Lord de Jones, having, he deemed, ended his work, took a hot bath,
sitting in which he reflected that while it had taken God six days to
make the world, it took him only one day to unmake it. Yet he felt he
also needed a rest. It was 6 a.m. when he dragged himself up to his
room, dropped on his bed and fell asleep. He dreamt that he had been
given a lot of work which he resented because he was tired, having gone
to bed as late as 6 a.m. All night he dreamt that he had gone to bed at
6 a.m., and when he woke at noon he felt more tired than when he had
gone to bed at 6 a.m.
Rising, he put on his trousers and fastened on his braces and, not
troubling to put on a coat, went out on to the balcony to look at the
world: and he saw that it was good. The earth was certainly small, but
there was a cosiness, an intimacy about it now which it lacked when it
boasted five continents. It was dear to him because it was the work of
his own hands--in his private opinion, a masterpiece. It had been for
him to make it as small as he deemed fit, and he had deemed its present
size--which was ten miles in diameter--entirely appropriate.
“_In small proportions we just beauty see;_
_And in short measures life may perfect be_,”
he carolled hoarsely. “Yes, Ben Jonson would have understood me!”
“Or,” Frank rejoined, stepping out on to his balcony, “as Goethe said,
‘In der Beschränkung zeigt sich erst der Meister’.”
“Very true, very true.”
“But not too true to be good. One should have watched you. One should
have known that somebody like you, with more science than sense, must
attempt this sort of thing sooner or later.”
“You supply your own answer. Someone, if not me then another, would have
done the same thing. No idea, not one so obvious, ever comes to one mind
alone. Thousands must have cherished it. Not for ever was mankind to be
mocked.”
“And poor Rex,” said Eva, joining them on the balcony. “A few seconds,
and he would have been with us last night.”
“And Vernon Sprott.”
“And Vernon Sprott.”
“Yes--I can picture Rex with us! He would have called for Mrs. Hannibal,
and there wouldn’t have been a Mrs. Hannibal. He would want to print
newspapers, and there would be nothing to print newspapers with or on.
He is better where he is.”
“Poor Rex. I _did_ want him to be saved,” said Eva. She was in a loose
dressing-gown. It had become more and more evident that she was
expecting a baby--“of the old world,” said Christopher de Jones
regretfully.
“I know. He was a great lad. We shall never see the like of him again.”
“There was,” said Frank, “nothing ‘tinny’ or snobbish about him. He was
a great, warm-hearted creature, sensitive, knowing, not rancorous, kind
and unspoilt. What energy, what enthusiasm, what mobility of mind! And
withal what magnanimity! He was, I think, the most magnanimous man I
have ever met. If he caught you red-handed, plotting against his life
and fortune, and you politely put away your pistol or poison with the
words: ‘So sorry, Rex,’ he’d tell you: ‘Say no more about it! If it’s
money you want, why the hell don’t you say so?’ and, so as not to hurt
your feelings by simply giving you a batch of Bank of England notes, he
would appoint you Editor-in-chief of all his newspapers.”
“And then worry the life out of you, till you resigned your job of your
own accord.”
“He was the big drum in the jazz band of our civilisation, in which I
was the ukulele. But he was a rare friend, and, characteristically, he
died trying to save his friend’s life. There was at least nothing
jazz-like in that.”
All Ottercove’s sympathetic qualities, unnoticed when he was alive, now
stood out and called for notice. They stood up as a mute reproach to
them and called up images of callous and ungrateful thoughts about a
man now mute, felled in the fullness of his strength, prematurely
disintegrated. He felt sore, badly hit by the loss. He was fond, he knew
it now, of Ottercove. Never again would he behold the glint of those
eyes. Never hear that robust voice....
“But why have been so half-hearted? Why not have finished off
everything?” He looked grievously at Chris.
“That the race may survive.”
“_Must_ it survive?”
“Of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“To honour my name and my memory.”
“What a name! What a memory!”
“We must recuperate, start afresh. My descendants will breed and
multiply, expand, develop trade, build fleets of aeroplanes, and shops
and factories. Ultimately we shall hope to open a new Bank of England.”
“_There was a little man_
_And his name was Finnegan;_
_He grew whiskers on his chin again._
_The wind did blow and blew them in again,_
_Poor old Patsy Finnegan._
_Finnegan!_
_Begin again!_”
“And we shall. As Goethe said, ‘Aller Anfang ist schwer.’ Glorious life!
Glorious beginning!”
“But what is there, you fool, to begin from?”
“Don’t call me fool.”
“What is there that the race, if indeed it survive, can learn from?
Where is there a picture, a book, a gramaphone record to pass on to
those who shall follow us? Nothing. Not even an _Outline of History_!”
“Wells? Ha!”
“We could do with Wells here. The earnest, regenerative Wells. Where is
he now?”
“Wells?” De Jones adjusted his telescope and peered at the clouds. “I am
looking if that be him over there.”
“Let me look.” Frank looked and saw what looked like Mr. Wells floating,
it seemed, only a few yards away, a compact, self-contained little
figure, apparently immune from dissolution. “I think,” Frank said, still
peering, “I can see Winston’s hat.”
“I might have saved Shaw.”
They strained into the skies at a few dissociated splinters which may
have been fragments of George Bernard Shaw.
“_I stand in no awe_
_Of George Bernard Shaw_,”
de Jones quoted.
“The attitude of the press and the reading public towards Shaw has been
one protracted joke.”
“How so?”
“You see, when Shaw began he was not taken seriously but was treated as
a joke. It was not till recently that he succeeded in being regarded as
a serious artist.”
“But where is the joke?”
“That is the joke.”
“And do you see that blot on the clear sky?”
“Let me look. Yes, I see.”
“That is Lord Birkenhead.”
“You are forgiven.”
“I am touched by your recognition. You were rather chary of it last
night.”
“Well, you must admit, de Jones, that, near as you have come, you have
not quite brought it off.”
“I suppose, like Jesus and Napoleon and Lenin, I will be deemed a
failure.”
“A splendid failure.”
“Not brought it off, as you say.”
“Not quite.”
“_Well, well! Nor I nor any man that but man is_
_With nothing shall be pleased till he be eased_
_With being nothing._”
The cook, who was never seen about in the week, and thus was not missed
in the upheaval, came up to say that breakfast was served; and they all
repaired downstairs, Eva placing Herr Kogl on her right (because he was
old and had suffered), and de Jones, though he was a peer of England, on
her left. De Jones did not like it. He had scattered his title about,
but now he would take himself in hand. He would take care to leave his
full history to his descendants, so that they should all know who their
ancestor was. It occurred to him that possibly Adam himself was, had we
been privileged to enquire more closely into his record, the ninth earl
of something or other. “I dare say,” he said aloud, “it will tickle them
no end to know that their founder was of the English aristocracy.”
“I am not sure,” said Frank, “whether I should not contest your
sovereignty. The last of the Romanovs having disintegrated (and even the
last before so doing having relinquished his claim in my favour), I am
by all accounts the Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, Czar of
Poland, and Grand Duke of Finland.”
“With no heir to the throne,” said de Jones.
“That depends on my Queen Consort, who in the case of my death and no
issue would succeed to the throne as Eva the Second.”
“Eva is my consort, already by the fact that she is bearing me a child.”
“My child?”
“Eva, whose child?”
“I don’t know.”
“Strange not to know.”
“Don’t you see, Chris, we must have children, little boys and girls, so
that they may marry again and carry on the race.”
“What! their own half-sisters! Eva, I am shocked.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Well, so long as they are good de Jones stock. Say what you like,
there’s something in having blue blood. I’m a believer in old families.”
“My mother,” Dickin proffered shyly, “was an Adams.”
“Adams and Eva!”
“And we must hand down such knowledge as we possess, do you hear, de
Jones? We must put it down on paper--all we know and remember. There is
Mrs. Hannibal’s typewriter. Though we have no printing press, we can
make carbon copies. When I was at Cambridge--”
“Were you at Cambridge?”
“Why?”
“It’s a rare thing.”
“Why?”
“It’s no more.”
“When I was at Cambridge I made a point of recording all I knew. Do you
know any algebra?”
“I don’t know any algebra. Leave me alone.”
“But poetry? Has anyone got any poetry? My God! There is no poetry.”
“Yes, darling, there is poetry.”
“Give it here. Let me have it, quick. Where is it?”
“I have some. Here, in my album.”
“Give it to me. God! Not real poetry?”
“Yes, darling, very nice poetry. There in the middle. There.”
“Thanks.
“‘_O Eva, O Eva,_
_I love you so mighty,_
_I wish my pyjama was_
_Next to your nighty._’
Thanks.”
“You can copy it out on the typewriter, darling, for all the boy and
girl lovers after our time. I suppose they will be able to read
English.”
“Yes,” said Chris. English, he laid down, was to be the only language of
the new world, to perpetuate the traditions of the English-speaking
world. On the other hand, to show his complete lack of racial prejudice,
the daring unconventionality of his mind, he confessed, with a smile,
that though he preferred to stick to the criminal law of England, in
civic matters he was in favour of the Code Napoléon. He looked upon
himself as holding the new world under a mandate from the British
Empire; in fact he was himself in lineal descent from the Stuarts. He
was in reality the trustee of the British Crown. “Gentlemen,” he said:
“The King!”
“The King!”
The Baron and Herr Kogl, both of them confirmed anglophiles, did not
protest.
After breakfast, they carried the body of Frau Kogl into the wood and
buried her among the trees and flowers. De Jones, who presided, said a
few unsentimental words over the open grave, the burden of which was
that to understand everything was to forgive everything. After that he
marched Herr Kogl away, the while enquiring in detail as to the number
and condition of the cattle, the orchard, the poultry farm, the
vegetable garden, and even the household utensils. “I shall require from
you,” he said, “a regular account of these.” And when later he inspected
the cattle, he said: “I am anxious at all cost to prevent the outbreak
of the foot-and-mouth disease. I shall hold you personally responsible.”
Herr Kogl, wondering sorrowfully what his poor Anna would have said to
the noble lord’s attitude to her own property, took it all in with good
grace. His reputed strong will availed him but little, but his good
sense a great deal; and when on returning home he addressed Lord de
Jones as “_Il Duce_,” Lord de Jones appointed Herr Kogl Chief Intendant
and Quartermaster-General with the acting rank of Minister of the
Interior.
While _Il Duce_ and his Quartermaster were discussing economy, Frank
Dickin, after being appointed Poet Laureate of the New World, strolled
away in search of inspiration. A thought struck him. He ambled on and,
when he was well out of sight, dashed across to the archducal Schloss
and hoisted his striped shirt, for want of a flag, according to the
rules of the old world. And according to the rules of the old world, he
looked about for something with which to defend the newly acquired
possession, and felt that in so doing he was also performing an act of
loyalty to the old world so ignominiously done in overnight. He waited
for Lord de Jones to attack him with bombs and shrapnel and machine
guns. And he reflected that if Lord de Jones did not attack him with
bombs and machine guns, it was because Lord de Jones had no bombs and
machine guns to attack him with.
It was odd, this feeling of proprietorship, in the face of all this
dissolution. And yet he told himself again and again that this castle
with the stately staircase, those long rows of red-gold rooms succeeding
one another as in a picture gallery, the quadrangle and the park and the
surrounding moat, the drawbridge and the water falling down the steep of
the enshrouding hills, and not a soul around--was his and his alone. And
when Eva visited him there that morning, he showed her round till she
felt faint.
“Talking of castles,” she said, lying down on the archducal sofa, “look:
is it not sweet?”
And she displayed her garters with a castle worked in silk and bearing
the inscription on the castle gate: “For one only.”
“Chris gave me this on leaving London.” She moved about the room and
fingered his things. “What’s this bottle, Ferdinand?”
“The beautiful crop you see on my head I owe to the regular use of this
lotion, reinforced by sheer strength of will.”
“Where will you get a new bottle when this is used up?”
“Not in this world. It’s a French make of pre-Dissolution days, with an
excellent translation of the instructions for use. Read the label.”
“I see. ‘This very energical and excitative lotion for the hair whose it
favours the growth and gives to the hair, sweetness strength. Mode of
use: with a little sponge, washing plentifully the head during a week.
Afterwards thrice in a week.’ Quite amusing.” She put it back. “You have
fine hair now.”
“It’s the only thing I have left. And it wasn’t there before.”
It seemed a shame that this fine crop of hair should survive in the
teeth of a dissolving world. Survive? How survive?
“We had better go back to the _pension_ for lunch now,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed sourly. “That is the annoying thing about large houses.
All this luxury, and not a cook on the premises. What good owning a
castle with a hundred and seventy rooms, and no servants? Spend all my
days mopping the floors. Saw an automatic mopper in Tottenham Court Road
the other day. Ought to have secured one. Lacked vision. Lacked faith.”
It would not always be so. He saw in the future unborn Dickins living in
these lofty halls. A brilliant party. Bare-armed women. And his portrait
looking down at them from the wall. His great granddaughter eloping
with a de Jones youth. Romeo and Juliet. Family feud. Capulets and
Montagues. Noble families. Hundred per cent. pre-Dissolution. Dreams,
dreams, dreams....
The prospect of there being nothing to eat at first upset them all so
much that they lost their appetite. But when they ascertained that there
was a great deal to eat, they were so delighted that they began to drink
heavily. While they were at lunch, the cook came in to say that she had
just come upon Frau König in the cellar, where she had evidently hidden
herself since yesterday’s sham earthquake and bore signs of being of
unsound mind.
“Bring her forth,” commanded de Jones.
Frau König, disshevelled, and looking more than ever like a gipsy, was
led into the room, whereupon Lord de Jones addressed her courteously but
firmly. “Your appearance,” he said, “is both timely and opportune and,
in the sociological sense, clearly an asset. The world has reached a
stage at which immediate repopulation has become of paramount
importance. We lack women, though we do not lack men. We have but two
women and five men. I do not count the cook as a woman because she is
clearly beyond the age of reproduction. The men, on the other hand, are
all (I do not exempt even the older gentlemen, such as the Herr Baron
and Herr Kogl) rare examples of virility coupled with a high sense of
public duty.”
“Unfortunately,” said Frau König, “my fiancé in Paris, having again
failed in his examinations at the University, it has set us back two
years with our knitting factory. Otherwise--”
“Frau König, it’s not knitting factories I am talking of, though we
could do with one here at a later stage, when we have reproduced an
adequate number of mill hands, which is the task we have in hand. And
you have no right to shirk the call.”
“I don’t understand. My fiancé is still in Paris--”
“Don’t understand? Am I not making myself clear? Frau König, I cannot
presume to know your opinion of our late educational system, and I know
that in a purely scholastic sense it perhaps ranked below that of the
late Continent. But we were taught at our English public schools
something which was called ‘playing the game.’ Now is this, if I may ask
you, ‘playing the game?’”
“But I desire nothing better. If my fiancé were here, of course. I’m
quite ill waiting for him all these years, living on hope deferred.”
“Your fiancé! Your fiancé! What do I care for a fiancé who exists but in
your memory?” De Jones grasped her by the wrist. “Frau König,” he said,
“there is no room for thoughts of self. It’s a question of repopulating
this planet at the shortest possible notice. Are you (I will not say
patriotic, for patriotism, as such, has lost all meaning): are you
mundic?”
“I am not averse,” said Frau König. “In marriage one contracts certain
habits.... But,” she added, “my condition is that you take me out into
society.”
“But, good heavens!” Eva cried. “Her offspring will be as mad as
hatters!”
“Which may add a touch of genius to those who will follow. We have come
near enough to the Kingdom of God but have not quite tumbled to it.
They, with a touch of genius, may go one further and clear up the mess
after themselves, and themselves as well.”
“Better let me do what I can.”
“Now Eva, don’t be jealous. You can’t, Lilith, do it all yourself. You
will kill yourself.”
“I am willing to do my bit.”
“There must be no slacking, no half-heartedness,” cried de Jones. “Here
we start anew!”
“_There was a little man,_
_And his name was Finnegan;_
_He grew whiskers on his chin again._
_The wind did blow and blew them in again,_
_Poor old Patsy Finnegan._
_Finnegan!_
_Begin again!_”
“A message of courage and hope,” said de Jones. “Our new mundic anthem.”
De Jones had changed; he was “another man,” as they say. He was like an
artist who had just finished a picture, or a scholar who had completed a
treatise. This his work had been the making of him. He was lighthearted,
positively gay. Only the wrinkles round his mouth had deepened still
more.
“Art thou man or devil?” Eva asked.
But he cried, jumping to his feet with a glass in his hand: “Now all
together, please:
“‘_There was a little man,_
_And his name was Finnegan_....’”
The Baron and Herr Kogl, unable to contribute to the singing, since the
Baron’s knowledge of English was confined to saying good-morning in the
evening, and Herr Kogl’s was nil, yet contrived to join in the chorus at
the end, and shouted lustily with the others:
“_Finnegan!_
_Begin again!_”