CHAPTER XXIV
Which tells, with quite Unnecessary Frankness, of what chanced at the Tavern of“The Cock and Bull”in Fleet Street
Inthe dining-room ofThe Cock and Bullwas laughter, and the clink of glasses, and some hiccup—for the dinner was long since at an end, and the guests held much wine—not wholly without giddiness and the confusion of tongues. There was more than a hint of Babel.
It was the feast of Saint Valentine’s Day, and the commercial gentlemen, fore-gathered there, made the sentiment atThe Cock and Bullthis night sacred to the Ladies.
Major Modeyne, being in the chair, sat at the head of the table; and a-down it, along both sides, were city men; and at the end of all the poetic, sallow, and vague-eyed landlord of the tavern, who, so repute wagged a whispering tongue, had not been above taking his Double First at Oxford—a vague prize to your ordinary mortal that savours of the mysteries of Eleusis and a full hand of trumps at the gaming-table of life, though ’tis said to be useless enough, being of the nature of fireworks in the grey fastnesses of the skull. There’s something of the awesome in big names. However that may be, our landlord was a gloomy fellow in his cups, and ran to latinities, so that the wit came mostly from the head, where was the Authority of the Chair—indeed, Modeyne had repartee so long as he could keep an eyelid up, though fragments of it had served the world of badinage before.
The debauch being dedicate to the ladies, then, our gloomy landlord raised the glass to the respectable sentiment ofSweethearts and Wives.
And, the toast being drunk, as indeed was the company, the Chair, as an excuse to empty the glasses again, gave the toast of retort,Other Fellows’ Sweethearts and Wives—the hiccup which was the full-stop to the Major’s waggery being drowned in a shout of laughter and the noisy drinking of the toast. Indeed, they stood up to it, one foot on chair and one on table, giving it with musical honours, though, as the draper, a fellow of polygamous sentiments from his own showing, said:
“This standing on chairs displayed a childlike confidence in the design of creation and man’s destiny under all conditions tomaintain the upright position on but two legs, that would have done credit to a Sunday-school teacher.”
He himself, reeling at his own dazzling elevation, grasped the great lustre chandelier that depended from the ceiling, which, flaring magnificently, gave way with him, so that he fell with it amongst the wine-glasses; and whilst they plucked splinters of broken glass from the lower end of him, he whimsically owned his contrition at having tempted Providence by not sitting anchored to the good seat that had been assigned to him. Still, said he, commerce must follow the army; and the Major had the habit of forlorn hopes, having acquired in youth and on the tented field the taste for “withering fires” and “bloody engagements”—he said this with all apologies—hiccup—to any churchwardens who might be present—hiccup—but hemeantbloody engagements.
As a fact, these commercial gentlemen adored the army and navy—never were such fire-eaters as they. A tale of carnage, as long as the old flag came out a-top, thrilled them and roused their maddest enthusiasms. They thundered applause upon the heels of the bloodthirsty sentiment. They were ready to die, so they averred hiccuping, in their very cups for the divine right of their king and the infallibility of the upper classes. Was never such service of devotion as they swore to the “Thin Red Line” and the “Handy Man.” Gods, it made the blood leap to hear them—they were thirsting for self-sacrifice—each one of them. Indeed for the dear old flag they were prepared to fling away Christianity—riches—suburban villa—happy home—everything. The glasses leaped to the thunder of their emotions.
Here, indeed, were they all aristocrat—hating the democracy with a bitter hatred. The lord mayor’s coach drove at the slow trot through all their varied ambitions, its golden caparisoned horses making it to glitter a fixed star to their designs, a guide to their hopes—and, from that, the ultimate step into the peerage, riches, powdered footmen, and marble halls. It was all tucked away tight behind the bloodshot eyes, in their secret imaginations. When they went to bed at night, took off their trousers, and blew out the light, the dream of these things passed in pageant along the top of their foot-rails. To be a Nob—so they put it with vulgar lip, when confessing to their own souls—that was the Ultimate Thing. They believed in their God—a little hesitantly on occasions; but their belief knew no wavering in the divine inspiration of the statesmanship of the House of Lords.
The polygamous draper but echoed the general sentiment when he condemned the vulgarity of the masses.
The British workman had his whole contempt—(thus he delivered himself)—the British workman did as little as he could, and got a ridiculously high wage that was so much outside his needs that he was always more or less drunk—hiccup—gen’rally more—hiccup—in the public-house—hiccup hiccup—and the—gin-palace. What did these gorgeous and brightly illuminated drinking-saloons that shone in the darkness of the darkest street mean but the widespread overpayment of the working-man andhis consequently seeking in these costly pleasure-houses of vice, when his so-called day’s work was done, his illicit—hiccup—illicit joys.
Long and sustained applause.
“Hee-haw!” cooed the Major. “Too-ra-loora-lay.”
The draper turned upon him:
“Yer can’t get over it, sir—hiccup—thereit is.” He swept his hand towards the landlord: “There’s your workman—hiccup—and there’s your public-house”—he swept his hand to the Major.
The Major rapped upon the table:
“Order! order!” cried he—“the chairman isnota public-house.”
He giggled, and titters turned to laughter.
The erotic draper sat down:
“The army keeps a-jumpin’ on the bloomin’ chest of commerce to-night,” said he, “until I forget—hiccup—forget my intentions.”
The Major begged to remind the gentleman that this was not a Labour night, but the Feast of St. Valentine, when even the greyest sparrows skipped amorous with love’s delight along the homely necessary waterspout.
The draper apologized handsomely; and they drank together.
The draper was now called upon, as a man of taste in the matter, to make the speech of the evening: The Ladies—Lovely Woman.
He arose and spoke.
He apologized for having disturbed the harmony of the evening by his earlier essay, but the British workman was the thorn in his side——
A waggish commercial person, an atheistic upholsterer and something of a rake, called out that they had all understood that it was the splinter of a sherry glass that had been drawn from the wound.
The Major rose and called for order—their honest draper only used a metaphor, a So-to-Speak—besides, the splinter of glass had not been removed from the gentleman’s side, nor by any stretch of the imagination nor tribute to delicacy could it be called his side. The affair of the wine-glass, and therefore all reference to it, must be avoided—it was a painful subject, and the incident was now closed.
“Haw-haw!” guffawed the rakish upholsterer. “But the wound ain’t—it was our honest draper that re-opened the wound.”
The Major’s eyes twinkled:
“Order, order,” cried he. “The wound, sir, and the incident are now closed. The subject before the house is Lovely Woman.”
He sat down.
The draper licked his lips sullenly, and proceeded.
“Gentlemen,” said he, and he thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, raising a drowsy eyebrow—“woman was once content tobe. Hiccup. To trip through the banquet of existence appealing to man as the Beautiful; and, being beautiful, to be loved—to sit on the knees of man and kiss him kisses. She is no longer content. Woman has become a danger—amenace—hiccup—a pronounced menace. Damn this hiccup! Woman, I say, has become a menace to the State. Woman is no longer content to be beautiful—she has come out into the noisy thoroughfare of life and demands liberty to win her own career, and to clean up that thoroughfare. I call it unwomanly. Yet the men, like the asses they are—hiccup—are marrying them. But, you know, I’m against blue-stockings——”
“Order!” cried the Major—“the ladies’ underclothes are out of order.”
The draper licked his lips and blinked:
“I withdraw the stockings,” said he—“fancy, you and me, gentlemen, mating with a female who knows as much as we do—fancy the want of ’armony there must be in the house where the lady is our equal in intelligence and in the—all the other things that go to make up a man’s natural superiority—hiccup.... I’m against this Pallas Athene business myself—the woman putting on the blooming helmet and coming out and criticising conduct. It’s indelicate. It takes the bloom off the peach of her modesty. Not, mind you, that I’m one as plumps too solid for modesty. Not at all. I don’t go nap on modesty. For my part, I like a woman who can take her buss like a live thing—as women were meant by God’s design so to do. A woman who draws the line at honest kissing is no woman at all—and is of the nature of a public nuisance. A woman who is cold-blooded enough to write sonnets to her love when she might be sitting on his knees and loving her love is committing an offence against her Original Intention—which is a sin against nature. I ask you, then, gentlemen, to fill your glasses and drown Modesty....”