The Impregnable Women, page 14
The observer, had he turned eavesdropper as well, would soon have discovered that no one in this gathering of the great was talking of the war; but over their whitebait and their vol-au-vent, their savoury aspic and their saddle of mutton, they calmly discussed the minor and agreeable topics that had occupied their tables before the war, and again would hold their attention when the war was over. They chose, in their wisdom, not huge ephemerals, but matters of small and eternal interest.
Lord Lomond, for example, who was a little deaf and in the fashion of deaf people spoke more loudly than was necessary, turned abruptly to his right-hand neighbour, who happened to be Sir Joseph Rumble, and politely shouted: ’Have you got heather-beetle still?’
The unwitting truculence of his query drew a look of mild surprise from the Bishop of Brighton and Hove, who was discussing with Lord Osselburt, one of the Lords of Appeal, the vexed question of the migration of butterflies, in particular of Red Admirals and Painted Ladies; and for a moment distracted the attention of Mr Pelham-Blair and Mr Denis Mowbray, two rising young Conservatives, who were listening with polite attention to old Lord Laffery on the revival of interest in the harness-horse, which was one of the few real benefits brought by the war and the prohibited use of motor-cars. ‘A horse in leather must go high all round,’ he was saying in the solemn tone of one dealing with fundamentals.
Nearer the Chairman was a little learned argument on wine, and a few places distant from the Prime Minister – the octogenarian Lord Pippin – grew some light and leisurely talk of politics: not politics of the day, but of fifty years before, when Mr Gladstone and Lord Salisbury had led their parties to the ballot-box and the assault. The talk was all of things, material subjects, and actual events; not of ideas and generalities, and less than usual of people, since people in large numbers were being killed, and talk of them might become talk of the war, and otherwise be embarrassing. They debated, safely and with commendable knowledge, of agriculture – the effect of a wet spring on root-crops – and of the breeding and diseases of fox-hounds and gun-dogs; they spoke of racing, so sadly diminished by the war – it had been a strange June without Ascot – and of bloodstock, and gardener’s topics: aquilegias, eschscholtzia, and the neglected fruits of England. The Prime Minister, with great enjoyment, was discussing the merits of Jane Austen and the sound character of Mr John Knightley; while General Scrymgeour, a little moodily, listened to Mr Justice Bilbow’s description of a Roman pavement that had recently been uncovered by workmen who were somewhere excavating a suburban swimming-pool.
Scrymgeour, though nominally on leave, had actually come home to give evidence before a Commission that was inquiring into recent losses on the western front. That casualites continued to be heavy was undeniable, but every soldier above the rank of colonel hotly disputed the allegation that they were excessive; and it was generally felt that old Pippin had been badly at fault in listening to the clamour of the Socialists and the popular press – an unholy alliance – and agreeing to the inquiry they demanded. It was intolerable that a General on active service should be questioned about his profits and losses, as though he were a bankrupt tradesman; and looking along the table Scrymgeour could almost persuade himself that the Prime Minister’s cheerfulness was a sign of senility. But that was poor comfort, and Scrymgeour, much troubled in spirit, found it increasingly difficult to pay proper attention to Bilbow and his Roman tiles. As though unhappiness had made his senses more acute, he heard scraps of conversation from near and far, and more and more oblivious of Bilbow, took a melancholy pleasure in their strange irrelevant pattern.
‘... at any rate it’s quite certain that Painted Ladies get more numerous in the south as winter approaches ... Sainfoin: yes, she’s nicely made... cut-and-laid... but she ought to be a dog not a bitch... saepes etiam – how does it go? – et pecus omne tenendum... yes I know... the Romans show... when a farmer lets his fences go... Clos ... in front he’s got to show the knee and behind he’s got to go... but the virtues of Clos Vougeot are the virtues not of burgundy but of claret... the Romans... off his hocks... had said their Local Government Act of 1894 would make life more interesting... my boy’s last half... it’s laminitis .. and the only novelist to have realized that the majority of men must inevitably marry silly women and thought it a very tolerable state of affairs... and Roman stairs... your boy’s last half... then tell your keeper to worm them every six months... the Romans... and June she said... Lord Salisbury replied ... no Riche-bourg... like Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark ... if the Liberals really wanted to amuse the villagers he would rather recommend a circus... the medlar the quince... for unentered bitches... the medlar the bullace and barberry ... George Wyndham said ... he goes a good pace and quarters well... at Peterborough Peterborough? Peterborough... and the feeling of life and bustle when Mr Elton’s marriage follows so closely... but Wyndham was the best that Ireland ever had... and there were Red Admirals round the lamp at midnight ... and the Romans said... PRAY SILENCE FOR YOUR CHAIRMAN!’
But into the sudden silence, the waiting seconds during which everyone composed his mind and features to a proper solemnity, there broke, like a murderer through the arras, the rudest inconcinnity. To the deaf ears of Lord Lomond the toastmaster’s voice had seemed no louder than the surrounding conversation, and while all the company but he were fingering their port-glasses in reverent anticipation, he turned to his left-hand neighbour, and addressed him in the jovial imperative voice of one shouting to a distant yokel to open a gate, ‘Rumble says he’s badly bothered with heather-beetle,’ he bellowed.
But the interruption was ignored – Lord Lomond himself was nowise disconcerted – and the loyal toast was drunk, cigar-smoke coloured the air, and Mr Pelham-Blair, the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for India, rose to commend the Pious Memory of their Founder.
‘Your Royal Highness, my Lord Archbishop, my Lords and gentlemen,’ he began...
It was a tradition that one of the junior Ministers should propose this toast, and custom allowed him to lighten it with a little humour, an occasional discreet and cheerful witticism. A year ago, thought Scrymgeour, they had asked Eliot Greene to do it, and he had offended a lot of people by poking fun at their motto, Be Loyal. He had gone too far, definitely too far, that night. Well, there wasn’t much left of him now, poor devil. He hadn’t been a shirker, though he had talked a lot of subversive nonsense. And in his position he could have stayed at home with a clear conscience. As Pelham-Blair was doing. There was a clever fellow, with more balance than poor Eliot. He wasn’t the sort to offend anyone for the sake of cracking a joke. He’d probably do well for himself. He had done well already, if it came to that. He looked a shade too sleek and well-fed, perhaps, but he played a lot of real tennis, and that must keep him reasonably fit.
Scrymgeour’s mind, in half-idle speculation, stared like a wavering beam – a searchlight fumbling in clouds – at Pelham-Blair speaking with such smooth assurance; at old Laffery and young Mowbray, at Bilbow and Saint – a soldier like himself – and the Bishop of Brighton and Hove. Some had lived out the greater part of their lives, others still nursed ambition. And how many counted, or would count their lives successful? How many here had felt the deep wound of public hatred? Or worse, had seen dismay on the faces of their own officers? – Yet in any major operation he had never failed, and in his own mind he knew that he had done well. In his mind he knew it, if not in his heart. They lived in his heart, those swift-marching regiments he had sent to their death – and he could bear the burden. He was a soldier, dedicate in all his being. Without complaint his body had suffered discomfort and wounds and now his heart in the same service would bear its burden. His mind approved what he had done. His mind rejected the whimpering and the angry clatter of the politicians and the weathercock newspapers that censured him. They didn’t know what they were talking about. None of them had the smallest elementary knowledge of strategy and the constitution of modern war. But though his mind could despise them and refute their silly arguments, it could not quite armour him against their hatred.
He heard none of the earlier speeches; but when silence was requested for Lord Pippin, he made an effort to hush the tiresome voices of his own brain, and listen to the old man. He might be the victim of senile decay, as for years past his enemies had declared, but he could still make a better speech than any one else in the country. Or so it seemed while he was delivering it. In print, on the following morning, it might have a thinnish look, but while the words were still in the air they had the strong sweet sound of honey-bees in a walled garden; and a bit of sound, ordinary, English common sense, as he spoke it in his powerful voice, was better than the proudest rhetoric.
But before the Prime Minister had risen to his feet, while he was still making his leisurely preparations – he unhooked a thin gold watch and laid it on the table, he drank slowly a third of a glass of port – an untoward incident occurred; or rather a small but disturbing series of incidents.
Through a half-opened door could be seen a young officer in excited contention with a person who looked like a policeman in plain clothes. Then the door was closed again; but in a few seconds was re-opened, and an elderly Club servant, walking with unavailing delicacy in creaking boots, came carrying a silver tray on which were two letters that he delivered, with a low-spoken explanation, to the Prime Minister.
With an expression of elderly annoyance Lord Pippin opened first one and then the other. The second was a single sheet of typewritten foolscap in a long buff envelope. The Prime Minister read it with incredulity, anger, and impatience. He showed it to the Chairman, and looking along the table caught the eye of Mr Pelham-Blair, to whom he beckoned. The Prime Minister, the Chairman, and Mr Pelham-Blair then re-read the letter, discussed it with obvious distaste, and settled the matter by sending Mr Pelham-Blair to conduct a personal investigation. As the door opened for him, the excited young officer was again for half a second visible.
The Prime Minister slowly and deliberately drank the remainder of his port, and rose to speak. His theme was the English character. He said much in praise of it, especially as it showed itself in times of peril or difficulty, and in his own manner he revealed many of the ripe qualities that he found so laudable in his fellow-countrymen. It was an admirable speech; better than ever, thought some who had heard it several times in the past twenty years.
Lord Pippin was just coming to his peroration when Mr Pelham-Blair rather noisily re-entered the room. The temper of the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for India was clearly ruffled, as indeed was his smooth black hair. He came hotly in, impatient of ceremony or restraint, and immediately claimed the Prime Minister’s attention; who, having marshalled several dependent clauses to their place in a long sentence and brought it majestically to its appointed close, turned to him and asked, ‘Well, what news?’
‘It’s perfectly true,’ said Mr Pelham-Blair. ‘They’ve seized the Castle.’
‘How very provoking, especially for poor Comyn Curle,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘Is anything the matter with your eye?’
‘It was punched. It will soon be black, if it isn’t black already.’ Mr Pelham-Blair was very angry indeed about his injured eye.
‘Then you had better go and bathe it, while I finish my speech.’
His peroration was shorter than usual, but he showed no sign of being worried by what he had heard. His voice was calm and strong; he induced the comforting feeling – as he so often did – that common sense might be the most profound of all philosophies; and he quoted with deep feeling:
‘Friends, call me what you will; no jot care I;
I that shall stand for England till I die!’
Rightly inferring that here was the end of the speech, and being pleasantly moved by it, the Old Hattonians began vigorously to applaud; but the Prime Minister remained standing, the applause died away, and he continued: ‘You are right in thinking that I have concluded my speech, but too hasty in your assumption that I have no more to say. I have some news that you are entitled to hear. I do not overrate its importance, but as it is likely to cause some excitement, and thus give rise to many undesirable rumours, you will probably be glad to have an authoritative account of what has happened. A little while ago, as some of you may have noticed, I received a certain communication. Or, to be accurate, two communications; but the one did no more than introduce the other, which I shall read to you.’
Taking the typewritten sheet of foolscap from its long buff envelope, Lord Pippin slowly unfolded it.
‘It is somewhat oddly addressed. “To the Prime Minister and all whom it may concern”,’ he said. ‘And it reads as follows:
We, the women of Great Britain, have resolved that as the war is bringing nothing but misery to the world, it shall be stopped. We cannot afford to wait for victory, because victory can only be bought with the lives of our husbands, our lovers, and our sons. Victory therefore would come too late for them to hear about it, or for us to enjoy it. It is peace that we want, and in order to get it with a minimum of delay, we have decided to call a General Love-strike. We hereby declare in consequence our firm intention to abstain as far as possible from any contact with men, and we utterly renounce, repudiate, and abandon all marital relations; extra-marital association of a like of comparable nature; and casual intimacy whether for affection or hire, until such time as peace has been re-established. We have, moreover, in order to facilitate our task and to show the solidarity of women all over the country, taken possession in various towns of several strongholds or key-positions, and established garrisons in them. In Edinburgh we have occupied the Castle, which we shall continue to hold until you have stopped the war.
Signed: Lysistrata Scrymgeour
Camilla Oriole
Delia Curle.
The effect of this announcement was profound rather than spectacular. The Old Hattonians, though deeply shocked, retained on the whole a decent composure. Some natural incredulity that showed at first was dispelled when the Prime Minister explained that the proclamation had been brought him by an officer of the Royal Horse Guards, who with his men, the squadron on duty at the Castle, had been turned out of the Guardhouse by an overwhelming force of women, and that Mr Pelham-Blair, who had kindly offered to seek further information, now confirmed the officer’s report and on his own person showed signs of the violent temper of the insurgents.
A darker red suffused the features of many present, and the politicians with difficulty restrained their instinct to jump up and ask a supplementary question. The mutter of two hundred voices had an angry note in it, and drumming in many ears were the ugly words Mutiny, Bolshevism, and Sex. With growing restlessness the diners began to divide and gather again in smaller groups, like peewits preparing for their flight to Africa. It was only the presence of Royalty that prevented an immediate migration.
General Scrymgeour and Mr Comyn Curle, the Secretary for War, had left their seats to examine the document which their wives had signed. Both were speechless with shame, bewilderment, and wrath. Mr Curle made without stopping a small chattering noise, rather like a wheatear, and Scrymgeour betrayed the state of his mind by the extraordinary tension of his skin, which was stretched so tightly that the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones and. knuckles had the dead look of ivory.
‘I need not ask whether either of you had any inkling of what was about to happen?’ inquired the Prime Minister. ‘No, I thought not. A husband is so often the last to hear what his wife is doing. And now I must tell the Duke that he would be well advised to go home – it would be helpful if he got the Archbishop to go too – and then we shall drive to the Castle and see for ourselves what is going on.’
II
On the other side of Princes Street, on the cab-rank by the Royal Academy, stood some twenty or more aged victorias, broughams, landaus, and hansoms which had been resurrected since the dearth of petrol banished motor-cars from the streets.
Suddenly on the steps of the New Club appeared the hall-porter who whistled shrilly, again and again. One after another the bottle-nosed fumbling old cabbies climbed stiffly to their boxes, touched-up their shabby rack-ribbed old horses, wheeled into line ahead, and drove gingerly, jerkily, with a jingle and a slow clip-clop, across the street.
Out came the Old Hattonians, and the aged and most famous of them got heavily into the mousy old growlers, while the younger, keeping abreast of them on either pavement with dignity walked alongside. Slowly, like a belated funeral in the ebb of the long northern twilight, the procession of dark vehicles climbed the Mound. With an air of tall indifference and a cold anger in their hearts, the patres conscripti were marching against the rebel women. – They advanced with tranquil deliberation, without passion. There was an heroic quality in their dark unbannered cavalcade with its tophatted, tail-coated infantry. The slow clip-clop of the old horses’ hooves struck from the stones an epic tune, and the Prime Minister reciting to General Scrymgeour and Mr Comyn Curle – who shared his cab – a favourite passage from Pride and Prejudice, was as much a figure of unshaken fortitude as Spartans titivating in their valiance on the sea-wet rock.
To their right, crowning the huge island that rose so abruptly in the midst of the city, was the Castle. It loomed enormous, and because the base of the crag was already lost in upward-creeping darkness, it appeared to be preternaturally high in a torn dove’s-feather sky. Its great walls were nearly the same shadow-colour as the clouds, but the farthest battlement and little outflung turret had caught a yellowish gleam from the afterglow that still lighted the north-west. There was a light westerly breeze, and presently the Old Hattonians heard the confused vibrating hubbub of an angry crowd.
