there is in man a natural tendency to look for beauty somewhere.
Capitalism made of work so foul a thing that it couldn't be found
there. And in answer to demand it turned out a numberless horde of
stunted, overworked, half-educated people. Work was foul: for ordinary
amusements there was no time, except on Sunday, and then it was wicked.
Some means of self-expression had to be found, something to bring
comfort of a sort, something that would be suitable for Sundays and the
evenings. There was sex. I wonder why it never occurs to the parsons
who protest against Sunday games (for the poor) that the British
Sabbath is nothing but a forcing-house for sex. The average artisan or
shop-girl has not the possibility of any other occupation.
"The worker has combined with his notion of love the notion of home as
a place where he will be free to do as he likes, to express himself, to
create the ugliness which he or she thinks 'so sweet.' The capitalist
has bound his hands and his brain and, if the Eugenists get their
abominable way, he'll bind his emotions and his body too. Hitherto he
has been free to love as he chooses, and that's why he loves such a
lot. It isn't for nothing that a very popular song tells of a Little
Grey Home in the West where people go to amatory bliss 'when the toil
of the long day is o'er.'
"Well, what's the upshot of it all? Merely that the home matters far
more than you imagine, because it's the one place where the Servile
State hasn't really got hold of its victims yet. It's true that a
middle-class home may be deadly; so far I agree with the paper. But I
don't agree that the minor's next step is to smash the home altogether.
No, we've got to save it if we want to save men from being turned into
mere wealth-producing machines. We've got to save it with all its
dangers because it is the expression of genuine and valuable emotion.
You people are all for smashing the home before you've smashed the
system: my idea is just the reverse. When you have a state in which
men can take pride and find beauty in their work, you can go in and
smash the home. If you try and put the home on a business basis you
may help a few middle-class people who have brains and time enough to
quarrel, but you'll be taking from the oppressed their only release and
making life more commercial and sordid than it is at present. Set up a
society where life has rational interests, where a man can express his
desire for beauty without leaving it to nocturnal sentimentality, and
I'm with you. In the meanwhile there's a good deal to be said for The
Little Grey Home in the West. It answers a need. To kill that need
you must smash Industrialism. And that, my Fabian friends, is some
business."
After such an oration, not silly and blatant as the words of Lawrence
often tended to become, it seemed wrong to talk further. Martin, who
was by nature far more sympathetic to the popular taste than was
Rendell, had been influenced by the last speech and the defence of The
Little Grey Home: in his reply he made a considerable recantation. The
society adjourned, the visitors disappeared, and the elect remained to
talk. Once more Woman was the theme, and her position and claims were
thoroughly discussed until, about midnight, the conversation drifted,
like early Greek history, "into the mythical" and fiction succeeded
theory. That, from the male talker's standpoint, is the advantage
about woman; equally she can point the moral or adorn the tale.
Martin was enjoying his third year. He still had rooms in college and
had enough work to keep him contented while the shadow of exams was too
remote to cause apprehension. The Push had risen to fame and were
running the college: they had taken charge of its societies in a lordly
way and talked sense or nonsense as they chose. But the heavy hand of
Age was beginning to make them increasingly fond of sense. They were
none the less happy, however, for being less superficial, and secretly
they were pleased by the admiration of the advanced freshers and the
effort made to cultivate their society. Martin's third year was a time
of activity, free both from the boundless and discursive idling of his
"fresher" period and the anxious strain that pending examinations
cannot fail to produce.
Chard, however, was deserting them, for his career at the Union made
him a busy man. His triumph (he was Junior Librarian early in his
third year) had been mainly achieved by hard work. Office at the
Oxford Union can be won either by courting or despising the members:
there is no middle path. The latter method needs audacity and ability.
The man who never pulls strings, dashes in late to make his speech, and
dashes out again to seek reasonable company may win the votes of the
people whom he so treats, provided that he is either really witty, a
peer, or a Blue. A titled Blue could afford to do anything, but
fortunately neither peers nor Blues deign to have much business with so
common a place as the Union.
Chard had adopted the other method. He had pulled strings diligently.
He had got to know the right people: he had learned up the right
epigrams for the right speeches: asked the right questions of the
officers and, when himself an officer, had made the right retorts. He
had worked hard in search of votes and had addressed, carefully and
capably, nearly every debating society in Oxford. He was standing for
the Presidency at the end of the spring term and had every chance of
success. The Union loved him, because, not being a Balliol man, he had
beaten the Balliol people at their own game.
For the visitors' debate Bavin, K.C., M.P., was coming down, Bavin than
whom no fiercer lawyer flayed the Government on provincial platforms
and was photographed at country houses. His fees were unparalleled,
his wife, a peer's daughter, the most beautiful woman in society.
Bavin had done everything as it should be done, at Eton, at Balliol, at
All Souls, at the Bar, in the social world. His career was an epitome
of success.
He would, of course, speak last. Chard, a strong supporter of the
Government, would precede him. It was hard luck on Chard, one felt,
that he should have to come first: Bavin's oratorical bludgeonings
would make a mess of Chard. Still Chard was the only man who had any
chance against Bavin. One pinned one's faith on Chard to rise to the
occasion. Anyhow it would be fun, and everybody would be there.
Martin liked Chard for his thorough-going pursuit of success, his
willingness to borrow brilliance from any source, his capacity for
making use of anybody and anything.
"Chard is getting the limit," Rendell complained to Martin. "Do you
think he ever has a single thought outside his career?"
"Chard is to me as a modern hotel palace to Arnold Bennett. His
methods fascinate me: I can't help loving him."
"I suppose he'll be a Cabinet Minister in twelve years or so."
"I trust it won't be long. He'll be very nice on a Front Bench."
So Martin remained a friend of Chard's, and Chard read to him all the
great speech wherewith he was to extinguish in advance the raging fire
of Bavin's dialectic.
Chard knew his audience and had included just the right jokes.
But Chard was not liked by everyone. Many of the college objected to
him for seeking friends outside their walls: the athletic Mandarins had
never forgiven his method of meeting their request for his presence at
the boats. Chard didn't mind: these people were not voting members of
the Union. Most of all he was disliked by Smith-Aitken, whose father,
_ne_ Smith, had made a fortune in pickles. This father, being a
self-made man, had entertained notions of his son as a hard worker and
had refused to send him to one of the more expensive and aristocratic
colleges. Foolishly he forgot to limit his son's allowance, and so
Smith-Aitken rode horses and joined the Bullingdon. He was not a nice
man. He had greasy yellow curls, several rings, an eyeglass, a motor
car, some horses, and a very special taste for liqueur brandy. Chard
used to make jokes about him and his victim knew it.
One night Smith-Aitken, having ridden after a fox all day, returned to
a repast whose main features were champagne and the very special
liqueur brandy. Before he was put to bed he threw the junior dean's
bicycle through Chard's window.
Chard spent the next morning making out a little bill. It amused him.
In addition to ordinary claims for broken glass he included other
items, as:
"To new tablecloth to replace old cloth spoiled by ink upset by bicycle
propelled by Mr R. W. Smith-Aitken--one guinea."
"To essay on Austin's 'Theory of Sovereignty,' spoiled by ink upset by
bicycle as before: at two guineas a thousand words--four guineas."
The total amount claimed was twelve pounds ten shillings.
By return of messenger Chard received a cheque for that amount.
Smith-Aitken had made the obvious retort. Chard couldn't, he thought,
take the money when the damage had really been small. Chard considered
the problem: he was disagreeably surprised at receiving the cheque: it
had made him look a fool. There was only one reply, to cash the cheque
and give the money to a hospital. This he did. Smith-Aitken, on
discovering what had happened, was furious. The money didn't matter
much to him, but he didn't see why he should have to pay four guineas
for making a splash of ink on one of Chard's jocular essays; besides,
he now looked the fool. But he was very polite to Chard whenever he
met him and they talked to one another with urbanity.
On the afternoon of the great day on which Chard and Bavin were to
batter one another in the arena of the Oxford Union Society, Chard was
walking across the quad when Smith-Aitken came out of the porch. He
carried a telegram in his hand and rushed up to Chard at once.
"I've just seen Bob Marshall," he said. Marshall was the President of
the Union, a new Tory blood and a close friend of Smith-Aitken's. "He
has had this telegram from Bavin. It says that his car has broken down
badly. They're close to a village with a telegraph but miles from a
railway. He wants someone to go and fetch him in. Marshall is too
busy; he's got to see to the dinner and a heap of things. But he saw
me in my car and asked me to run out. You've met Bavin, haven't you?
What's he like?"
"I met him at a dinner once," said Chard. "Successful barrister. Face
like a hatchet. Stern, morose, and inexorable, you know the type. But
I believe he's nicer than he looks."
"Well, look here. You'd better come and talk to him while I drive him
in. It would be better to have someone who knows the man. You can
arrange what names to call each other."
Chard was attracted. Bavin was, he thought, a bouncing jackass, but he
bounced before a large audience. He was certainly a person to
'acquire,' and Chard went about the world 'acquiring' the people whom
he deemed worthy of that honour. It would be useful to know Bavin well
and the formal President's dinner would not give him much chance.
Smith-Aitken, too, had been civil lately; he really wasn't such a bad
chap. So Chard accepted with alacrity and Martin watched them being
driven away. Nixon, a friend of Smith-Aitken's, went with them. He
wanted a lift to the station.
That was at half-past two.
At a quarter to seven Lawrence rushed into Martin's rooms.
"Have you heard the latest?" he shouted. "Our Chard has been
kidnapped. It's all over the place. Smith-Aitken got him in his car
and God knows where they've taken him."
Martin saw it all in a flash. "But how did it leak out?" he asked.
"One of Smith-Aitken's push let on. Couldn't contain himself for glee.
Someone on the Bullingdon suggested it. They all hate Chard, and now
they think they've fairly got him. No cheers and epigrams to-night."
"Are you dead certain about it?"
"Well, Chard isn't in his rooms. Neither he nor Smith-Aitken have been
seen, and Bavin arrived from town by the 6.5."
Martin was silent.
"It's damned funny," said Lawrence.
"It would be a damned sight funnier if he could get back."
"But he won't. They'll see to that."
"We might get him," said Martin suddenly. "I've got an idea. This
morning I heard the man Holland ask Smith-Aitken to dine with him
to-night at Vincent's. Smith-A. said he wouldn't be in Oxford.
'Town?' said Holland. 'No, Abingdon, King's Arms.' Holland said
something about a woman in the case and Smith-A. said: 'Not this time.
Don't you know?' It was a mere fluke that I heard him. But I fancy we
may as well make use of the chance. I'm pretty sure Chard will be a
guest at a little dinner in Abingdon."
"Yes, but it's only a possibility. Besides, what can we do?"
"We can look them up, just to emphasise the necessity of keeping
secrets."
"It's nearly seven now."
"We can bag Rendell's motor bike and side-car."
"Yes; but what can we do when we're there?"
"Wait for an inspiration."
They went. The journey took some time, for the motor bicycle behaved
abominably on Hinksey hill. Not till a quarter to eight did they reach
Abingdon. Martin dismounted in the square and left Lawrence with the
machine. He walked up to the King's Arms and glanced through the
windows of the dining-room, which looked directly upon the street. He
had been right in his surmise. Chard was dining with Nixon and
Smith-Aitken. Apparently he was making the best of it: they seemed to
be a happy party and passed bottles with conviction.
Martin brought the news to Lawrence: "We simply must get hold of him,"
he said. "It would be the deed of a lifetime."
"That's all very well," said Lawrence. "But what the devil can we do?
We can't just go in and knock out our Bullingdon friends. We'd have
the manager and the police nosing round and we'd never get away in
time."
"We can't do that," Martin agreed. "And we can't afford to wait. It's
nearly eight and we must be back by nine. What do people do in cinema
dramas?"
"I know," Lawrence almost shouted. "Don't you remember 'Lust or Love?'
and how they rescued the white slave. The drama has its uses."
Martin remembered. "We might try," he said.
They entered the hotel and looked into the smoking-room. It was dark
and empty. They collected all the old newspapers, took the wood from
the unlit fire, and in the grate they heaped a monstrous pile. After
blocking up the chimney they lit their bonfire. Smoke belched out into
the room in dense, curling waves. When they could endure it no longer
they opened the door and let the smoke into the passage. Then they
opened the door of the dining-room and shouted from concealment: "Fire!
Help! Fire!"
Smith-Aitken looked round, sniffed, and listened. There was an ominous
crackling and an unspeakable smell. "So there is," he said. "I wonder
if it started in the garage. My god." He fled without dignity to his
car. Nixon and Chard went into the passage. The manager, the
housekeeper, the waiter, and three maids were gasping and fussing and
talking about water. There didn't seem to be any.
Suddenly Nixon found himself pushed into the reeking smoking-room and
Chard was hauled swiftly into the square. The turmoil was terrific. A
policeman came and a crowd began to collect.
"You," said Chard, when he saw Martin and Lawrence.
There was no time for talking. Martin pushed Chard into the side-car,
told Lawrence to follow by train, and let the bike do its best. When
they were clear of Abingdon he explained things to the mystified Chard.
It was all so simple, so incredible.
"I never dreamed Smith-A. would try on that game," said Chard. "It was
rather a dirty trick, but he was charming all the time. We seem to
have toured half England during the afternoon. And it was a capital
dinner. He brought the wine with him, the red wine of Burgundy, my
boy. And I was looking forward to some of that very special liqueur
brandy. He never travels without that. And now you've robbed me of
it."
The cold, fresh air coming on top of the red wine of Burgundy made
Chard more talkative than usual.
At five minutes past eight the debating hall of the Union Society was
not merely full: it was crammed with an unparalleled audience.
Normally a large crowd would have come to hear Chard: a dense crowd
would have come to hear Bavin. But Bavin versus Chard! It was unique.
And Chard was so reliable! He never failed on such occasions: he had
his impromptus ready and his answers well rehearsed.
But to the charms of oratory had been added this evening the
fascination of mystery. Rumour has swift wings in such a community as
a university, and already it was on everyone's lips that a colossal
'rag' had taken place, that Chard wouldn't be there for the occasion of
his life, that he had been kidnapped.
So those who didn't want to hear either Chard or Bavin had come to see
if Chard was going to turn up. All along the benches sat serried
multitudes of members, whispering, chattering, perspiring. Along all
those rows of faces, black and brown, yellow and white, spectacled and
pimpled, ugly and less ugly, there gleamed expectancy. And by the
doorway and up the gangways there jostled and pushed an ever-growing
crowd of curious young men. Perhaps they wanted to see Bavin:
certainly they yearned, they most definitely yearned, to know the truth
about Chard.
At last the officers filed in amid applause. One almost forgot to look
at Bavin, such was the eagerness to see if Chard had really vanished.
There was a loud murmur of surprise. He certainly was not there. Man
said to man: "I told you so. They've nabbed him."
"In the absence of the Junior Librarian," said the President, "I call
upon the Junior Treasurer to bring forward the weekly list of books."
That was all: no hint as to indisposition, no suggestion of Chard's
adventure. There were the usual jokes. Of course people asked about
Chard. The President said that he knew nothing of the Junior
Librarian. He trusted he would appear in time for his speech. And
when he read out the motion before the house and the list of speakers
he included Chard's name.
At twenty minutes past eight the first speaker began. He finished at a
quarter to nine and two others carried on the debate till half-past.
The second of them had reached his peroration. The audience paid
little heed to his anxiety about the ship of state. Where the devil
was Chard? That was all that mattered. Was Chard really lying gagged
and throttled in a ditch?
The speaker sat down and the expectant audience forgot to applaud.
There was a pause, followed by much pushing and heaving among the crowd
at the door. Suddenly Chard was shot on to the floor of the house. He
wore a rough grey suit and was liberally splashed with mud. But he
walked quietly to his throne and took his seat by the immaculate
President.
"The Junior Librarian," announced the President without the slightest
sign of emotion. It is not for presidents to be human, and Marshall
knew his business.
There was a great roar of joy as Chard, foul with mire, advanced to the
despatch-box. "I must apologise, sir," he began, "for my late and
unkempt appearance. I have been with friends. (_Cheers._) With very
dear friends who would not hear of my going. That is the worst of
friends. They are sometimes so pressing. (_Uproar._) But I would
have been earlier and in a more cleanly state had not another friend,
in his eagerness to save me from my first friends, been over-hasty.
Perhaps he meant it as a compliment to our honourable and gallant
visitor when he compelled me to lie, providentially not to die, in the
last ditch." (_Prolonged applause._) Bavin's 'last ditch' speech had
been his most notable success. Then Chard proceeded to welcome Bavin,
as was his duty, and to trample on him, as was his pleasure. Not even
the wet bed of a Hinksey ditch could damp Chard's democratic fervour or
blunt the brilliancy of his wit. He had not forgotten his impromptus:
in the ditch he had even devised a new one. For half-an-hour he scored
point after point. He surpassed himself, he was unique. Possibly, if
he had always taken the red wine of Burgundy for his dinner, he would
always have spoken like this.
Martin, himself foul with mud, stood in the crowd. He thrilled with
the sense of triumph. He remembered the night on which he had fought
for Gideon and the Lord. It was adventure once again, terrifying and
superb. And again he had been on the winning side.
Bavin, K.C., M.P., came as an anti-climax. He addressed a dwindling
house and failed to rouse it. He lost his motion and concluded that
the undergraduate was not only a traitor to the cause of the Right, but
an uncivil jackanapes. What business had they to ask him down and then
to take notice only of this Chard fellow?
A few days later Chard was elected to the presidency by a record
majority. He had surpassed even the majority of Walmersly, the
Churchmen's champion, who had had an election agent in every college,
who had whipped up an army of country parsons and other dilapidated
senior members with a silent promise of increased vacational
facilities, who had entertained over three hundred junior members in
two terms.
Chard received a polite note of congratulation from Smith-Aitken and
sent, in return, a vote of thanks. Nothing was ever heard about the
King's Arms, Abingdon: certainly no damage could have been done.
"Good for you," Martin said to him. "It's been a great business. At
least one of the Push is a made man."
"It has been fun," Chard admitted. He was intensely happy.
"All the same it was just as well we had that little smash. By Jove,
we had some luck. No damage done and just enough mud to be convincing.
And then that carrier's cart to get us in absolutely up to time."
"Certainly I owe a good many votes to your enterprise in fetching me
and to the terrific blend of eagerness and incompetence which put me in
the ditch."
"I can't help a skid," said Martin.
"Whose bike?" asked Chard. It was the first time he had thought of it.
"We made it look pretty silly."
"Rendell's," answered Martin. "We'd better pay the damage. I'd
forgotten."
"That's my affair," said Chard, who felt like generosity. "Comes under
reasonable election expenses surely."
Also he gave a dinner to his "workers." King's had not had a President
of the Union for several years. That distinction and the fame gained
by the kidnapping incident made Chard into a notable. Freshers stared
at him in the High and pointed him out to the ignorant.
As a President he shone with incomparable lustre, and he acquired a
fine presence and manner for his official duties. The Push in general
and Martin in particular felt the reflection of that brilliant light.
It seemed good that Chard's taper should be so radiant. Life for the
Push, during that third year, was free of care and free of idleness,
fruitful of activity and enterprise, restless and fascinating.
VI
From a long vacation spent with the historians and philosophers and
from the clash and challenge of autumnal moors Martin came back to
rooms in Holywell and the school of Literae Humaniores. From clean
winds and open skies he came back to a gentle greyness or to smudgy
days when the rain settled upon the river valley with cruel insistence
and on parting left floods and vapours and steamy streets. From
working at his ease he came back to work with distaste.
To begin with, he was afraid. The future was big with exams. In eight
months his Oxford finals would be upon him, in ten months he would be
attempting to satisfy the Civil Service Commissioners. The torture of
it! It was all very well for Lawrence, whom a wealthy uncle would make
into a chartered accountant, for Rendell, who was to be an amateur
barrister and a professional Lib-Lab-Soc, for Chard, with his assured
career and Front-bench-in-a-year-or-two prospects; well enough too for
Davenant, who had money enough to maintain an adequate, even a
graceful, existence while he wrote about the things of art. But for
Martin there was only the midnight oil and the wondering about marks.