for it. I don’t understand them, and I don’t want to. They had a chance
after the war that no generation has ever had. There was a whole
civilization to be saved and remade—and all they seem to do is to play
the fool. Mind you, I’m all in favour of them having a fling. I dare say
that Victorian ideas _were_ a bit strait-laced. Saving your cloth,
Rothschild, it’s only human nature to run a bit loose when one’s young.
But there’s something wanton about these young people to-day. That
stepson of yours, Metroland, and that girl of poor old Chasm’s and young
Throbbing’s brother.’
‘Don’t you think,’ said Father Rothschild gently, ‘that perhaps it is
all in some way historical? I don’t think people ever _want_ to lose
their faith either in religion or anything else. I know very few young
people, but it seems to me that they are all possessed with an almost
fatal hunger for permanence. I think all these divorces show that.
People aren’t content just to muddle along nowadays. . . . And this word
“bogus” they all use. . . . They won’t make the best of a bad job
nowadays. My private schoolmaster used to say, “If a thing’s worth doing
at all, it’s worth doing well.” My Church has taught that in different
words for several centuries. But these young people have got hold of
another end of the stick, and for all we know it may be the right one.
They say, “If a thing’s not worth doing well, it’s not worth doing at
all.” It makes everything very difficult for them.’
‘Good heavens, I should think it did. What a darned silly principle. I
mean to say if one didn’t do anything that wasn’t worth doing well—why,
what _would_ one do? I’ve always maintained that success in this world
depends on knowing exactly how little effort each job is worth . . .
distribution of energy. . . . And, I suppose, most people would admit
that I was a pretty successful man.’
‘Yes, I suppose they would, Outrage,’ said Father Rothschild, looking at
him rather quizzically.
But that self-accusing voice in the Prime Minister’s heart was silent.
There was nothing like a little argument for settling the mind.
Everything became so simple as soon as it was put into words.
‘And anyway, what do you mean by “historical”?’
‘Well, it’s like this war that’s coming. . . .’
‘_What war?_’ said the Prime Minister sharply. ‘No one has said anything
to me about a war. I really think I should have been told. I’ll be
damned,’ he said defiantly, ‘if they shall have a war without consulting
me. What’s a Cabinet for if there’s not more mutual confidence than
that? What do they want a war for, anyway?’
‘That’s the whole point. No one talks about it, and no one wants it. No
one talks about it _because_ no one wants it. They’re all afraid to
breathe a word about it.’
‘Well, hang it all, if no one wants it, who’s going to make them have
it?’
‘Wars don’t start nowadays because people want them. We long for peace,
and fill our newspapers with conferences about disarmament and
arbitration, but there is a radical instability in our whole
world-order, and soon we shall all be walking into the jaws of
destruction again, protesting our pacific intentions.’
‘Well, you seem to know all about it,’ said Mr Outrage, ‘and I think I
should have been told sooner. This will have to mean a coalition with
that old wind-bag Brown, I suppose.’
‘Anyhow,’ said Lord Metroland, ‘I don’t see how all that explains why my
stepson should drink like a fish and go about everywhere with a
negress.’
‘I think they’re connected, you know,’ said Father Rothschild. ‘But it’s
all very difficult.’
Then they separated.
Father Rothschild pulled on a pair of overall trousers in the forecourt
and, mounting his motor cycle, disappeared into the night, for he had
many people to see and much business to transact before he went to bed.
Lord Metroland left the house in some depression. Margot had taken the
car, but it was scarcely five minutes’ walk to Hill Street. He took a
vast cigar from his case, lit it and sank his chin in the astrakhan
collar of his coat, conforming almost exactly to the popular conception
of a highly enviable man. But his heart was heavy. What a lot of
nonsense Rothschild had talked. At least he hoped it was nonsense.
By ill-fortune he arrived on the doorstep to find Peter Pastmaster
fumbling with the lock, and they entered together. Lord Metroland
noticed a tall hat on the table by the door. ‘Young Trumpington’s, I
suppose,’ he thought. His stepson did not once look at him, but made
straight for the stairs, walking unsteadily, his hat on the back of his
head, his umbrella still in his hand.
‘Good-night, Peter,’ said Lord Metroland.
‘Oh, go to hell,’ said his stepson thickly, then, turning on the stairs,
he added, ‘I’m going abroad to-morrow for a few weeks. Will you tell my
mother?’
‘Have a good time,’ said Lord Metroland. ‘You’ll find it just as cold
everywhere, I’m afraid. Would you care to take the yacht? No one’s using
it.’
‘Oh, go to hell.’
Lord Metroland went into the study to finish his cigar. It would be
awkward if he met young Trumpington on the stairs. He sat down in a very
comfortable chair. . . . A radical instability, Rothschild had said,
radical instability. . . . He looked round his study and saw shelves of
books—the _Dictionary of National Biography_, the _Encyclopædia
Britannica_ in an early and very bulky edition, _Who’s Who_, Debrett,
Burke, Whitaker, several volumes of Hansard, some Blue Books and
Atlases—a safe in the corner painted green with a brass handle, his
writing table, his secretary’s table, some very comfortable chairs and
some very business-like chairs, a tray with decanters and a plate of
sandwiches, his evening mail laid out on the table . . . radical
instability, indeed. How like poor old Outrage to let himself get taken
in by that charlatan of a Jesuit.
He heard the front door open and shut behind Alastair Trumpington.
Then he rose and went quickly upstairs, leaving his cigar smouldering in
the ash-tray, filling the study with fragrant smoke.
Quarter of a mile away the Duchess of Stayle went, as she always did, to
say good-night to her eldest daughter. She crossed the room and drew up
the window a few inches, for it was a cold and raw night. Then she went
over to the bed and smoothed the pillow.
‘Good-night, dear child,’ she said, ‘I thought you looked sweet
to-night.’
Lady Ursula wore a white cambric night-gown with a little yoke collar
and long sleeves. Her hair hung in two plaits.
‘Mama,’ she said. ‘Edward proposed to me to-night.’
‘_Darling._ What a funny girl you are. Why didn’t you tell me before?
You weren’t frightened, were you? You know that your father and I are
delighted at anything that makes our little girl happy.’
‘Well, I said I wouldn’t marry him . . . I’m sorry.’
‘But, my dear, it’s nothing to be sorry about. Leave it to your old
mother. I’ll put it all right for you in the morning.’
‘But, Mama, I don’t want to marry him. I didn’t know until it actually
came to the point. I’d always meant to marry him, as you know. But
somehow, when he actually asked me . . . I just couldn’t.’
‘There, dear child, you mustn’t worry any more. You know perfectly well,
don’t you, that your father and I would not let you do anything you
didn’t want. It’s a matter that only you can decide. After all, it’s
your life and your happiness at stake, not ours, isn’t it, Ursula . . .
but I _think_ you’d better marry Edward.’
‘But, Mama, I don’t want to . . . I couldn’t . . . it would kill me!’
‘Now, now, my pet mustn’t worry her head about it any more. You know
your father and I only want _your_ happiness, dear one. No one is going
to make my darling girl do anything she doesn’t want to. . . . Papa
shall see Edward in the morning and make everything all right . . . dear
Lady Anchorage was only saying to-night what a lovely bride you will
make.’
‘But, Mama . . .’
‘Not another word, dear child. It’s very late and you’ve got to look
your best for Edward to-morrow, haven’t you, love?’
The Duchess closed the door softly and went to her own room. Her husband
was in his dressing-room.
‘Andrew.’
‘What is it, dear? I’m saying my prayers.’
‘Edward proposed to Ursula to-night.’
‘Ah!’
‘Aren’t you glad?’
‘I told you, dear, I’m trying to say my prayers.’
‘It’s a real joy to see the dear children so happy.’
_Chapter Nine_
At luncheon time next day Adam rang up Nina.
‘Nina, darling, are you awake?’
‘Well, I wasn’t . . .’
‘Listen, do you really want me to go and see your papa to-day?’
‘Did we say you were going to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘To say could we be married now I had a job.’
‘I remember . . . yes, go and see him, darling. It would be nice to be
married.’
‘But, listen, what about my page?’
‘What page, angel?’
‘My page in the _Excess_ . . . my job, you know.’
‘Oh . . . well, look . . . Ginger and I will write that for you.’
‘Wouldn’t that be a bore?’
‘I think it would be divine. I know just the sort of things you
say. . . . I expect Ginger does too by now, the poor angel . . . how he
did enjoy himself last night. . . . I’m going to sleep now . . . such a
pain . . . good-bye, my sweet.’
Adam had some luncheon. Agatha Runcible was at the next table with
Archie Schwert. She said they were all going to some motor races next
day. Would Adam and Nina come, too. Adam said yes. Then he went to
Aylesbury.
There were two women on the other side of the carriage, and they, too,
were talking about the Younger Generation.
‘. . . and it’s a very good position, too, for a boy of that age, and
I’ve told him and his father told him. “You ought to think yourself
lucky,” I’ve said, “to get a good position like that in these days,
particularly when it’s so hard to get a position at all of any kind _or_
sort.” And there’s Mrs Hemingway with her son next door who left school
eighteen months ago, and there he is kicking his heels about the house
all day and doing nothing, and taking a correspondence course in civil
engineering. “It’s a very good position,” I told him, “and, of course,
you can’t expect _work_ to be interesting, though no doubt after a time
you get used to it just as your father’s done, and would probably miss
it if you hadn’t it to do”—you know how Alfred gets on his holidays,
doesn’t know what to do with himself half the time, just looks at the
sea and says, “Well, this _is_ a change,” and then starts wondering how
things are at the office. Well, I told Bob that, but it’s no good, and
all he wants to do is to go into the motor business; well, as I said to
him, the motor business is all right for them that have influence, but
what could Bob hope to do throwing up a good job, too, and with nothing
to fall back on supposing things did go wrong. But, no, Bob is all for
motors, and, of course, you know it doesn’t really do having him living
at home. He and his father don’t get on. You can’t have two men in a
house together and both wanting the bath at the same time, and I suppose
it’s only natural that Bob should feel he ought to have his own way a
bit more now that he’s earning his own money. But, then, what is he to
do? He can’t go and live on his own with his present salary, and I
shouldn’t be any too pleased to see him doing it even if he could afford
it—you know what it is with young people, how easy it is to get into
mischief when they’re left to themselves. And there are a great many of
Bob’s friends now that I don’t really approve of, not to have in and out
of the house, you know the way they do come. He meets them at the hockey
club he goes to Saturdays. And they’re most of them earning more money
than he is, or, at any rate, they seem to have more to throw about, and
it isn’t good for a boy being about with those that have more money than
him. It only makes him discontented. And I did think at one time that
perhaps Bob was thinking of Betty Rylands, you know Mrs Rylands’ girl at
the Laurels, such nice people, and they used to play tennis together and
people remarked how much they were about, but now he never seems to pay
any attention to her, it’s all his hockey friends, and I said one
Saturday, “Wouldn’t you like to ask Betty over to tea?” and he said,
“Well, you can if you like,” and she came looking ever so sweet, and,
would you believe it, Bob went out and didn’t come in at all until
supper time. Well, you can’t expect any girl to put up with that, and
now she’s practically engaged to that young Anderson boy who’s in the
wireless business.’
‘Well, and there’s our Lily now. You know how she would go in for being
a manicurist. Her father didn’t like it, and for a long time he wouldn’t
have it at all. He said it was just an excuse for holding hands, but,
anyway, I said, “If that’s what the girl wants to do, and if she can
make good money doing it, I think you ought to be able to trust your own
daughter better than to stand in her way.” I’m a modern, you see. “We’re
not living in the Victorian Age,” I told him. Well, she’s in a very nice
job. Bond Street—and they treat her very fair, and we’ve no complaints
on that score, but now there’s this man she’s met there—he’s old enough
to be her father—well, middle-aged anyway—but very smart, you know,
neat little grey moustache, absolute gentleman, with a Morris Oxford
saloon. And he comes and takes her out for drives Sundays, and sometimes
he fetches her after work and takes her to the pictures, and always most
polite and well spoken to me and my husband, just as you’d expect,
seeing the sort of man he is, and he sent us all tickets for the theatre
the other night. Very affable, calls me “Ma”, if you please . . . and,
anyway, I _hope_ there’s no harm in it . . .’
‘Now our Bob . . .’
They got out at Berkhamsted, and a man got in who wore a bright brown
suit and spent his time doing sums, which never seemed to come right, in
a little note-book with a stylographic pen. ‘Has he given all to his
daughters?’ thought Adam.
He drove out to Doubting by a bus which took him as far as the village
of petrol pumps. From there he walked down the lane to the park gates.
To his surprise these stood open, and as he approached he narrowly
missed being run down by a large and ramshackle car which swept in at a
high speed; he caught a glimpse of two malignant female eyes which
glared contemptuously at him from the small window at the back. Still
more surprising was a large notice which hung on the central pier of the
gates and said: ‘=No Admittance Except on Business=.’ As Adam
walked up the drive two lorries thundered past him. Then a man appeared
with a red flag.
‘Hi! You can’t go that way. They’re shooting in front. Go round by the
stables, whoever you are.’
Wondering vaguely what kind of sport this could be, Adam followed the
side path indicated. He listened for sounds of firing, but hearing
nothing except distant shouting and what seemed to be a string band, he
concluded that the Colonel was having a poor day. It seemed odd, anyway,
to go shooting in front of one’s house with a string band, and
automatically Adam began making up a paragraph about it:
‘_Colonel Blount, father of the lovely Miss Nina Blount referred to
above, rarely comes to London nowadays. He devotes himself instead to
shooting on his estate in Buckinghamshire. The coverts, which are among
the most richly stocked in the county, lie immediately in front of the
house, and many amusing stories are related of visitors who have
inadvertently found themselves in the line of fire. . . . Colonel Blount
has the curious eccentricity of being unable to shoot his best except to
the accompaniment of violin and ’cello._ (_Mr “Ginger” Littlejohn has
the similar foible that he can only fish to the sound of the flageolet
. . .)_’
He had not gone very far in his detour before he was again stopped, this
time by a man dressed in a surplice, episcopal lawn sleeves and scarlet
hood and gown; he was smoking a cigar.
‘Here, what in hell do _you_ want?’ said the Bishop.
‘I came to see Colonel Blount.’
‘Well, you can’t, son. They’re just shooting him now.’
‘Good heavens. What for?’
‘Oh, nothing important. He’s just one of the Wesleyans, you know—we’re
trying to polish off the whole crowd this afternoon while the weather’s
good.’
Adam found himself speechless before this cold-blooded bigotry.
‘What d’you want to see the old geezer about, anyway?’
‘Well, it hardly seems any good now. I came to tell him that I’d got a
job on the _Excess_.’
‘The devil you have. Why didn’t you say so before? Always pleased to see
gentlemen of the Press. Have a weed?’ A large cigar-case appeared from
the recesses of the episcopal bosom. ‘I’m Bishop Philpotts, you know,’
he said, slipping a voluminously clothed arm through Adam’s. ‘I dare say
you’d like to come round to the front and see the fun. I should think
they’d be just singing their last hymn now. It’s been uphill work,’ he
confided as they walked round the side of the house, ‘and there’s been
some damned bad management. Why, yesterday, they kept Miss La Touche
waiting the whole afternoon, and then the light was so bad when they did
shoot her that they made a complete mess of her—we had the machine out
and ran over all the bits carefully last night after dinner—you never
saw such rotten little scraps—quite unrecognizable half of them. We
didn’t dare show them to her husband—he’d be sick to death about it—so
we just cut out a few shots to keep and threw away the rest. I say,
you’re not feeling queer, are you? You look all green suddenly. Find the
weed a bit strong?’
‘Was—was she a Wesleyan too?’
‘My dear boy, she’s playing lead . . . she’s Selina. Countess of
Huntingdon. . . . There, now you can see them at work.’
They had rounded the wing and were now in full view of the front of the
house, where all was activity and animation. A dozen or so men and women
in eighteenth-century costume were standing in a circle singing
strongly, while in their centre stood a small man in a long clerical
coat and a full white wig, conducting them. A string band was playing
not far off and round the singers clustered numerous men in shirt
sleeves bearing megaphones, cinematograph cameras, microphones, sheaves
of paper and arc lamps. Not far away, waiting their turn to be useful,
stood a coach and four, a detachment of soldiers and some scene shifters
with the transept of Exeter Cathedral in sections of canvas and
matchboarding.
‘The Colonel’s somewhere in that little crowd singing the hymn,’ said
the Bishop. ‘He was crazy to be allowed to come on as a super, and as
he’s letting us the house dirt cheap Isaacs said he might. I don’t
believe he’s ever been so happy in his life.’
As they approached the hymn stopped.
‘All right,’ said one of the men with megaphones. ‘You can beat it.
We’ll shoot the duel now. I shall want two supers to carry the body. The
rest of you are through for the afternoon.’
A man in a leather apron, worsted stockings and flaxen wig emerged from
the retreating worshippers.
‘Oh, please, Mr Isaacs,’ he said, ‘please may _I_ carry the body?’
‘All right, Colonel, if you want to. Run in and tell them in the
wardrobe to give you a smock and a pitchfork.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Colonel Blount, trotting off towards his
house. Then he stopped. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘I suppose it wouldn’t be
better for me to carry a sword?’
‘No, pitchfork, and hurry up about it or I shan’t let you carry the body
at all; some one go and find Miss La Touche.’
The young lady whom Adam had seen in the motor car came down the steps
of the house in a feathered hat, riding habit and braided cape. She
carried a hunting crop in her hand. Her face was painted very yellow.
‘Do I or do I not have a horse in this scene, Mr Isaacs? I’ve been round
to Bertie and he says all the horses are needed for the coach.’
‘I’m sorry, Effie, you do _not_ and it’s no good taking on. We only got
four horses and you know that, and you saw what it was like when we
tried to move the coach with two. So you’ve just got to face it. You
comes across the fields on foot.’
‘Dirty Yid,’ said Effie La Touche.
‘The trouble about this film,’ said the Bishop, ‘is that we haven’t
enough capital. It’s heart-breaking. Here we have a first-rate company,
first-rate producer, first-rate scene, first-rate story and the whole
thing being hung up for want of a few hundred pounds. How can he expect
to get the best out of Miss La Touche if they won’t give her a horse? No
girl will stand for that sort of treatment. If I were Isaacs I’d scrap
the whole coach sooner. It’s no sense getting a star and not treating
her right. Isaacs is putting every one’s back up the way he goes on.
Wanted to do the whole of my cathedral scene with twenty-five supers.
But you’re here to give us a write up, aren’t you? I’ll call Isaacs
across and let him give you the dope. . . . _Isaacs!_’
‘Yuh?’
‘_Daily Excess_ here.’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
‘I’ll be right over.’ He put on his coat, buttoned it tightly at the
waist and strode across the lawn, extending a hand of welcome. Adam
shook it and felt what seemed to be a handful of rings under his
fingers. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mister. Now just you ask me anything you
want about this film because I’m just here to answer. Have you got my
name? Have a card. That’s the name of the company in the corner. Not the
one that’s scratched out. The one written above. _The Wonderfilm Company
of Great Britain_. Now this film,’ he said, in what seemed a
well-practised little speech, ‘of which you have just witnessed a mere
fragment marks a stepping stone in the development of the British Film
Industry. It is the most important All-Talkie super-religious film to be
produced solely in this country by British artists and management and by
British capital. It has been directed throughout regardless of
difficulty and expense, and supervised by a staff of expert historians
and theologians. Nothing has been omitted that would contribute to the
meticulous accuracy of every detail. The life of that great social and
religious reformer John Wesley is for the first time portrayed to a
British public in all its humanity and tragedy. . . . Look here, I’ve
got all this written out. I’ll have them give you a copy before you go.
Come and see the duel. . . .
‘That’s Wesley and Whitefield just going to start. Of course, it’s not
them really. Two fencing instructors we got over from the gym. at
Aylesbury. That’s what I mean when I say we spare no expense to get the
details accurate. Ten bob each we’re paying them for the afternoon.’
‘But did Wesley and Whitefield fight a duel?’
‘Well, it’s not actually recorded, but it’s known that they quarrelled
and there was only one way of settling quarrels in those days. They’re
both in love with Selina, Countess of Huntingdon, you see. She comes to
stop them, but arrives too late. Whitefield has escaped in the coach and
Wesley is lying wounded. That’s a scene that’ll go over big. Then she
takes him back to her home and nurses him back to health. I tell you,
this is going to make film history. D’you know what the Wesleyan
population of the British Isles is? Well nor do I, but I’ve been told
and _you’ld be surprised_. Well every one of those is going to come and
see this film and there’s going to be discussions about it in all the
chapels. We’re recording extracts from Wesley’s sermons and we’re
singing all his own hymns. I’m glad your paper’s interested. You can
tell them from me that we’re on a big thing. . . . There’s one thing
though,’ said Mr Isaacs, suddenly becoming confidential, ‘which I
shouldn’t tell many people. But I think you’ll understand because you’ve
seen some of our work here and the sort of scale it’s on, and you can
imagine that expenses are pretty heavy. Why, I’m paying Miss La Touche
alone over ten pounds a week. And the truth is—I don’t mind telling
you—we’re beginning to feel the wind a bit. It’s going to be a big
success _when_ and _if_ it’s finished. Now, suppose there was some
one—yourself, for instance, or one of your friends—who had a little
bit of loose capital he wanted to invest—a thousand pounds, say—well,
I wouldn’t mind selling him a half-share. It’s not a gamble, mind—it’s
a certain winner. If I cared to go into the open market with it, it
would be snapped up before you could say knife. But I don’t want to do
that and I’ll tell you why. This is a British company and I don’t want
to let any of those foreign speculators in on it, and once you let the
shares get into the open market you can’t tell who’s buying them, see.
Now why leave money idle bringing in four and a half or five per cent.
when you might be doubling it in six months?’
‘I’m afraid it’s no use coming to me for capital,’ said Adam. ‘Do you
think I could possibly see Colonel Blount?’
‘One of the things I hate in life,’ said Mr Isaacs, ‘is seeing any one
lose an opportunity. Now listen, I’ll make you a fair offer. I can see
you’re interested in this film. Now I’ll sell you the whole thing—film
we’ve made up to date, artists’ contracts, copyright of scenario,
everything for five hundred quid. Then all you have to do is to finish
it off and your fortune’s made and I shall be cursing for not having
held on longer. How about it?’
‘It’s very good of you, but really I don’t think I can afford it at the
moment.’