THE FAREWELL-PARTY.
On the following day, Arthur and I reached the Hall in good time, as
only a few of the guests—it was to be a party of eighteen—had as yet
arrived; and these were talking with the Earl, leaving us the
opportunity of a few words apart with our hostess.
“Who is that _very_ learned-looking man with the large spectacles?”
Arthur enquired. “I haven’t met him here before, have I?”
“No, he’s a new friend of ours,” said Lady Muriel: “a German, I believe.
He _is_ such a dear old thing! And quite the most learned man I ever
met—with _one_ exception, of course!” she added humbly, as Arthur drew
himself up with an air of offended dignity.
“And the young lady in blue, just beyond him, talking to that
foreign-looking man. Is _she_ learned, too?”
“I don’t know,” said Lady Muriel. “But I’m told she’s a wonderful
piano-forte-player. I hope you’ll hear her to-night. I asked that
foreigner to take her in, because _he’s_ very musical, too. He’s a
French Count, I believe; and he sings _splendidly_!”
“Science—music—singing—you have indeed got a complete party!” said
Arthur. “I feel quite a privileged person, meeting all these stars. I
_do_ love music!”
“But the party isn’t _quite_ complete!” said Lady Muriel. “You haven’t
brought us those two beautiful children,” she went on, turning to me.
“He brought them here to tea, you know, one day last summer,” again
addressing Arthur; “and they _are_ such darlings!”
“They are, _indeed_,” I assented.
“But why haven’t you brought them with you? You promised my father you
_would_.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said; “but really it was impossible to bring them
with me.” Here I most certainly _meant_ to conclude the sentence: and it
was with a feeling of utter amazement, which I cannot adequately
describe, that I heard myself _going on speaking_. “—but they are to
join me here in the course of the evening” were the words, uttered in
_my_ voice, and seeming to come from _my_ lips.
“I’m _so_ glad!” Lady Muriel joyfully replied. “I _shall_ enjoy
introducing them to some of my friends here! When do you expect them?”
I took refuge in silence. The only _honest_ reply would have been “That
was not _my_ remark. _I_ didn’t say it, and _it isn’t true_!” But I had
not the moral courage to make such a confession. The character of a
‘lunatic’ is not, I believe, very difficult to _acquire_: but it is
amazingly difficult to _get rid of_: and it seemed quite certain that
any such speech as _that_ would _quite_ justify the issue of a writ ‘_de
lunatico inquirendo_.’
Lady Muriel evidently thought I had failed to hear her question, and
turned to Arthur with a remark on some other subject; and I had time to
recover from my shock of surprise—or to awake out of my momentary
‘eerie’ condition, whichever it was.
When things around me seemed once more to be real, Arthur was saying
“I’m afraid there’s no help for it: they _must_ be finite in number.”
“I should be sorry to have to believe it,” said Lady Muriel. “Yet, when
one comes to think of it, there _are_ no new melodies, now-a-days. What
people talk of as ‘the last new song’ always recalls to _me_ some tune
I’ve known as a child!”
“The day must come—if the world lasts long enough——” said Arthur, “when
every possible tune will have been composed—every possible pun
perpetrated——” (Lady Muriel wrung her hands, like a tragedy-queen) “and,
worse than that, every possible _book_ written! For the number of
_words_ is finite.”
“It’ll make very little difference to the _authors_,” I suggested.
“Instead of saying ‘_what_ book shall I write?’ an author will ask
himself ‘_which_ book shall I write?’ A mere verbal distinction!”
Lady Muriel gave me an approving smile. “But _lunatics_ would always
write new books, surely?” she went on. “They _couldn’t_ write the sane
books over again!”
“True,” said Arthur. “But _their_ books would come to an end, also. The
number of lunatic _books_ is as finite as the number of lunatics.”
“And _that_ number is becoming greater every year,” said a pompous man,
whom I recognised as the self-appointed showman on the day of the
picnic.
“So they say,” replied Arthur. “And, when ninety per cent. of us are
lunatics,” (he seemed to be in a wildly nonsensical mood) “the asylums
will be put to their proper use.”
“And that is——?” the pompous man gravely enquired.
“_To shelter the sane!_” said Arthur. “_We_ shall bar ourselves in. The
lunatics will have it all their own way, _outside_. They’ll do it a
little queerly, no doubt. Railway-collisions will be always happening:
steamers always blowing up: most of the towns will be burnt down: most
of the ships sunk——”
“And most of the men _killed_!” murmured the pompous man, who was
evidently hopelessly bewildered.
“Certainly,” Arthur assented. “Till at last there will be _fewer_
lunatics than sane men. Then _we_ come out: _they_ go in: and things
return to their normal condition!”
The pompous man frowned darkly, and bit his lip, and folded his arms,
vainly trying to think it out. “He is _jesting_!” he muttered to himself
at last, in a tone of withering contempt, as he stalked away.
By this time the other guests had arrived; and dinner was announced.
Arthur of course took down Lady Muriel: and _I_ was pleased to find
myself seated at her other side, with a severe-looking old lady (whom I
had not met before, and whose name I had, as is usual in introductions,
entirely failed to catch, merely gathering that it sounded like a
compound-name) as my partner for the banquet.
She appeared, however, to be acquainted with Arthur, and confided to me
in a low voice her opinion that he was “a very argumentative young man.”
Arthur, for his part, seemed well inclined to show himself worthy of the
character she had given him, and, hearing her say “I never take wine
with my soup!” (this was _not_ a confidence to me, but was launched upon
Society, as a matter of general interest), he at once challenged a
combat by asking her “_when_ would you say that property _commence_ in a
plate of soup?”
“This is _my_ soup,” she sternly replied: “and what is before you is
_yours_.”
“No doubt,” said Arthur: “but _when_ did I begin to own it? Up to the
moment of its being put into the plate, it was the property of our host:
while being offered round the table, it was, let us say, held in trust
by the waiter: did it become mine when I accepted it? Or when it was
placed before me? Or when I took the first spoonful?”
“He is a _very_ argumentative young man!” was all the old lady would
say: but she said it audibly, this time, feeling that Society had a
right to know it.
Arthur smiled mischievously. “I shouldn’t mind betting you a shilling,”
he said, “that the Eminent Barrister next you” (It certainly _is_
possible to say words so as to make them begin with capitals!) “ca’n’t
answer me!”
“I _never_ bet,” she sternly replied.
“Not even sixpenny points at _whist_?”
“_Never!_” she repeated. “_Whist_ is innocent enough: but whist played
for _money_!” She shuddered.
Arthur became serious again. “I’m afraid I ca’n’t take that view,” he
said. “I consider that the introduction of small stakes for card-playing
was one of the most _moral_ acts Society ever did, _as_ Society.”
“How was it so?” said Lady Muriel.
“Because it took Cards, once for all, out of the category of games at
which _cheating_ is possible. Look at the way Croquet is demoralising
Society. Ladies are beginning to cheat at it, terribly: and, if they’re
found out, they only laugh, and call it fun. But when there’s _money_ at
stake, that is out of the question. The swindler is _not_ accepted as a
wit. When a man sits down to cards, and cheats his friends out of their
money, he doesn’t get much _fun_ out of it—unless he thinks it fun to be
kicked down stairs!”
“If all gentlemen thought as badly of ladies as _you_ do,” my neighbour
remarked with some bitterness, “there would be very few—very few——.” She
seemed doubtful how to end her sentence, but at last took “honeymoons”
as a safe word.
“On the contrary,” said Arthur, the mischievous smile returning to his
face, “if only people would adopt _my_ theory, the number of
honeymoons—quite of a new kind—would be greatly increased!”
“May we hear about this new kind of honeymoon?” said Lady Muriel.
“Let _X_ be the gentleman,” Arthur began, in a slightly raised voice, as
he now found himself with an audience of _six_, including ‘Mein Herr,’
who was seated at the other side of my polynomial partner. “Let _X_ be
the gentleman, and _Y_ the lady to whom he thinks of proposing. He
applies for an Experimental Honeymoon. It is granted. Forthwith the
young couple—accompanied by the great-aunt of _Y_, to act as
chaperone—start for a month’s tour, during which they have many a
moonlight-walk, and many a _tête-à-tête_ conversation, and each can form
a more correct estimate of the other’s character, in four _weeks_, than
would have been possible in as many _years_, when meeting under the
ordinary restrictions of Society. And it is only after their _return_
that _X_ finally decides whether he will, or will not, put the momentous
question to _Y_!”
“In nine cases out of ten,” the pompous man proclaimed, “he would decide
to break it off!”
“Then, in nine cases out of ten,” Arthur rejoined, “an unsuitable match
would be prevented, and _both_ parties saved from misery!”
“The only really _unsuitable_ matches,” the old lady remarked, “are
those made without sufficient _Money_. Love may come _afterwards_. Money
is needed _to begin with_!”
This remark was cast loose upon Society, as a sort of general challenge;
and, as such, it was at once accepted by several of those within
hearing: _Money_ became the key-note of the conversation for some time;
and a fitful echo of it was again heard, when the dessert had been
placed upon the table, the servants had left the room, and the Earl had
started the wine in its welcome progress round the table.
“I’m very glad to see you keep up the old customs,” I said to Lady
Muriel as I filled her glass. “It’s really delightful to experience,
once more, the peaceful feeling that comes over one when the waiters
have left the room—when one can converse without the feeling of being
overheard, and without having dishes constantly thrust over one’s
shoulder. How much more sociable it is to be able to pour out the wine
for the ladies, and to hand the dishes to those who wish for them!”
“In that case, kindly send those peaches down here,” said a fat
red-faced man, who was seated beyond our pompous friend. “I’ve been
wishing for them—diagonally—for some time!”
“Yes, it _is_ a ghastly innovation,” Lady Muriel replied, “letting the
waiters carry round the wine at dessert. For one thing, they _always_
take it the wrong way round—which of course brings bad luck to
_everybody_ present!”
“Better go the _wrong_ way than not go _at all_!” said our host. “Would
you kindly help yourself?” (This was to the fat red-faced man.) “You are
not a teetotaler, I think?”
“Indeed but I _am_!” he replied, as he pushed on the bottles. “Nearly
twice as much money is spent in England on _Drink_, as on any other
article of food. Read this card.” (What faddist ever goes about without
a pocketful of the appropriate literature?) “The stripes of different
colours represent the amounts spent on various articles of food. Look at
the highest three. Money spent on butter and on cheese, thirty-five
millions: on bread, seventy millions: on _intoxicating liquors_, one
hundred and thirty-six millions! If I had my way, I would close every
public-house in the land! Look at that card, and read the motto. _That’s
where all the money goes to!_”
“Have you seen the _Anti-Teetotal Card_?” Arthur innocently enquired.
“No, Sir, I have not!” the orator savagely replied. “What is it like?”
“Almost exactly like this one. The coloured stripes are the same. Only,
instead of the words ‘Money spent on,’ it has ‘Incomes derived from sale
of’; and, instead of ‘That’s where all the money goes to,’ its motto is
‘_That’s where all the money comes from!_’”
The red-faced man scowled, but evidently considered Arthur beneath his
notice. So Lady Muriel took up the cudgels. “Do you hold the theory,”
she enquired, “that people can preach teetotalism more effectually by
being teetotalers themselves?”
“Certainly I do!” replied the red-faced man. “Now, here is a case in
point,” unfolding a newspaper-cutting: “let me read you this letter from
a teetotaler. _To the Editor. Sir, I was once a moderate drinker, and
knew a man who drank to excess. I went to him. ‘Give up this drink,’ I
said. ‘It will ruin your health!’ ‘You drink,’ he said: ‘why shouldn’t
I?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I know when to leave off.’ He turned away from
me. ‘You drink in your way,’ he said: ‘let me drink in mine. Be off!’
Then I saw that, to do any good with him, I must forswear drink. From
that hour I haven’t touched a drop!_”
“There! What do you say to _that_?” He looked round triumphantly, while
the cutting was handed round for inspection.
“How very curious!” exclaimed Arthur, when it had reached him. “Did you
happen to see a letter, last week, about early rising? It was strangely
like this one.”
The red-faced man’s curiosity was roused. “Where did it appear?” he
asked.
“Let me read it to you,” said Arthur. He took some papers from his
pocket, opened one of them, and read as follows. “_To the Editor. Sir, I
was once a moderate sleeper, and knew a man who slept to excess. I
pleaded with him. ‘Give up this lying in bed,’ I said, ‘It will ruin
your health!’ ‘You go to bed,’ he said: ‘why shouldn’t I?’ ‘Yes,’ I
said, ‘but I know when to get up in the morning.’ He turned away from
me. ‘You sleep in your way,’ he said: ‘let me sleep in mine. Be off!’
Then I saw that to do any good with him, I must forswear sleep. From
that hour I haven’t been to bed!_”
Arthur folded and pocketed his paper, and passed on the
newspaper-cutting. None of us dared to laugh, the red-faced man was
evidently so angry. “Your parallel doesn’t run on all fours!” he
snarled.
“_Moderate_ drinkers never do so!” Arthur quietly replied. Even the
stern old lady laughed at this.
“But it needs many other things to make a _perfect_ dinner!” said Lady
Muriel, evidently anxious to change the subject. “Mein Herr! What is
_your_ idea of a perfect dinner-party?”
The old man looked round smilingly, and his gigantic spectacles seemed
more gigantic than ever. “A _perfect_ dinner-party?” he repeated.
“First, it must be presided over by our present hostess!”
“That, of _course_!” she gaily interposed. “But what _else_, Mein Herr?”
“I can but tell you what I have seen,” said Mein Herr, “in mine own—in
the country I have traveled in.”
He paused for a full minute, and gazed steadily at the ceiling—with so
dreamy an expression on his face, that I feared he was going off into a
reverie, which seemed to be his normal state. However, after a minute,
he suddenly began again.
“That which chiefly causes the failure of a dinner-party, is the
running-short—not of meat, nor yet of drink, but of _conversation_.”
“In an _English_ dinner-party,” I remarked, “I have never known
_small-talk_ run short!”
“Pardon me,” Mein Herr respectfully replied, “I did not say
‘small-talk.’ I said ‘conversation.’ All such topics as the weather, or
politics, or local gossip, are unknown among us. They are either vapid
or controversial. What we need for _conversation_ is a topic of
_interest_ and of _novelty_. To secure these things we have tried
various plans—Moving-Pictures, Wild-Creatures, Moving-Guests, and a
Revolving-Humorist. But this last is only adapted to _small_ parties.”
“Let us have it in four separate Chapters, please!” said Lady Muriel,
who was evidently deeply interested—as, indeed, most of the party were,
by this time: and, all down the table, talk had ceased, and heads were
leaning forwards, eager to catch fragments of Mein Herr’s oration.
“Chapter One! Moving-Pictures!” was proclaimed in the silvery voice of
our hostess.
“The dining-table is shaped like a circular ring,” Mein Herr began, in
low dreamy tones, which, however, were perfectly audible in the silence.
“The guests are seated at the inner side as well as the outer, having
ascended to their places by a winding-staircase, from the room below.
Along the middle of the table runs a little railway; and there is an
endless train of trucks, worked round by machinery; and on each truck
there are two pictures, leaning back to back. The train makes two
circuits during dinner; and, when it has been _once_ round, the waiters
turn the pictures round in each truck, making them face the other way.
Thus _every_ guest sees _every_ picture!”
He paused, and the silence seemed deader than ever. Lady Muriel looked
aghast. “Really, if this goes on,” she exclaimed, “I shall have to drop
a pin! Oh, it’s _my_ fault, is it?” (In answer to an appealing look from
Mein Herr.) “I was forgetting my duty. Chapter Two! Wild-Creatures!”
“We found the Moving-Pictures a _little_ monotonous,” said Mein Herr.
“People didn’t care to talk Art through a whole dinner; so we tried
Wild-Creatures. Among the flowers, which we laid (just as _you_ do)
about the table, were to be seen, here a mouse, there a beetle; here a
spider,” (Lady Muriel shuddered) “there a wasp; here a toad, there a
snake;” (“Father!” said Lady Muriel, plaintively. “Did you hear
_that_?”) “so we had plenty to talk about!”
“And when you got stung——” the old lady began.
“They were all chained-up, dear Madam!”
And the old lady gave a satisfied nod.
There was no silence to follow, _this_ time. “Third Chapter!” Lady
Muriel proclaimed at once, “Moving-Guests!”
“Even the Wild-Creatures proved monotonous,” the orator proceeded. “So
we left the guests to choose their own subjects; and, to avoid monotony,
we changed _them_. We made the table of _two_ rings; and the inner ring
moved slowly round, all the time, along with the floor in the middle and
the inner row of guests. Thus _every_ inner guest was brought
face-to-face with _every_ outer guest. It was a little confusing,
sometimes, to have to _begin_ a story to one friend and _finish_ it to
another; but _every_ plan has its faults, you know.”
“Fourth Chapter!” Lady Muriel hastened to announce. “The
Revolving-Humorist!”
“For a _small_ party we found it an excellent plan to have a round
table, with a hole cut in the middle large enough to hold _one_ guest.
Here we placed our _best_ talker. He revolved slowly, facing every other
guest in turn: and he told lively anecdotes the whole time!”
“I shouldn’t like it!” murmured the pompous man. “It would make me
giddy, revolving like that! I should decline to——” here it appeared to
dawn upon him that perhaps the assumption he was making was not
warranted by the circumstances: he took a hasty gulp of wine, and choked
himself.
But Mein Herr had relapsed into reverie, and made no further remark.
Lady Muriel gave the signal, and the ladies left the room.