The storm of London: a social rhapsody

by Fernande Blaze de Bury

Whether Lord Somerville had touched the keynote of social ethics remained unknown, but he retired early to his pallet and slept soundly through the still night.

Next day was the same, the day after identical, and the week passed thus without any change in the London phenomenon. Had the carpet in the Arabian tales carried the whole metropolis to some undiscovered planet, the wonderment could not have been greater. After a few days, Lionel observed that the L.C.C. Neptune had acquired more ease, more laisser-aller in his movements and postures, and decidedly sat less stiffly on his high perch; the butcher’s boy also carried his tray on his shoulder with distinct dash and comeliness. From his daily observations he came to the conclusion that London life, in its mechanical working, was going on pretty much as usual. He questioned his faithful valet, who by this time had become more than a servant, being newsagent and Court circular rolled into one. What he learned through the keyhole was astounding. No House of Commons, no Upper House were sitting! How could anything go on at that rate? Ah! that was the strangest part of it, for materially everything seemed to be as usual; the tradespeople came round for orders, and there was no danger of starving. The wheels of life kept on rolling, for, those who represented the axle were still in the centre of the wheel, and nothing could remove them. It was the upper part of the edifice that had given way, or at least had willingly retired into modest seclusion. The wheels might run for a long time without the coach, but the coach had no power to advance in any way without the wheels. This is what puzzled Lionel so much; he had always believed that if Society took it into its head to strike, the world would come to a standstill; and here was a colossal emergency in which one part of the edifice went on as if nothing had happened, while the other—in his eyes the important one—was forced to retire behind its walls, if it meant to keep sacred the principles of modesty and decorum; and still the whole structure had not foundered. Of course it could not last for ever. Nothing did last; and this axiom consoled Lord Somerville, as he cradled himself into the belief that the present condition would never answer in this eminently aristocratic empire. Why had not such a thing happened to Parisians? “I could safely declare that they would not have made such a fuss about it. They would have taken the adventure as it is, if transient, and would have accepted the joke with rollicking fun; if serious, they would have made the best of it, seen the plastic side of the situation, and at once endeavoured to live up to it as gracefully as possible. Yes, there lay the whole difference between the Latin race and the Anglo-Saxon; the former aimed at beauty, and the other, as the Bishop of Sunbury had said at Islington, aimed at a moral attitude.

“I suppose there is a certain amount of truth in this,” thought the Earl, as he sipped his cup of tea, “for here am I living up to a standard of punctilious modesty, which would even put the chaste Susannah to shame; and Heaven knows I never have been overburdened with principles, but, quite on the contrary, was oblivious of any moral attitude. It must be that the ambiante of this country is of a superior quality to that of any other.”

There was a gentle knock at the door: “The Bishop of Welby has sent round to know whether your lordship would allow your women-servants to help in the finding of a suitable text for a sermon he wishes to deliver when this state has ceased? His lordship is in a great stress, being unable to lay his hand on his Bible, and finds himself at a loss to recall all the contents of the Holy Scriptures.”

“By all means, Temple—I am always delighted to be of any use to the bishop, although, for my part, I regret I cannot help him in this. Can you remember any suitable text, Temple?”

Temple made no reply.

“I say, Temple, how do the dowagers take this kind of thing? I am rather curious to know how they manage.”

The valet inquired from the upper housemaid, who very soon gathered information from her friends along the areas, and in an hour the faithful newsagent had collected a bushel of gossip. The attitude of the dowagers towards the social calamity was one of stubborn resistance and of fervent prayer. The old Lady Pendelton had said to her maid, through the keyhole, that it was only a question of time, and that with a little display of self-control, for which the race was so celebrated, they would soon pull through this ghastly experience. Some of the old ladies, whose bedrooms were contiguous to those of their daughters, knocked on the wall exhorting their virtuous progeny to persevere in the ways of the righteous and to keep up a good heart. Out-door gossips would be supplied to them: “Sarah does not mind going out,” had shouted through the wall one of the pillars of female Society, “you see, dear Evelyn, these sort of people do not possess the same quality of modesty that we do—they have to toil, not to feel.” So thought the dowager, and many more believed this to be true. What a load of injustice was settled by such an argument!

When the first shock was over, and Lord Somerville had ceased wondering at a class of people who did not mind being seen in their Edenic attire, he dropped into a humorous mood, and passed in review a good many of his friends, men and women.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed in a fit of laughter, “I wonder what old Bentham looks like in his skin? The Stock Exchange will be a rum circus when they all race for cash as modern gladiators! And what of Pender, and of Clavebury; and Gladys Ventnor, Arabella Chale and tutti quanti?”