IN HONOUR OF THE EVENT
May one dwell upon so simple a thing as a small family dinner-party? It
is generally undramatic and uneventful: it is not generally marked even
by a new dish or a bottle of rare wine. Yet there lingers in the mind of
every man the recollection of pleasant dinners. I should like to write a
Book of Dinners--not a book for the _gourmet_, but a book of memories.
It might be a most delightful volume. There would be in it the
school-boys' dinner. I remember a certain dinner at eighteenpence a
head, at Richmond, before we had the row in the boat, when we quarrelled
and broke the oars over each other's heads, and very nearly capsized: a
certain undergraduates' dinner, in which four men--three of whom are now
ghosts--joined: the Ramblers' dinner, of lamb chops and bottled ale and
mirth and merriment: the two-by-two dinner in the private room, a dainty
dinner of sweet lamb, sweet bread, sweet peas, sweet looks, sweet
Moselle, and sweet words. Is it really true that one never--never--gets
young again? Some people do, I am sure, but they are under promise to
say nothing about it. I shall--and then that dinner may perhaps--one
cannot say--one never knows--and I suppose--if one was young again--that
they would be found just as pretty as they ever were. There is the
official dinner, stately and cold: the city dinner, which generally
comes to a man when his digestion is no longer what it was: the family
dinner, in which the intellect plays so small a part, because no one
wastes his fine things on his brothers and sisters: the dinner at which
one has to make a speech. Indeed, this Book of Dinners promises to be a
most charming volume. I should attempt it, however, with trembling,
because, to do it really well, one should be, first of all, a scholar,
if only to appreciate things said and spoken, and in order to connect
the illustrious past with food and drink. Next, he ought to be still
young: he certainly must have a proper feeling for wine, and must
certainly understand when and why one should be grateful to good Master
Cook: he should be a past or present master in the Art of Love and a
squire of Dames: he should be good at conversation: he must, in the old
language, be a worshipper of Bacchus, Venus, Phoebus Apollo, the Muses
nine and the Graces three. He must be no poor weakling, unable to enjoy
the good creatures of flesh, fowl, fish, and wine: no boor: and no log
insensible to loveliness.
Dinner, which should be a science, has long been treated as one of the
Fine Arts. Now every Fine Art, as we all know, has its fashions and its
caprices. Those who are old enough to remember the dinners of twenty,
thirty, or forty years ago can remember many of their fashions and
caprices. In the Thirties, for instance, everything was carved upon the
table. It required a man with a strong wrist to give a dinner-party.
Fortunately, a dinner then consisted of few dishes. They drank sherry
with dinner, and port afterwards. The champagne, if there was any, was
sweet. The guests were bidden for half-past six: they sat down to dinner
before seven. At eight the ladies went up-stairs: at half-past ten the
men joined them. Their faces were flushed, their shoulders were inclined
to lurch, and their speech was the least bit thick. Wonderful to relate,
brandy-and-water used to be served to these topers in the drawing-room
itself.
Mr. Dering had altered little in his dinner customs. They mostly
belonged to the Sixties, with a survival of some belonging to the
Thirties. Things were carved upon the sideboard: this was in deference
to modern custom: champagne formed an integral part of the meal: but the
dinner itself was solid: the cloth after dinner was removed, leaving the
dark polished mahogany after the old fashion: the furniture of the room
was also in the old style: the chairs were heavy and solid: the walls
were hung with a dark crimson paper of velvety texture: the curtains and
the carpets were red: there were pictures of game and fruit: the
sideboard was as solid as the table.
Checkley the clerk, who was invited as a faithful servant of the House,
to the celebration of the new partnership, was the first to arrive.
Dressed in a hired suit, he looked like an undertaker's assistant: the
gloom upon his face heightened the resemblance. Why the partnership
caused this appearance of gloom, I know not. Certainly, he could never
expect to be made a partner himself. It was perhaps a species of
jealousy which filled his soul. He would no longer know so much of the
business.
George came with the Mother-in-law Elect and the _fiancee_. Forgiveness,
Peace, Amnesty, and Charity sat all together upon the brow of the elder
lady. She was magnificent in a dark crimson velvet, and she had a good
deal of gold about her arms and neck. Jewish ladies are said to show, by
the magnificence of their attire, the prosperity of the business. Why
not? It is a form of enjoying success. There are many forms: one man
buys books: let him buy books. Another collects pictures. Why not? One
woman wears crimson velvet. Why not? In this way she enjoys her wealth
and proclaims it. Again, why not? It seems to the philosopher a fond and
vain thing to deck the person at all times, and especially fond when the
person is middle-aged and no longer beautiful. We are not all
philosophers. There are many middle-aged men who are extremely happy to
put on their uniform and their medals and their glittering helmets. Mrs.
Arundel wore her velvet as if she enjoyed the colour of it, the richness
of it, the light and shade that lay in its folds, and the soft feel of
it. She wore it, too, as an outward sign that this was a great occasion.
Her daughter, Lady Dering, came also arrayed in a queenly dress of amber
silk with an aigrette of feathers in her hair. To be sure, she was going
on somewhere after the dinner. Elsie, for her part, came in a creamy
white almost like a bride: but she looked much happier than most brides.
Hilda's husband, Sir Samuel, who was some six or seven years younger
than his brother, was in appearance a typical man of wealth. The rich
man can no longer, as in the days of good old Sir Thomas Gresham,
illustrate his riches by costly furs, embroidered doublets, and heavy
chains. He has to wear broadcloth and black. Yet there is an air, a
carriage, which belongs to the rich man. In appearance, Sir Samuel was
tall, like his brother, but not thin like him: he was corpulent: his
face was red: he was bald, and he wore large whiskers, dyed black.
The late dissensions were completely forgotten. Hilda embraced her
sister fondly. 'My dear,' she whispered, 'we have heard all.
Everything--everything is changed by these fortunate events. They do you
the greatest credit.--George'--she took his hand and held it
tenderly--'I cannot tell you how happy this news has made us all. You
will be rich in the course of years. Sir Samuel was only saying, as we
came along----'
'I was saying, young gentleman,' the Knight interrupted, 'that the most
beautiful thing about money is the way it develops character. We do not
ask for many virtues--only honesty and diligence--from the poor. When a
man acquires wealth we look for his better qualities.'
'Yes, indeed,' Hilda murmured. 'His better qualities begin to
show.--Elsie, dear, that is a very pretty frock. I don't think I have
seen it before. How do you like my dress?'
George accepted this sudden turn in opinion with smiles. He laughed at
it afterwards. For the moment it made him feel almost as if he was being
rewarded for some virtuous action.
Dinner was announced at seven--such were the old-fashioned manners of
this old gentleman. He led in Mrs. Arundel, and placed Elsie on his
left. At first, the dinner promised to be a silent feast. The two lovers
were not disposed to talk much--they had not yet recovered from the
overwhelming and astonishing events of the day. Sir Samuel never talked
at the beginning of dinner--besides, there was turtle soup and red
mullet and whitebait--it is sinful to divert your attention from these
good creatures. His wife never talked at dinner or at any other time
more than she could help. Your statuesque beauty seldom does. Talking
much involves smiling and even laughing, which distorts the face. A
woman must encourage men to talk: this she can do without saying much
herself.
Presently Mr. Dering roused himself and began to talk, with a visible
effort, first to Mrs. Arundel of things casual: then to Elsie: and then
to his brother, but always with an effort, as if he was thinking of
other things. And a constraint fell upon the party.
When the cloth was removed and the wine and fruit placed upon the dark
and lustrous board, he filled a glass and made a kind little speech.
'My Partner,'he said, 'I drink to you. May your connection with the
House be prosperous! It is a very great good fortune for me to have
found such a Partner.--Elsie, I join you with my Partner. I wish you
both every happiness.'
He drained the bumper and sent round the decanters.
Then he began to talk, and his discourse was most strange. 'Had it
been,' said his brother afterwards, 'the idle fancies of some
crackbrained writing fellow, I could have understood it; but from
him--from a steady old solicitor--a man who has never countenanced any
kind of nonsense--to be sure he said it was only an illusion. I hope it
isn't a softening. Who ever heard of such a man as that having dreams
and illusions?'
Certainly no one had ever before heard Mr. Dering talk in this new
manner. As a rule, he was silent and grave even at the head of his own
table. He spoke little and then gravely. To-night his talk as well as
his face was changed. Who would have thought that Mr. Dering should
confess to illusions, and should relate dreams, and should be visited by
such dreams? Remember that the speaker was seventy-five years of age,
and that he had never before been known so much as to speak of
benevolence. Then you will understand something of the bewilderment
which fell upon the whole company.
He began by raising his head and smiling with a strange and new
benignity--but Elsie thought of her portrait. 'We are all one family
here,' he said; 'and I may talk. I want to tell you of a very remarkable
thing that has recently happened to me. It has been growing, I now
perceive, for some years. But it now holds me strongly, and it is one
reason why I am anxious to have the affairs of the House in the hands of
a younger man. For it may be a sign of the end. At seventy-five anything
uncommon may be a sign.'
'You look well, Mr. Dering, and as strong as most men of sixty,' said
Mrs. Arundel.
'Perhaps. I feel well and strong. The fact is that I am troubled--or
pleased--or possessed--by an Illusion.'
'You with an Illusion?' said his brother.
'I myself. An Illusion possesses me. It whispers me from time to time
that my life is wholly spent in promoting the happiness of other
people.'
'Well,' said his brother, 'since you are a first-class solicitor, and
manage the affairs of many people very much to their advantage, you
certainly do promote their happiness.'
'Yes, yes--I suppose so. My Illusion further is that it is done outside
my business--without any bill afterwards'--Checkley looked up with eyes
wide open--'I am made to believe that I am working and living for the
good of others. A curious Illusion, is it not?'
The City man shook his head. 'That any man can possibly live for the
good of others is, I take it, always and under all circumstances an
Illusion. In the present state of society--and a very admirable state it
is'--he rolled his bald head as he spoke and his voice had a rich roll
in it--'a man's first duty--his second duty--his third duty--his
hundredth duty--is to himself. In the City it is his business to amass
wealth--to roll it up--roll it up'--he expressed the words with
feeling--'to invest it profitably--to watch it, and to nurse it as it
fructifies--fructifies. Afterwards, when he is rich enough, if ever a
man can be rich enough, he may exercise as much charity as he
pleases--as he pleases. Charity seems to please some people as a glass
of fine wine'--he illustrated the comparison--'pleases the
palate--pleases the palate.'
The lawyer listened politely and inclined his head.
'There is at least some method in my Illusion,' he went on. 'You
mentioned it. The solicitor is always occupied with the conduct of other
people's affairs. That must be admitted. He is always engaged in
considering how best to guide his fellow-man through the labyrinthine
world. He receives his fellow-man at his entrance into the world, as a
ward: he receives him grown up, as a client: he advises him all his life
at every step and in every emergency. If the client goes into
partnership, or marries, or buys a house, or builds one, or gets into
trouble, the solicitor assists and advises him. When the client grows
old, the solicitor makes his will. When the client dies, the solicitor
becomes his executor and his trustee, and administers his estate for
him. It is thus a life, as I said, entirely spent for other people. I
know not of any other, unless it be of medicine, that so much can be
said. And think what terrors, what anxieties, what disappointments, the
solicitor witnesses and alleviates! Think of the family scandals he
hushes up and keeps secret! Good heavens! if a solicitor in large
practice were to tell what he knows, think of the terrible disclosures!
He knows every thing. He knows more than a Roman Catholic priest,
because his penitents not only reveal their own sins but also those of
their wives and sons and friends and partners. And anxiety, I may tell
you, makes a man better at confessing than penitence. Sometimes we bring
actions at law and issue writs and so forth. Well now: this part of our
business, which is disagreeable to us, is actually the most beneficent
of any. Because, by means of the cases brought before the High Court of
Justice, we remind the world that it must be law abiding as well as law
worthy. The Law, in order to win respect, must first win fear. Force
comes before order. The memory of force must be kept up. The presence
of force must be felt. For instance, I have a libel case just begun. It
is rather a bad libel. My libeller will suffer: he will bleed: but he
will bleed for the public good, because thousands who are only anxious
to libel and slander, to calumniate and defame their neighbours, will be
deterred. Oh! it will be a most beneficent case--far reaching--striking
terror into the hearts of ill-doers.--Well--this, my friends, is my
Illusion. It is, I suppose, one of the many Illusions with which we
cheat old age and rob it of its terrors. To everybody else I am a
hard-fisted lawyer, exacting his pound of flesh from the unfortunate
debtor, and making myself rich at the expense of the creditor.'
'Nonsense about how a man gets rich,' said the man of business. 'He can
only get rich if he is capable. Quite right. Let the weak go under. Let
the careless and the lazy starve.'
'At the same time,' said Elsie softly, 'it is not all illusion. There
are others besides the careless and the lazy----'
'Sometimes,' the old lawyer went on, 'this Illusion of mine--oh! I know
it is only Illusion--takes the form of a dream--so vivid that it comes
back to me afterwards as a reality. In this dream, which is always the
same, I seem to have been engaged in some great scheme of practical
benevolence.'
'Practical---- What? You engaged in Practical Benevolence?' the City man
asked in profound astonishment. The Illusion was astonishing enough; but
to have his brother talk of practical benevolence was amazing indeed.
'Practical benevolence,' repeated Mr. Dering. His voice dropped. His
eyes looked out into space: he seemed as one who narrates a story. 'It
is a curiously persistent dream. It comes at irregular intervals; it
pleases me while it lasts.--Oh! in the evening after dinner, while one
takes a nap in the easy chair, perhaps--it is, as I said, quite vivid.
The action of this dream always takes place in the same room--a large
room, plainly furnished, and looking out upon an open space--I should
know it if I saw it--and it fills me with pleasure--in my dream--just to
feel that I am--there is no other word for it--diffusing happiness. How
I manage this diffusion, I can never remember; but there it is--good
solid happiness, such as, in waking moments, one feels to be
impossible.'
'Diffusing happiness--you!' said his brother.
'A very beautiful dream,' said Elsie. But no one dared to look in each
other's face.
'This strange dream of mine,' continued Mr. Dering, 'does not form part
of that little Illusion, though it seems connected with it. And as I
said, mostly it comes in the evening. The other day, however, I had it
in the afternoon--went to sleep in my office, I suppose.--Did you find
me asleep, Checkley? It was on Friday.'
'No. On Friday afternoon you went out.'
'Ah! When I came back, then-- I had forgotten that I went out. Did I go
out? Strange! Never mind. This continuous dream opens up a world of new
ideas and things which are, I perceive, when I am awake, quite unreal
and illusory. Yet they please. I see myself, as I said, diffusing
happiness with open hands. The world which is thus made happier consists
entirely of poor people. I move among them unseen: I listen to them: I
see what they do, and I hear what they say. Mind--all this is as real
and true to me as if it actually happened. And it fills me with
admiration of the blessed state of poverty. In my dream I pity the rich,
with all my heart. To get rich, I think--in this dream--they must have
practised so many deceptions----'
'Brother! brother!' Sir Samuel held up both hands.
'In my dream--only in my dream. Those who inherit riches are burdened
with the weight of their wealth, which will not suffer them to enter
into the arena; will not allow them to develop and to exercise their
talents, and afflicts them with the mental and bodily diseases that
belong to indolence. The poor, on the other hand, who live from day to
day, sometimes out of work for weeks together, practise easily the
simple virtues of brotherly love, charity, and mutual helpfulness. They
have learned to combine for the good of all rather than to fight, one
against another, for selfish gain. It is the only world where all are
borrowing and lending, giving and helping.'
'Brother, this dream of yours is like a socialistic tract.'
'It may be. Yet you see how strongly it takes hold of me, that while I
see the absurdity of the whole thing, it is not unpleasing to recall the
recollection of it. Well--I do not know what set me talking about this
dream.'
The smiles left his face: he became grave again: he ceased to talk: for
the rest of the evening he was once more the old solicitor, weighed down
with the affairs of other people.
'Checkley'--it was on the doorstep, and Sir Samuel waited while his wife
said a few fond things to her sister--'what the devil came over my
brother to-night?'
'I don't know indeed, Sir Samuel. I never heard him talk like that
before. Doin' good to 'em? Servin' a writ upon 'em is more our line. I
think he must be upset somewhere in his inside, and it's gone to his
head.'
'Practical benevolence! Living for other people! Have you heard him
complain of anything?'
'No, Sir Samuel. He never complains. Eats hearty, walks upright and
strong, works like he always has worked.--Doin' good! And the
blessedness of being pore! Seems most wonderful. Blessedness of being
pore! Well, Sir Samuel, I've enjoyed that blessedness myself, and I know
what it's like. Any or'nary preachin' chap might talk that nonsense; but
for your eminent brother, Sir Samuel, such a lawyer as him--to be
talking such stuff--if I may humbly so speak of my learned master's
words--it is--Sir Samuel--it really is amazing!'
'He said it was a dream, remember. But I agree with you, Checkley.--It
is amazing.'
'Humph! The blessedness of being pore! And over such a glass of port,
too! I thought I should ha' rolled off my chair--I did, indeed.--Here's
your good lady, Sir Samuel.'
* * * * *
'Elsie,' said Mrs. Arundel in the carriage, 'I think it was high time
that Mr. Dering should take a partner. He to dream of practical
benevolence! He to be diffusing happiness with open hands! Oh! most
lamentable--I call it. However, the deeds are signed, and we are all
right. In case of anything happening, it is a comfort to think that
George's position would be only improved.'