight
of the little buffoon, had willingly promised him his support in every
way. He would send round to all his friends and spread the idea amongst
the Upper Ten, who would be sure to lead the movement and give a
salutary example to the middle classes. Arrived at the corner of Park
Lane, Lionel had wistfully inquired of Danford whether he knew Gwendolen
Towerbridge? Dick was sorry, but he could not help Lord Somerville in
that line. Engaged people were quite out of his department, Lord
Somerville would have to solve that problem for himself; to which Lionel
had shrugged his shoulders: just as well guess whose face was behind a
thick mask.
That evening Lionel sat up late in his library planning in his mind the
organisation of the new Society of social guides. He frequently
interrupted his work to look up at his father’s portrait; his type was
not unlike hundreds of men he had seen during the day, and he wondered
how he could recognise his own father were he alive? Would not the
latter have been slightly bewildered in this Babel? Would not his
pedantic theories on good breeding receive a shock were he now to step
out of his frame and take a stroll through the streets of London?
Towards two o’clock in the morning the Earl had memorised the whole
synopsis of the new Society, to be launched under the gracious patronage
of the Earl of A.B.C. and of Her Grace the Duchess of X.Y.Z., and he
retired to his pallet of plaited rushes with a sigh of contentment at
the prospect of a new spectacular show, and with a sense of relief at
the thought that Gwendolen was lost to him, more irrevocably lost in
this general unmasking than if a vessel had foundered on a rock, leaving
her on a desert island.
In a few days London resumed its usual occupations; we cannot say that
it looked quite the same, but Society apparently was in the swing once
more. How could it be otherwise, when the flowers were in full bloom,
the birds were warbling and the sun was shining? The brittle veneer of
false modesty had crumbled under the power of necessity, and the inside
of a fortnight had witnessed the downfall of prudery. No scandal ever
reached two weeks’ duration; how could a virtuous craze have outlived
it? Very different would it have been had half London appeared clad,
while the other half remained unclothed; the contrast would have been
offensive, and have called for wrathful indignation; but as everyone was
in the same way, unquestioned submission became a virtue as well as a
necessity. Thus argued Society, for the hard blow dealt by the
infuriated elements was fast healing, and the ex-fashionable and
would-be smart people hailed Lord Somerville’s new plan with enthusiasm.
There was a great demand for social guides, a feverish excitement to
take lessons at once in the art of observation, and a rush to attend
lectures on physiognomy. At first curiosity was a powerful stimulant.
“It would be ripping,” thought the Society girl, “to find out whether
Lady Lilpot and Lady Brownrigg’s figures, which were so admired last
season, were really _bona-fide_, or only the fabrics of padding and
whalebone.” But very soon laziness damped their former ardour, and once
more Society, ever incorrigible in its taste for ready-made pleasure,
started the fashion of having social guides attached to their respective
households. Had not ladies of fashion, men about town, formerly needed
the services of French maids and experienced valets? It goes without
saying that after the storm the constant attendance of these two
custodians of the wardrobe were more irksome than pleasant, for they
reminded persons of fashion of their vanished glory. These were
therefore dismissed, for the housemaids could easily fulfil the scanty
duties of the present dressing-rooms. Instead of the departed domestics,
social guides were requisitioned. Lord Somerville was generally
congratulated on his luck in obtaining the services of Dick Danford, who
was considered to be at the very top of his position. He united an
infallible memory to an astounding accuracy of inductive methods in
human generalisation; but what most commended him to his patron and
pupil were the philosophical and satirical sidelights he threw at every
turn on Society and the various professions. As Lionel hourly conferred
with his Mentor, he became more and more enthralled in his work of
social reform; his daily walks through the parks at Dick’s elbow were a
continual source of interest, and the object lessons in human nature,
provided by the London streets, threw him at times into the wildest
spirits.
The guides had a hard time of it in trying to bring their pupils out of
that reserve so dear to the race, and they found great difficulty in
making them act with more initiative. As long as the guide was at hand,
it was all well, but when left to themselves, lady pupils and gentlemen
students could not be brought to use their own judgment, and boldly
venture to recognise people without the guide’s help, so fearful were
they of committing social blunders. Still, Danford was sanguine; he kept
saying that if the British lion had, in a fortnight, conquered the sense
of shame, he would, in a few days more, throw pride to the four winds.
He turned out to be quite right, for in ten days more London was
launching out into a whirlpool of festivities.
The little buffoon was very entertaining, and kept his pupil in fits of
laughter, relating his various experiences in the smart circles of
London. Over and over again a pleading voice whispered to him in the
Park or at a party, “Oh dear Mr Danford, I wish you would look in
to-morrow at my small tea-fight. Do you think Lord Somerville could
spare you for an hour or two? His father was such an old friend of mine.
I have asked a very few people, but after the butler’s announcement I
shall never know one from another—hi! hi! hi!” Another would in a deep,
rough voice tell him to run in at luncheon Friday next: “Mrs Bilton is
simply longing to meet you; she has a daft daughter who persists in
taking the footman for her pa—very awkward, isn’t it? I am sure, Mr
Danford, you would teach her in a few lessons how to recognise her dad,
for the girl is rather quick otherwise.” “Ah, madam,” had replied the
smart little guide, “it takes a very wise girl to know her own father in
our present Society; I have seen strange instances of divination, and in
many cases the girl, instead of a duffer, turned out to be too wise.” Or
else a distracted and jealous wife who could not distinguish her lord
and master in the crowd, appealed to the mimic, imploring him to tell
her by what special sign she might know him again. To which Dick
ironically answered that he was not teaching people how to see moles,
freckles and scars on human bodies, but was instructing them in the art
of physiognomy.
“But my husband is like thousands of men.”
“You mean by that, that he is without any facial expression?” and Dick
shrugged his shoulders.
“Then how shall I ever know my husband?”
“Ah, dear Lady Woolhead, you have hit on the fundamental question of our
age. Indeed, how can you recognise him, when you do not know, nor ever
have known, him? And I have no doubt that he is in the same plight about
yourself.” And Lord Somerville would remark,—
“How amusing life must be to you, my dear Danford; gifted with such
satirical wit, you need never pass a dull moment.” That was all very
true, but had you asked the Tivoli comedian what he really thought of
his employ in Lord Somerville’s household, he would have told you,
though with bated breath, that it was not an easy mission to keep a
Mayfair cynic amused, for at the vaguest approach of dulness, his
lordship threatened to give up the game of life, and go over the way to
see there what sort of a farce was on the bills.
* * * * *
“I say, Dick, how would Adam have looked in a hansom, flourishing a
branch of oak tree to stop the cabby?”
“And what does your lordship think of Eve’s attitude in a four-wheeler,
ducking her fair head in and out of the window to indicate the way to
the driver?”
“Danford, this won’t do. The naked form is not at its advantage seated
upright in a brougham, nor is it decorative when doubled up on the back
seat of a victoria.”
They were both struck by the unæsthetic appearance of the present
vehicles, as they arrived one afternoon at Mrs Webster’s house in
Carlton Terrace.
“We shall have to discover some suitable conveyance for the Apollos and
Venuses of new London.”
Standing on the steps of the house they passed in review all fashionable
London stepping out of landaus, victorias, broughams, hansoms; certainly
the kaleidoscopic vision was not a success.
Mrs Webster was giving her first large At Home of the season. She was
noted for her gorgeous parties, her gorgeous suppers and gorgeous
fortune; but still more celebrated for her picture gallery and her
kindness to artists. In her gallery was supposed to be lying two
millions sterling worth of Old Masters, but her benevolence to artists
did not cost her a farthing, it was a Platonic help she bestowed on
them, and her charity had never been known to exceed an introduction to
the Duchess of Southdown. She received all sorts and conditions of men
and women; all London met at her “crushes,”—Duchesses elbowed cowboys,
Royal Highnesses sat close to political Radicals, and Bishops handed an
ice to some notorious Mimi-la-Galette of the Paris Music Halls. They all
danced to the tune of clinking gold. In fact, Mrs Webster’s house, like
so many others, was a stockpot out of which she ladled a social broth of
high flavour. There were many stockpots in London, from the strong
_consommé_ of exclusive brewing to the thin, tasteless Bovril of homely
concoction. That of Mrs Webster’s was a pottage of heterogeneous
quality; it had a Continental aroma of garlic, a back-taste of the usual
British spice, and it left on one’s lips a lingering savour of _parvenu_
relish. The Upper Ten went to her dinners, though they screamed at her
uncanny appearance, jeered at the authenticity of her Raphaels and Da
Vincis, and quoted to each other anecdotes about her that had put even
Mrs Malaprop in the shade. But these are the unsolvable problems of a
Society divided into two sections; the one that wishes to know
everything about the people they visit; the other who does not want to
know anything about them.