Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 317
We said no more but sat smoking beside the fire in silence. I began to understand the bearing of what Jones had said to the man in the street.
Chapter IV. Lights and Shadows
SUCH A BRIGHT pleasant morning, calculated to take away the evil effects of yesterday’s rioting. In the first place, the morning newspaper, The Voice of Truth, explains that the rioting was of no real extent or consequence and arose out of a misunderstanding on the part of a few misguided people; that the number of people hurt, apart from being clubbed or shot, was very few. In short, that there is no occasion at all for social alarm, a thing which, with my disposition, I was glad to learn.
So this morning, having nothing to do, I drove over with my friend Comrade Doctor Chipperman to the State Maternity and spent a pleasant hour with him, walking through the delightful wards and nurseries. It did one’s heart good to see such bevies and flocks of soft-looking babies and sweet-looking infants. And to think that all the dear little fellows belong to everybody in common. My own share, statistically speaking, would be, I think, more than four of them, four decimal two, Chipperman said. This Birth District in which I have my share has, it seems, a fairly high percentage. Seeing the children gives one a pleasant feeling of ownership. Any citizen comrade of the district, so Chipperman tells me, has the right to come in and talk baby talk to the babies or sing to them. One of the nurses offered me one, but I felt afraid to take hold of it. Each dear little fellow has his number, and all are dressed in the same way, and each has one Teddy Bear, one rattle, and one bottle. The most perfect equality! It is wonderful to think that we have got away from the old brutal selfishness of fatherhood. The idea of forcing a group of little children to recognize two particular grown-up beings as their “father and mother” was too tyrannous for words. Thank goodness, we have at least got beyond that.
Yet the day has not all been happy. This afternoon, having nothing particular to do, I sat in the club after lunch, reading a report, a confidential report, on the food supply. It seems there’s a lot of starvation. The nice adjustment of supply to wants, the commissioner’s report says, is very difficult. Last year there were twenty bags of potatoes too many. This meant socially needless work. So all the potato growers went on a holiday to the seaside. This year there are hardly any potatoes. The commissioner says, of course, that they went too far; once at the sea it was hard to get them back. Some, I believe, got drowned.
But it proves that even under our system, economic life is hard to regulate.
I doubt a little whether the strongest part of our new era is its music. Last night I attended a concert along with a very pleasant party — Commissioner Comrade Jones, three of his wives — or rather I should say, three lady comrades, and two husbands of one of them, and Commissioners Melody Mudge, Clockwork Smith and one or two others. I see I have been betrayed into writing the illegal words “husband” and “wife,” but these multilateral relationships, pleasant though they are, are a little perplexing. Indeed I fear I made a slight faux pas last night in thinking that Comrade Sister Jemina was a wife to Commissioner Smith — which it appears she never was.
Melody Mudge, the Commissioner, is an excellent fellow but difficult to be with because he is so deaf. He is Chief Commissioner of Music, but his deafness, I fear, works against him, although it is possible that he is also handicapped by never having had any taste for music. He was elected into the office because of his disastrous failure as the head of a railway.
No doubt the system is all right, but somehow it leaves a lot to be desired.
The people who had been elected to sing for the evening seemed to me hopeless. And there was a man who played — or rather who had been elected by a district vote to play — the ‘cello. He had never played before and he owed his election to the spirited way in which he offered to try to play if elected. He explained this and did his best, but, as he said himself, it was his first attempt and he was not sure whether the instrument he brought with him was a ‘cello or not. However, the audience gave him round after round of applause.
The whole thing set me thinking. It reminded me of the Communist Academy of Painting last spring. The same difficulty occurred. The general council voted the National Gold Medal to Comrade Tompkins, a first cousin of Super-Commissioner Tompkins (a fact which gave him the election). Then they told Tompkins to paint the picture. But Tompkins was very busy at the time, and, never having painted before, only just managed to get the picture done by working half the night before the Academy exhibition. He said also that the oil that the Hardware Paint and Oil Division supplied to him was poor stuff. He said he couldn’t make it go further than a gallon to a square yard. The picture was to have been called “Spring” but at the last minute he changed it, with white lead, into “Winter.” I could not help but doubt its merit. How strange it must have been in the old days when people were actually allowed — but perhaps that is getting too close to high treason for even these memoirs.
Yet all the time I find myself thinking about it and wondering, can things last as they are? Last night, for example, I accidentally — it comes from my everlasting reading of old things — called Comrade Eliza “Mrs. Jones.” She and Jones have always been together, more or less, in fact they celebrated their fiftieth birthdays on the same day not long ago. When I said “Mrs. Jones,” she shook her head so sadly, it seemed to me, and said, “You mustn’t say that; it’s illegal.” But there were tears in her eyes.
Chapter V. Revolution
THE IMPOSSIBLE HAS happened! Within forty-eight hours the whole world has been turned upside down!
Two days ago the people stormed the house of Parliament and threw the president out of his chair and declared Capitalism restored. It all came so suddenly that it seems unbelievable. But at this moment the streets are filled with crowds, parading up and down and shouting “Hoorah for Capital!” They have put up huge placards that read — FOR EVERY MAN HIS OWN! MAKE THE BUMS WORK! MY HOUSE IS MINE! ONE MAN ONE WIFE! All over the city there are placards and great banners with legends like that which would have been high treason the day before yesterday.
The “capitalists” and the “outcasts” of yesterday that were called the revolutionists and conspirators are today the “people” and the “patriots.” The revolution must have been skillfully and deeply organized, it seems so complete, so overwhelming. What brains and strength and energy these underground people must have acquired! They seem to have sprung to life as natural leaders, men of exception. Before them the drowsy, lazy “Commissioners” and “Super-Commissioners” have simply faded away.
No doubt, too, their changed appearance has helped — the change from unseemly rags and squalor to brilliant uniforms and decorations. It appears that among the first things they did was to plunder the clothing shops, conscript all the tailors and have them make military uniforms. I saw one of the new leaders, General Sir Montague MacGregor Monteith riding on a black horse in front of the Parliament buildings this morning; it seemed incredible to believe that he was one of the two ragged “bums” that Itchalot Jones and I saw dragged along the street by the police only a week or so ago. With him also in uniform were Sir Everett Ironside and Sir Hellanall Paget. A week ago they were living in hiding in the slums. Today they are organizing the new army. With them was Lord Hardgrit. It is amazing where they get the titles from! They seem to fish them up in all directions.
On the street people are laughing and joking. They already are calling one another Mr. So and So and Miss So and So. It seems so pretty and so deferential; makes everybody feel higher in rank. If any man dared to call another “comrade” today he’d probably get knocked down for his pains. Lord Hardgrit was (three days ago) Commissioner Wilkins, but of course, like everybody else, he knew his real family name.
Most amazing are the young men and women. Even the bitterest enemies of capitalism used to have to admit that after all it was a movement of the young. Something in its creed — the idea of relying on one’s own strength and power and fighting for oneself — always appealed to young people. Looking back on it, I can see now that all the “brother-brother” stuff of communism seemed hopelessly false. And marriage! Itchalot Jones told me yesterday that marriage will be back in a week. Nothing can stop it. All along the streets you see the young men and women, pairing into couples, their arms locked, their faces bright with love, their lives joined. Jones said that they are setting fire to the community dormitories all over town. They have leaflets out already saying, “Give us houses. One family, one House. Give us back our Home.”
Lord Penrimmon, who has been named Quartermaster General, is to prepare at once a new plan for rebuilding London, knocking down all the Dormitories and the Children’s Repositories and the Day Cribs and the Night Crèches. They are going to make a clean sweep of it. The energy and the driving power of these new people is marvellous!
Looking back, it seems difficult to set down a coherent account of how it all happened. The only thing clear is that the capitalist revolution was far more widely planned and more deeply based than anyone suspected. More than that, it must really have had a deep hold on great masses of people. The idea of being free to do what you want to, instead of spending every hour of the day under the control of a board or a commission appealed to something fundamental in human nature.
Itchalot Jones, who came over to the new movement at once, in fact who has somehow made himself one of the heads of it, says he saw it coming all along. Jones, by the way, is now to be Sir Shalot Jones and will be one of the ministry; either that, he says, or perhaps Archbishop. He has not yet decided.
At any rate, he said that he knew that the object of each of the big parades like the one we saw, was to gain access to the legislature and throw out the Parliament. Once the capitalists could do that, they knew that they could win. All the military organizations, and the uniforms, and the printing had been arranged beforehand. Communism, they knew, was just a hollow shell. It would collapse at a touch. So, two days ago, when the crowd stormed the Parliament, one of them went up to the “president” who was pounding the desk for order and simply said, “Get out, you bum! Your time’s out. We’re going to have a ‘Speaker.’ ” He only answered “Certainly.” Then they went through the departments’ offices and began throwing out the commissioners and super-commissioners and subcommissioners; “get out, you pack of loafers,” the crowd yelled. Yet, oddly enough, it all was done with laughter and hilarity. There was very little force. They did throw a few into the Thames; they were seen swimming away towards the sea. The crowd called, “Let them swim to Russia!”
As for myself, it seems that I need have no particular anxiety about the future in spite of the fact that I was, technically, an official of the communist government.
A letter which Sir Shalot Jones sent to me an hour ago seems to make my future lot both easy and agreeable. Jones writes:
“My dear Lord Edward:
“You will allow me to address you by your proper title, which, I have no doubt, will be at once rendered regular and legal by royal warrant on the return of Prince George Edward Albert Henry Charles. Indeed His Majesty’s cable of this morning permits us to make all such interim and immediate appointments as the situation necessitates—”
It gave me something of a shock of surprise to find myself thus addressed as “Lord Edward.” But after all, my great-grandfather never voluntarily gave up his title, and Jones, excellent fellow that he is, knows his own place and rank in society too well to deny mine.
The reference in his letter to the return of the heir of the Royal Family did not surprise me. I always understood from my reading of history and old memoirs that when the Prince’s ancestors at the time of the communist revolution retired to their Tomato Farm in British Columbia, they left nothing behind them but good-will and esteem. Everyone knew that a capitalist overturn would bring back the young prince. The newspapers of yesterday had already indicated that nothing would delay the return of young Prince George Edward Albert Henry Charles except perhaps the condition of the tomato crop. This morning’s bulletins said that not even the tomato crop would stop him. Jones’s letter continues:
“I have the further pleasure to inform you that your name has been put on the list for the Reconstituted House of Peers and that you are invited to attend the Dedicatory Service tomorrow in Westminster Abbey (formerly known as Diet Dispensary Number One, District Number Two).
“I need hardly tell you that under His Majesty’s new government there can be no expectation of the continuance of such sinecure and useless offices as the Commissionership of Astronomical Time, which was held by you. It is felt that the new era must be one of effort and sacrifice, and that all such needless and unjustifiable posts must be ruthlessly abolished. On the other hand, my dear Lord Edward, I am glad to say that the Ministers agree to my appointing you at once to be Master of the Royal Buckhounds, an office which automatically comes back into existence. To this end, I will endeavour to get you a buckhound as soon as possible.”
I put down Jones’s letter with a sigh and have sat musing beside it, thinking of the future and of my new office and its responsibilities. Out in the bright sunshine of early July, the crowds are singing and laughing in the street.
What a great change! How strange, how sudden! But I have no time to spend in musing. I must be up and doing. I must at once try to get hold of a tailor. I shall need white silk trousers.
Part VI. A Fragment from Utopia
THE FIFTY-FIFTY SEXES
Chapter I. The Fifty-fifty Sexes
NOTE:
In this third decade of the twentieth century, it is already clear that the two sexes are moving towards a complete equality. Political equality came first, a thing practically everywhere achieved and now taken for granted. Economic equality is rapidly following, and social and domestic equality will ensue as an obvious consequence. Only one element, perhaps, was very generally left out of consideration in this process of social change. The two sexes necessarily react upon one another. Equalization will therefore be brought about not solely by modifying the character and status of the women, but also by altering that of the men. As Utopia approaches, men will be found more and more endowed with the graciousness and charm of the other sex, while losing nothing of the virtues of their own. Without an appreciation of this fact, a person of today would be perplexed and mystified in reading any account of social life in Utopia. As witness of the fact, let us take the following pages, a fragment of a Utopian novel, to which this antecedent note supplies the key:
Ominous News
Edward Evenshade had no sooner unfolded his newspaper on his way downtown that morning, than he saw that it contained news of the gravest importance, indeed news of an ominous significance. His eye had only half scanned the list of the foreign despatches when a telegraphic item arrested his attention. It read:
“Current advices from Paris seem to make it certain that this season the waistline will be brought down low, and will even be kept close to the hip-bones.”
All the way to his office, Edward could think of little else than this newest revolutionary dictate of fashion. If he had only known it, the news items of the year 1932, long before he was born, had contained exactly such an item. The waist-line had been shoved down to the hip-bones and held there. But in that remote day such an item referred only to women. In Edward Evenshade’s time, men also had learned to take that anxious thought for a pleasing appearance which had previously been the sole prerogative of women. In Edward’s day, if the waist-line were moved by a decree of fashion to the hip-bone, no business man could hope to carry on his business without conforming to it. In fact, his clients and customers would expect it.
Evenshade threw the paper on his office desk.
“Have you seen it, Undertone?” he asked of his partner.
“I have,” said Undertone, with evident indisposition, “and it’s no use asking me. I can’t. Mine won’t stay there.”
“Of course,” said Edward, “if you will read a little further you’ll have to admit that they modify it just a little. You see, it says you can define it with a narrow suède belt, if it is preferred.”
“Can I do that?” asked Undertone. “Let me see it. Yes, that’s right, ‘can be defined if it is preferred by a narrow suède or fabric belt.’ That might not look so bad, eh — a suède belt. Does it say anything about the colour?”
“Not here, but I’ve read elsewhere that the colours allowed this season will be principally puce or beige or, in the evening, navy blue and carnation pink.”
“Is that so?” said Undertone. He seemed to fall into a sort of reverie. “Is that so?” he muttered again. Then, looking up from his fit of abstraction, “Did you say pink carnation or dull red carnation?” he asked.
“Pink,” answered Edward.
“Well, say, I don’t think pink would look so bad, eh? I’ve been trying it before the mirror here. Pink wouldn’t be too young for me, would it?”
Edward Evenshade was still thinking of this ominous news item when he went over to his bank where he had to meet two or three of the directors in the board room. As he came in, they were leaning across the table reading one of these same despatches.
“I call it ridiculous,” said the vice-president, the senior of the men present. “It is not only ridiculous but it is practically tyranny. Have you seen this, Evenshade?” he asked, turning to Edward as he entered.
“Yes,” Edward said, “I saw it. It is outrageous, isn’t it, to think that a set of men over in Paris — heaven knows who they are — should dictate to us men over here what we are to wear and how we are to wear it.”
