NEW VIEW OF SOCIETY.
————
In
these times, when a man sits down to write, it is considered necessary that he
should have a purpose in view. To prevent any misapprehension on this point, so
far as I am personally concerned, I beg to announce at once that I am provided
with a purpose of an exceedingly serious kind. I want to know whether I am fit
for Bedlam, or not?
This alarming subject of inquiry was started in my mind, about a week or ten
days ago, by a select circle of kind friends, whose remarks on the condition of
my brains have, since that period, proved to be not of the most complimentary
nature. The circumstances under which I have lost caste, intellectually
speaking, in the estimation of those around me, are of a singular kind. May I
beg permission to relate them?
I must begin (if I can be allowed to do so without giving offence) in my own
bedroom; and I must present myself, with many apologies, in rather less than a
half-dressed condition. To be plainer still, it was on one of the hottest days
of this remarkably hot summer—the time was between six and seven o’clock in the
evening—the thermometer had risen to eighty, in the house—I was sitting on a
cane chair, without coat, waistcoat, cravat or collar, with my shirt-sleeves
rolled up to cool my arms, and my feet half in and half out of my largest pair
of slippers—I was sitting, a moist and melancholy man, with my eyes fixed upon
my own Dress Costume reposing on the bed, and my heart fainting within me at the
prospect of going out to Dinner.
Yes: there it was—the prison of suffocating black broadcloth in which my
hospitable friends required me to shut myself up—there were the coat, waistcoat,
and trousers, the hideous habilimentary instruments of torture which Society
actually expected me to put on in the scorching hot condition of the London
atmosphere. All day long I had been rather less than half dressed, and had been
fainting with the heat. At that very moment, alone in my spacious bedroom, with
both the windows wide open, and with nothing but my shirt over my shoulders, I
was in the condition of a man who is gradually melting away, who is consciously
losing all sense of his own physical solidity.
How should I feel, in half an hour’s time, when I had enclosed myself in the
conventional layers of black broadcloth? How should I feel, in an hour’s time,
when I was shut into a dining-room with fifteen of my melting fellow-creatures,
half of them, at least, slowly liquefying in garments as black, as heavy, as
outrageously unsuited to the present weather as my own? How should I feel in
three hours’ time, when the evening party, which was to follow the dinner,
began, and when I and a hundred other polite propagators of animal heat were all
smothering each other within the space of two drawing-rooms, and under the
encouraging superincumbent auspices of the gas chandeliers? Society would have
been hot in January, under these after-dinner circumstances—what would Society
be in July?
While these serious questions were suggesting themselves to me, I took a turn
backwards and forwards in my bedroom; and perspired; and sat down again in my
cane chair. I got up once more, and approached the neighbourhood of my dress
coat, and weighed it experimentally in my arms; and perspired; and sat down
again in my cane chair. I got up for the third time, and tried a little
eau-de-Cologne on my forehead, and attempted to encourage myself by thinking of
the ten thousand other men, in their bedrooms at that moment, patiently putting
themselves into broadcloth prisons in all parts of London; and perspired; and
sat down again in my cane chair. Heat, I believe, does not retard the progress
of time. It was getting nearer and nearer to seven o’clock. I looked,
interrogatively, from my dress trousers to my legs. On that occasion, only, my
legs were eloquent, and they looked back at me, and said, No.
I rose, in a violent perspiration, and reviled myself bitterly, with my forlorn
dress trousers grasped in my hand. Wretch (I said), you are unworthy of the kind
attentions of your friends—you are a base renegade from your social duties—you
are unnaturally insensible to those charms of society which your civilised
fellow-creatures universally acknowledge! It was all in vain. Common Sense—that
low-lived quality which has no veneration for appearances—Common Sense, which
had not only suggested those terrible questions about what my sensations would
be after I was dressed, but had even encouraged my own faithful legs to mutiny
against me, now whispered persistently, My friend, if you make yourself at least
ten degrees hotter than you are already, of your own accord, you are an
Ass—Common Sense drew my trousers from my grasp, and left them in a dingy heap
on the floor; led my tottering steps (to this day I don’t know how) down stairs
to my writing-table; and there suggested to me one of the most graceful
epistolary compositions, of a brief kind, in the English language. It was
addressed to my much-injured hostess; it contained the words “ sudden
indisposition,” neatly placed in the centre of a surrounding network of polite
phraseology; and when I had sealed it up, and sent it off upon the spot, I was,
without any exception whatever, the happiest man, at that moment, in all London.
This is a startling confession to make, in a moral point of view. But the
interests of truth are paramount (except where one’s host and hostess are
concerned); and there are unhappily crimes, in this wicked world, which do
not bring with them the slightest
sense of misery to the perpetrator.
Of the means by which I contrived, after basely securing the privilege of
staying at home, to get up a nice, cool, solitary, impromptu dinner in my own
room, and of the dinner itself, no record shall appear in these pages. In my
humble opinion, modern writers of comic literature have already gorged the
English public to nausea with incessant eating and drinking in print.
Now-a-days, when a man has nothing whatever to say, he seems to me to write, in
a kind of gluttonous despair, about his dinner. I, for one, am tired of literary
gentlemen who unaccountably take it for granted that I am interested in knowing
when they are hungry; who appear to think that there is something exquisitely
new, humorous, and entertaining, in describing themselves as swallowing large
quantities of beer; who can tell me nothing about their adventures at home and
abroad, draw me no characters, and make me no remarks, without descending into
the kitchen to fortify themselves and their paragraphs with perpetual victuals
and drink. I am really and truly suffering so acutely from the mental dyspepsia
consequent on my own inability to digest other people’s meals, as served up in
modern literature, that the bare idea of ever writing about breakfast, lunch,
dinner, tea, or supper, in my own proper person, has become absolutely revolting
to me. Let my comic brethren of the pen feed in public as complacently and as
copiously as they please. For myself, if I live a hundred years, and write a
thousand volumes, no English reader—I solemnly declare it—shall ever know what I
have had for dinner, in any part of the world, or under any stress of
gastronomic circumstances. Dismissing my lonely meal, therefore, with the
briefest possible reference to it, let me get on to the evening, and to the
singular—or, as my friends consider it, to the crack-brained—occupation by which
I contrived to enliven my self-imposed solitude.
It was approaching nine o’clock, and I was tasting the full luxury of my own
cool seclusion, when the idea struck me that there was only one thing wanting to
complete my sense of perfect happiness. I rose with a malicious joy in my heart;
I threw my lightest paletot over my shoulders, put on a straw hat, pulled up my
slippers at the heel, and directed my steps to the house of my friend and host,
from whose dinner-party “sudden indisposition” had compelled me to be absent.
What was my object in taking this extraordinary course? The diabolical
object—for surely it can be qualified by no other term—of gloating over the
sufferings of my polite fellow-creatures in the dining-room, from the cool and
secret vantage-ground of the open street.
Nine o’clock had struck before I got to the house. A little crowd of street
idlers—cool and comfortable vagabonds, happily placed out of the pale of
Society—was assembled on the pavement, before the dining-room windows. I joined
them, in my airy and ungentlemanlike costume—I joined them, with the sensations
of a man who is about to investigate the nature of some great danger from which
he has just narrowly escaped. As I had foreseen, the suffocating male guests had
drawn up the blinds on the departure of the ladies to the drawing-room, so as to
get every available breath of air into the dining-room, reckless of all
inquisitive observation on the part of the lower orders in the street outside.
Between us—I willingly identify myself, on this occasion, with the mob—and the
gorgeously-appointed dessert-service of my friend and host, nothing intervened
but the area railings and the low, transparent, wire window-blinds. We stood
together sociably on the pavement and stared in. My brethren of the mob surveyed
the magnificent epergne, the decanters glittering under the light of the
chandelier, the fruit, flowers, and porcelain on the table; while I, on my side,
occupied myself with the human interest of the scene, and looked with
indescribable interest and relish at the guests.
There they were, all oozing away into silence and insensibility together;
smothered in their heavy black coats, and strangled in their stiff white
cravats! On one side of the table, Jenkins, Wapshare, and two strangers, all
four equally speechless, all four equally gentlemanly, all four equally
prostrated by the lights, the dinner, and the heat. I can see the two strangers
feebly dabbing their foreheads with white pocket-handkerchiefs; Jenkins is slyly
looking at his watch; the head of Wapshare hangs helplessly over his
finger-glass. At the end of the table, I discern the back of my injured host—it
leans feebly and crookedly against the chair—it is such a faint back to look at,
on this melancholy occasion, that his own tailor would hardly know it again. On
the other side of the table, there are three guests only: Soward, fast asleep,
and steaming with the heat; Ripsher, wide awake, and glittering with the heat;
and Pilkington—the execrable Pilkington, the scourge of society, the longest,
loudest, cruelest, and densest bore in existence—Pilkington alone of all this
miserable company still wags complacently his unresting tongue. There is a
fourth place vacant by his side. My
place, beyond a doubt. Horrible thought! I see my own ghost sitting there: the
appearance of that perspiring spectre is too dreadful to be described. I shudder
in my convenient front place against the area railings, as I survey my own
full-dressed Fetch at the dinner-table—I turn away my face in terror, and look
for comfort at my street-companions, my worthy fellow outcasts, watching with me
on either side. One of them catches my eye. “Ain’t it beautiful?” says my
brother of the mob, pointing with a deeply-curved thumb at the silver and glass
on the table. “And sich lots to drink!” Artless street-innocent! unsophisticated
costermonger! he actually envies his suffering superiors inside!
The imaginary view of that ghost of myself sitting at the table has such a
bewildering effect on my mind, that I find it necessary to walk away a little,
and realise the gratifying certainty that I am really a free man, walking the
streets in my airy paletot, and not the melting victim of Pilkington and
Society. I retire gently over the pavement. How tenderly the kind night air toys
with the tails of my gossamer garment, flutters about my bare neck, and lifts
from time to time the ribbon-ends on my cool straw hat! Oh, my much-injured
host, what would you not give to be leaning against a lamp-post, in loose jean
trousers (as I lean now), and meeting the breeze lazily as it wantons round the
corner of the street! Oh, feverish-sleeping Soward—oh, glittering Ripsher—oh,
twin-strangers among the guests, dabbing your damp foreheads with duplicate
pocket-handkerchiefs—oh, everybody but Pilkington (in whose sufferings I
rejoice), are there any mortal blessings you all covet more dearly, at this
moment, than my vagabond freedom of locomotion, and my disgracefully undressed
condition of body! Oh, Society, when the mid-year has come, and the heavenly
fires of Summer are all a-blaze, what unutterable oppressions are inflicted in
thy white and pitiless name!
With this apostrophe (in the manner of Madame Roland) I saunter lazily back to
my post of observation before the dining-room windows. So! so! the wretched
gentlemen are getting up—they can endure it no longer—they are going to change
from a lower room that is hot to an upper room that is hotter. Alterations have
taken place, since I saw them last, in the heart-rending pantomime of their
looks and actions. The two strangers have given up dabbing their foreheads in
despair, and are looking helplessly at the pictures—as if Art could make them
cooler! Jenkins and Wapshare have shifted occupations. This time, it is Wapshare
who is longingly looking at his watch, and Jenkins who is using his
finger-glass; into the depths of which I detect him yawning furtively, under
cover of moistening his lips. Sleepy Soward has been woke up, and sits steaming
and staring with protuberant eyes and swollen cheeks. The glittering face of
Ripsher reflects the chandelier, as if his skin was made of glass. Execrable
Pilkington continues to talk. My host of the feeble back is propped against the
sideboard, and smiles piteously as he indicates to his miserable guests the way
up-stairs. They obey him, and retire from the room in slow funereal procession.
How strangely well I feel; how unaccountably strong and cool and blandly
composed in mind and body!—Hoi! hoi! hoi! out of the way there! Lord bless your
honour! crash! bang! Here is the first carriage bursting in among us like a
shell; here are the linkmen scattering us off the pavement, and receiving
Society with all the honours of the street. The Soirée is beginning. The
scorching hundreds are coming to squeeze the last faint relics of fresh air out
at the drawing-room windows. How strangely well I feel; how unaccountably strong
and cool and blandly composed in mind and body!
I once more join my worthy mob-brethren; I add one to the joyous human lane
which watches the guests as they go in, and which has not got such a thing as a
dress-coat on either side of it. I am not in the least afraid of being
recognised—for who would suppose it possible that I could conduct myself in this
disgraceful manner? Ha! the first guests are well known to me. Sir Aubrey Yollop,
Lady Yollop, the two Misses Yollop. “What time shall we order the carriage?”
“Infernal nuisance coming at all this hot weather—get away as soon as we
can—carriage wait.” Crash! bang! More guests known to me. Doctor and Mrs
Gripper, and Mr Julius Gripper. “What time shall we order the carriage?” “How
the devil should I know?” (Heat has made the doctor irritable) “ The carriages
are ordered, sir, at one.” “I can’t and won’t stand it, Mrs Gripper, till that
time—cursed tomfoolery giving parties at all, this hot weather—carriage at
twelve.”—Crash! bang! Strangers to me, this time. A little dapper man, fanning
himself with his hat; a colossal old woman, with a red-hot garnet tiara and a
scorching scarlet scarf; a slim, cool, smiling, serenely stupid girl, in that
sensible half-naked costume which gives the ladies such an advantage over us at
summer evening parties. More difficulty with these, and the next dozen arrivals,
about ordering the carriage—more complaints of the misery of going out—nobody
sharp enough to apply the obvious remedy of going home again—all equally ready
to bemoan their hard fate and to rush on it voluntarily at the same time. I look
up, as I make these reflections, to the drawing-room story. Wherever the windows
are open, they are stopped up by gowns; wherever the windows are shut, Society
expresses itself on them in the form of steam. It is the Black Hole at Calcutta,
ornamented and lit up. It is a refinement of slow torture unknown to the
Inquisition and the North American savages. And the name of it in England is
Pleasure—Pleasure when we offer it to others, which is not so very wonderful;
Pleasure, equally, when we accept it ourselves, which is perfectly amazing.
While I am pondering over Pleasure, as Society understands it, I am suddenly
confronted by Duty, also as Society understands it, in the shape of a policeman.
He comes to clear the pavement, and he fixes
me with his eye. I am the first and
foremost vagabond whom he thinks it desirable to dismiss. To my delight, he
singles me out, before my friend’s house, on the very threshold of the door,
through which I have been invited to pass in the honourable capacity of guest,
as the first obstruction to be removed. “ Come, I say, you there—move on!” Yes,
Mr Policeman, with pleasure. Other men, in my situation, might be a little
irritated, and might astonish you by entering the house and revealing themselves
indignantly to the footman. I am a philosopher; and I am grateful to you, Mr
Policeman, for reminding me of my own liberty. Yes, official sir, I
can, move on; it is my pride and
pleasure to move on; it is my great superiority over the unfortunate persons
shut up in that drawing-room, not one of whom can move on, or has so much as a
prospect of moving on, for some time to come. Wish you good evening, Mr
Policeman. In the course of a long experience of Society, I never enjoyed any
party half as much as I have enjoyed this; and I hardly know any favour you
could ask of me which I am so readily disposed to grant as the favour of moving
on. Many, many thanks; and pray remember me kindly at Scotland-yard.
I leave the scene—or, rather, I am walked off the scene—in the sweetest possible
temper. The carriages crash and bang past me by dozens; the victims pour into
the already over-crammed house by twenties and thirties; Society’s gowns and
Society’s steam are thicker than ever on the windows, as I see the last of them.
Shocking! shocking! I am almost ashamed to feel so strangely well, so
unaccountably strong and cool and blandly composed in mind and body.
On my airy way home (in excellent time) I endeavour—being naturally a serious
and thoughtful man—to extract some useful result for others out of my own novel
experience of Society. Animated by a loving and missionary spirit, I resolve to
enlighten my ignorant fellow-creatures, my dark surrounding circle of social
heathen, by communicating to them my new discovery of the best way of attending
London dinner-parties and soirées in the fervid heat of July and August. In the
course of the next few days I carry out my humane intention by relating the true
narrative here set down to my most valued and intimate friends. I point out the
immense sanitary advantages which are likely to accrue from the general adoption
of such a sensible and original course of proceeding as mine has been. I show
clearly that it must, as a matter of necessity, be followed by a wise change in
the season of the year at which parties are authorised to be given. If we were
all to go and look in at the windows in our cool morning costume, and then come
away again, the masters and mistresses of houses would have no choice left but
to adapt their hospitalities sensibly to atmospheric circumstances; summer would
find us as summer ought to find us, in the fields; and winter would turn our
collective animal heat to profitable and comfortable results.
I put these plain points unmistakably; but to my utter amazement nobody accepts
my suggestions. My friends, who all groan over giving hot parties and going to
hot parties, universally resent my ingeniously unconventional plan for making
parties cool; and universally declare that no man in his right senses could have
acted in such an outrageously uncustomary manner as the manner in which I
represent myself to have acted on the memorable evening which these pages
record. Apparently, the pleasure of grumbling is intimately connected, in the
estimation of civilised humanity, with the pleasure of going into Society? Or,
in other words, ladies and gentlemen particularly like their social amusements,
as long as they can say that they don’t like them. And these are the people who
indignantly tell me that I could hardly have been in my right senses to have
acted as I did on the scorching July evening of my friend’s dinner. The rest who
went into the house, to half suffocate each other, at the very hottest period of
the year, are all sensible persons; and I, who remained outside in the cool, and
looked at them comfortably, am fit for Bedlam? Am I?
First published:All
The Year Round
20 August 1859 vol.I pp.396-399