of the surrounding country. I breathe freely once more. Now the question is how to get down again.
CHAPTER V.
ON THE ROOF—DOWN AGAIN—FURTHER INSPECTION—VARIETY—ELIZABETHAN—NORMAN—COLOUR—RAYS—FILTERED—CUI BONO?—SUGGESTION—PLAY IN STORE—THE STABLES—PREVIOUS TENANTS—GOOD INTENTIONS—NAME.
ust as I am asking myself this, I meet Chilvern on the roof. He is examining the chimneys. The others are below choosing their rooms. It appears that no one has been up the narrow staircase except myself. He shows me a different way down.
We take another turn over the house. This time more observantly. Various orders of architecture. Chilvern, as an architect, makes a professional joke. He says, “The best order of architecture is an order to build an unlimited number of houses.”
Happy Thought.—Who was the first scientific builder? Answer.—Noah, when he invented arky-tecture. (N.B. This will do for a Sunday conundrum.)
Part of it is very old, (the staircase and tower part where I've been), and wall of the yard at the back, overgrown with ivy, shows the remains of a genuine Norman arch.
Another quarter is decidedly Elizabethan, while a long and well proportioned music room,—of which the walls and ceiling, once evidently covered with paintings, are now dirty, damp, and exhibiting, here and there, patches of colour not yet entirely faded,—is decidedly Italian.
Of this apartment, the crone can tell us nothing. She never recollects it inhabited. We undo the huge shutters for ourselves, and bring down a cloud of dust and cobwebs.
The rays of light, bursting violently, as it were, into the darkness—become—after once passing the square panes, or where there are no panes, the framework—suddenly impure, and in need of a patent filter before they are fit for use.
Chilvern admires the proportions, and asks what we'll make, of this room?
A pause.
Happy Thought.—A Theatre. Nothing more evident; nothing easier.
I notice that both Boodels and Milburd catch at this idea. From which I fancy, knowing from experience Boodels' turn for poetry, that they have got, ready for production, what they will call, “little things of their own that they've just knocked off.”
Almost wish I hadn't suggested it. But if they've got something to act, so have I. If they do theirs, they must let mine be done.
Settled, that it is to be a theatre.
Odd that no one part of the house seems finished. Saxons started it; Normans got tired of it; Tudors touched it up; Annians added to it.
Happy Thought.—(Alliterative, on the plan of “A was an Apple pie.”)
Normans nurtured it:
Tudors touched it up:
Annians added to it;
Georgians joiced it:
Victorians vamped it.
“Joice,” I explain, is a term derived from building; “to joice, i. e. to make joices to the floors.” Chilvern says, “Pooh!” To “vamp” is equal, in musical language, to “scamp” or to dodge up. The last owner evidently has done this.
Happy Thought.—Good name for a Spanish speculative builder—Don Vampa di Scampo. Evidently an architect of Châteaux d'Espagne.
We visit the stables. The gates are magnificent, two lions sit on their tails, and guard shields on two huge pillars. After this effort, the owner seems to have got tired of the place and left it.
We notice this of every room, of various doors, of many windows.
Successive tenants have commenced with great ideas, which have, so to speak, vanished in perspective.
Boodels becomes melancholy. He says, “I should call this ‘The House of Good Intentions.’”
I point out that these we are going to perfect and utilise.
A brilliant idea strikes me. I say—
Happy Thought.—Let us call it, “Happy-Thought Hall.” I add that this will look well on the top of note-paper.
CHAPTER VI.
CHOOSING A PARTY.
ROOMS—DECISION—ODD MEN—RETURN—ARRANGEMENTS—THEORIES—OBJECTION—PROPOSITIONS—ELECTIONS—THE LADIES—WHO'S HOST?—GUESTS—HOSTESS—MORE PROPOSALS—GRANDMOTHERS—AUNTS—HALFSISTERS—SISTERHOOD PROPOSED—GRAND IDEA—CHAPERONS—TERMS—IDEAL—A PROFESSION—A DEFECT—OR ADVANTAGE—ADDITIONAL ATTRACTIONS—OLD MAN—DULNESS—THEATRICAL—PLANS—THE PRESIDENT—EXPLANATION—IDEA.
here are, it appears, sixteen bed-rooms in the house, independently of servants' rooms.
The question is, How shall we decide?
Happy Thought.—Toss up.
We do so. The “odd man” to toss again, and so on. I am the last odd man. Boodels chooses the room with the stain on the floor. He says he prefers it.
We drive back to Station. Thoughtful and sleepy journey.
Chilvern is to arrange all details as to fitting up and furnishing. This, he says, he can do, inexpensively and artistically, in a couple of weeks' time.
Milburd points out clearly to us that the old woman in charge evidently doesn't want to be turned out, and so invented the ghost. We all think it highly probable, except Boodels, who says he doesn't see why there shouldn't be a ghost. We don't dispute it.
The next thing is to make up a party. Cazell tells us “what we ought to do.” “We ought,” he says, “to form ourselves into a committee, and ask so many people.”
We meet in the evening to choose our party. Rather difficult to propose personal friends, whom every one of us will like. We agree that we must be outspoken, and if we don't like a guest proposed, we must say so, and, as it were, blackball him.
Or her?—This remark leads to the question, Are there to be any ladies? Boodels says decidedly, Yes.
Chilvern, putting it artistically, says, “We want a bit of colour in a house like that.”
Cazell wants to know who is to be the host. Boodels proposes me.
I accept the position; but what am I exactly? that's what I must clearly understand.
Milburd explains—a sort of president of a Domestic Republic.
Very good. Then how about the ladies?
Chilvern says we must have a hostess. We all suppose, doubtfully, that we must. I ask, Won't that interfere with our arrangements?
Boodels replies, that “we can't have any arrangements without a hostess.” He says, after some consideration, that he has got a Grandmother who might be useful. Chilvern, deferentially, proposes an Aunt of his own, but does not, as it were, press her upon us, on account of some infirmities of temper. I've got a half-sister who was a widow about the time I was born, and if she's not in India . . . .
On the whole we think that if Boodels would have no objection to his grandmother coming. . . . .
“Not in the least,” says Boodels. “I think she can stand a fortnight of it or so.”
Carried nem. con. Boodels' grandmother to be lent for three weeks, and to be returned safely.
Happy Thought (to suggest to ladies).—Why shouldn't there be a sisterhood of chaperons? Let somebody start it. “Oh!” says a young lady, “I can't go there wherever it is, because I can't go alone, and I haven't got a chaperon.”
Now carry out the idea. The young lady goes to The Home (this sort of establishment is always a Home—possibly because people to be hired are never not at home),—well, she goes to the Home, sees the lady superioress or manageress, who asks her what sort of a chaperon she wants. She doesn't exactly know; but say, age about 50, cheerful disposition, polished manners.
Good. Down comes photograph book.
Young lady inspects chaperons and selects one.
She comes downstairs. “Is she,” asks the lady manageress, “to be dressed for evening or for day, a fête or for what?”
Well then, that's all settled.
Terms, so much an hour, and something for herself. What the French call a pour boire.
This is a genuinely good idea, and one to be adopted, I am sure. What an excellent profession for ladies of good family and education, of a certain age, and an uncertain income.
They might form a Social Beguinage, on the model of the one at Ghent. No vows. All sorts of dresses. All sorts of feeding. Respectable address. And a Home.
Boodels' grandmother, it turns out, is deaf.
Here again what a recommendation for a chaperon! and how very few employments are open to deaf people. No harmless, bodily ailment would disqualify, except a violent cold and sneezing.
A chaperon with a song: useful. Consider this idea in futuro. Put it down and assist the others in our list.
We ought to make our company a good salad.
I propose my friend, Jenkyns Soames.
Jenkyns Soames is a scientific man.
“We mustn't be dull,” says Boodels, which I feel is covertly an objection to my friend.
Chilvern says that he thinks we ought to have an old man.
What for?
Well, . . . he hesitates, then says, politely, that with all young ones, won't Mrs. Boodels be rather dull?
“But—soft! I must dissemble!”
(Happy Thought.—Old man for Mrs. Boodels, to talk to her through her ear-trumpet.)
Boodels says, “Oh, no! his grandmother's never dull.”
Milburd observes, that this choosing is like making up characters for a play. He takes in a theatrical newspaper, and proposes that we should set down what we want, after the style in which the managers frame their advertisements.
Wanted.—A First Old Man. Also A Leading Heavy.
He proposes “Byrton—Captain Byrton. He was in a dragoon regiment.”
Happy Thought.—Good for “Leading Heavy.”
Milburd's man is Byrton. Mine is Soames. I have an instinctive dislike to Byrton, I don't know why, perhaps because I perceive a certain amount of feeling against Soames.
Boodels' Proposal.—That we should meet once a week to determine whose invitations should be renewed, and whose congé should be given.
As President I say, “Well, but I can't tell our guests that they must go.”
Cazell strikes in, “I tell you what we ought to do—only ask everyone for a week, and then, if we like them, we can ask 'em to stop on.”
Agreed.—That we take these matters into weekly consideration.
Milburd wishes to know who is to order dinner every day.
Happy Thought.—Take it in turn, and I'll begin as President.
Boodels, when this has been agreed to, says that we ought to have good dogs about and outside a large house like that.
I tell them that there is one—a very fierce beast.
Boodels says he's sure I must be mistaken, as they went all over the house, and there was only a little snarling, growling puppy making darts at a mouse, or a rat, which he saw moving behind some door which was locked.
[Happy Thought.—Keep the facts to myself. Only a Puppy! and I thought it was a mastiff! [Good name, by the way, for a novel—Only a Puppy.] If I'd shaken that door again, then they could have let me out.]
We've all got dogs, except myself. I have, I say, my eye on a dog. I remember some one promising me a clever poodle a year ago. Will think who it was, and call on him.
Cazell is of opinion that we ought to wear some peculiar sort of dress, and call ourselves by some name.
Happy Thought.—Why not be an Order?
Someone is just going to speak, when I beg his pardon, and say, “Look here!” I am
CHAPTER VII.
THE NEW ORDER.
A BROTHERHOOD—SIMPLICITY—A DIFFICULTY MET—ILLUSTRATIONS—PROCEEDINGS—INTERVIEW—QUESTION—ANSWER—MODELS—PETITS FRÈRES—TERMS—RULES AND REGULATIONS—THE SCHEME DISMISSED—THE LIST SETTLED.
propos of the Home for Chaperons.
The Happy Thought.—Why not start a new Brotherhood?
A social and sociable one. An order.
“What do I mean?” asks Milburd.
Simplest thing possible.
Hosts are so often in want of some one to “fill up.” A guest disappoints them at the last hour, and where are they to get another?
“Well,” says Boodles, “how is another to be got?”
Easily: if, in a central situation, there were a House, a large House, where male guests of all sorts could be obtained.
I explain myself more clearly.
A lady says, “Oh dear! Our ball will be overdone with ladies. I mean, we've got plenty of gentlemen, but—I don't know what's the matter with the young men now-a-days, hardly any of them dance.”
If my Happy Thought is carried out, why here's her remedy.
Down she goes to the Home. Rings. Enters. Sees the Brother Superior, or Manager.
“What sort of young men do you want?”
“Well, specially for dancing, and generally effective.”
THE EFFECTIVE “LITTLE BROTHER.” |
THE INTELLECTUAL “LITTLE BROTHER.” |
Good. Here is the very thing to suit you. “We've got only three of these in, as there's such a demand just now for this article, during the season.”
THE SPRIGHTLY “LITTLE BROTHER.” |
THE THEATRICAL “LITTLE BROTHER.” |
THE SERIOUS “LITTLE BROTHER.” |
THE MUSICAL “LITTLE BROTHER.” |
“Very well. Send them at ten.”
“With pleasure, and if any of the dancing brothers come in, they shall be forwarded to you later in the evening.”
Terms, so much an hour. Supper ad lib. included. Breakages not allowed as discount. Any complaints as to inebriety, serious and compromising flirting, or of laziness, to be made to the manager or brother superior.
I would call this Order,
THE LITTLE BROTHERS OF THE RICH.
There should be no vows, and the rules to be strictly observed should be:—
- To live in community, the House being supported by the labour of the Brothers, who shall receive a certain allowance, each one, per annum, out of the profits.
- Always to be ready to fulfil engagements, whether for dancing parties, dinner parties, or other social gatherings.
- The Serious Brothers will devote their time only to such literature as suits their professional duties.
- The Sprightly, or dining-out Brothers, shall pass, monthly, an examination in good stories, anecdotes, and bons mots.
- The Musical Brothers must be up in all new songs, and arrangements shall be made with publishers for Singing Brothers and Playing Brothers to receive a fair percentage on sale of pieces (indirectly).
- The General Utility Brothers must be up in anecdotes and jokes, play a little, sing a little, sport a little, and do everything more or less, so as to make themselves indispensable to country houses where there are large gatherings.
- The Theatrical Brothers must be perfect companions for amateurs, and know all about charades and extempore costumes.
Any Brother found dining, or doing anything, at his own expense, to be immediately dismissed.
I submit this scheme to the civilised world, hoping to meet a Want of the 19th century.
Boodels says that, practically, a Cricketing Eleven means something of this sort, being, generally speaking, merely a society organised for the purpose of staying at other people's houses free of charge.
Cazell wishes to know if we are going to waste our time in talking nonsense, or are we going to settle about our guests?
The question, I say, is whether my proposal is nonsense or not.
Chilvern hopes we'll make out our list.
Jenkyns Soames settled. Byrton ditto. Old Mrs. Boodels.
| BYRTON, AN ETONIAN, IN TWO FORMS. | |
| Upper Form. | Lower Form. |
(Now.)
(Then.)
Happy Thought (on seeing these pictures).—To ask Boodels' grandmother “then.”
Milburd votes for asking the Chertons. Capital girls, he says, and appeals to Boodels. Boodels opines that—yes, they are very nice girls.
“No humbug about them,” says Milburd.
With this recommendation we put down the Chertons.
Miss Adelaide and Miss Bella.
ADELAIDE CHERTON. Happy Thought.—Pine Apple Style. |
BELLA CHERTON. |
Boodels says that, as they often go on a visit to his grandmother, she can bring them both.
Settled.
Boodels lends us a butler. Pious, with a turn for hymns in the pantry. Milburd brings a valet. A sociable creature, with an inclination to be affable, and join in the conversation round the dinner-table.
Milburd presents us with a groom, whose wife cooks. The groom himself has waited at table occasionally. At first he says “Woa” to the vegetables and the sauces. He cannons against the butler, and tells the dogs to “get out, carn't yer!” After a few days he is in good training.
Byrton brings a soldier-servant who will only attend to his master.
The Chertons have a ladies' maid, who affects the latest fashion, but is a failure in gloves.
Mrs. Boodels' maid is an elderly female. The vinegar in the kitchen salad.
We engage, on her recommendation, a housemaid, and a charwoman of irreproachable antecedents.
Chilvern, who gives himself a holiday, brings his clerk, a sharp little fellow of sixteen, to clean the boots, and render himself generally useful. The first day he was impudent to Mrs. Boodels' maid, and was thrashed by Byrton's servant. He is now quiet and subservient.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MORNING DISCUSSION.
ON DEAFNESS—ESCAPES—BUTTONHOLED—A DISCUSSION—MORNING LOST—RAGE—DESPAIR.
eaf people are very happy,” says Boodels, thoughtfully.
“Perhaps,” replies the Professor of Scientific Economy; “a deaf person can gain no information from conversation.”
“Who does?” asks Bella, pertly.
“Who finds mushrooms in a field?” asks Chilvern, who has been engaged in this lately.
“Give it up,” says Milburd. That's the worst of Milburd, when a conversation is beginning to promise some results, he nips it in the bud with the frost of his nonsense.
Bella asks what Mr. Chilvern was going to say. He has nearly forgotten, but recalls it to his mind, on Cazell repeating the word mushrooms.
“Ah, yes,” says Chilvern, evidently feeling that the brilliancy of his simile has been taken off by the interruption. “I was going to say à propos of Miss Bella's remark about no one gaining any information from conversation——”
“I didn't say that, Mr. Chilvern.”
No, of course not. We all side with Miss Bella.
Chilvern nowhere. “Ah, well,” he says, “I thought you did.”
“And if I had?” asks Miss Bella, triumphantly.
“Eh!—well, if you had—” Chilvern meditates, and then answers, “—if you had, why then I was going to say that . . . .” here he breaks off and finishes, “—well, it doesn't matter now, but it was very good when I first thought of it.”
He disappears, i.e., from a conversational point of view, in our laughter. He is extinguished.
“What's he saying?” asks Mrs. Boodels.
Milburd takes up the trumpet. “He says,” shouts Milburd, it being quite unnecessary to shout, “that he's a very clever fellow.”
“Ah,” says Mrs. Boodels. “Mr. Chilvern's always joking.”
“I never said anything of the sort,” says the injured Chilvern to her, defending himself through the ear-trumpet.
“Ah,” observes Mrs. Boodels, perfectly satisfied. “I was sure he never could have said that.” Then she considers for a few seconds. After this she remarks, “Cleverness, is not one of his strong points.”
Whereupon she smiles amiably. Chilvern walks to the window.
“We were saying,” says the Professor, who evidently has a whole three-volume lecture ready for us, “that deaf people are happy. Now I controvert that opinion. To be deaf, is not a blessing.”
“Then,” says Milburd, “a person who is deaf, is not a blessed old man, or old woman, as the case may be.”
“You misapprehend me, my dear Milburd. What I would say about deafness, is this—” (exit Bella, quietly,)—“is this—that the loss of the sense of hearing——”
“Is seldom the loss of hearing sense,” interrupts Boodels, at the door.
[Exit Boodels.
“To a certain extent,” continues the Professor, who has Milburd, now, as it were, in his grasp. “Boodels, although putting it lightly, was right. Sense is uncommon—”
“'Specially common sense,” I observe. Being my first remark for some time. But I like the Professor; and his philosophic views have an interest for me that they evidently do not possess for natures which will be always butterflying about.
“You are right,” says the Professor turning to me, whereupon Milburd rises quietly, and gets to the door. (Exit Milburd.) “But common sense, though, I admit, wrongly designated, does not convey to us a positive pleasure. The question, which we are considering—namely, whether to be deaf, is a happiness or not—should be treated in the Socratic method, and the whole reasoning reduced to the simplest syllogisms.”
Through the window, I see Bella going out with Milburd. Adelaide is with Boodels. Chilvern is pointing at me: they are all laughing. I smile to them, and at them, as much as to say, “Bless you! I'm with you in spirit, but the Professor has my body.” Byrton I see meeting them. He has his driving coat on. Hang it, they're going for some excursion without me.
Thoughts while the Professor is talking on the pleasures of deafness.—Where are they going to? Why didn't they tell me? I think Bella might have given me some notion. If she's with Milburd, won't he make fun of me? Is he trying to cut me out, or not? If “yes,” it's deuced unfair of him. Bella doesn't look back, or make any sign to me to come. If I joined them now, should I be de trop? No. How can I? It's all our party generally. They disappear into the shrubbery.
Professor suddenly asks me, “That you'll admit, I suppose.”
Happy Thought.—(As I haven't heard a single word of what he's been saying, to reply guardedly), “Well, to a certain extent, perhaps—but—” then I pause, and frown, as if considering it, whatever it is.
The Professor is lost in amazement. “But,” he exclaims, “you must admit that. By what theory of approximation can you show that we do not attain to such perfectibility of number; unless you would say, as I have heard advanced by the Budengen school, that the expression is but a formula adapted to our human experience.”
I wonder to myself what point he is arguing with me. His subject was Deafness.
Happy Thought.—(In order to find out where he's got to in his lecture, ask him). “Yes, but how does this tell upon Deafness.”
“I will show you; but it is impossible to discuss conclusions unless we settle our premisses.” [I hear the trap in the stable yard and Byrton woa-woaing. Bother!] “Will you bring some deep objection to a premiss which is fundamental . . . .”
I beg his pardon, which premiss?
Happy Thought.—Better find out what he is talking about, then differ from him point blank, and leave the room.
Happy Thought.—Pair off. Same idea as that excellent parliamentary arrangement, when you agree to differ with another member, for a whole session, on every question, and then go away and enjoy yourself.
“The premiss,” repeats the Professor, “that you would not admit just now. I do not say,” he adds—[I hear the wheels. Can I jump up and say, “Excuse me!” and run out. I could if I was a young lady, or an elderly one. But a man can't do it, specially as President, or Host, without being rude]—“that you had not good grounds, but what are those grounds?” Here he plants his binocle on his nose, leans back and stares at me.
Good Heavens! If I hadn't differed from him, or, I mean, if I'd only understood what the——
Happy Thought.—(To ask seriously), “Re-state, exactly, the premiss I disputed.” [I'm sure to catch a glimpse of the trap and horses as they drive past the lake. Hang the Professor!]
“Simply,” says he, “in putting the first premiss, I used the old formula, viz., that the point in question was as clear as that two and two make four.”
“Good Heavens! have I been disputing that with you?” I almost shout.
“What else?” he asks, astonished.
“Why . . . I . . .” I really cannot speak, I am so annoyed. I've lost a whole morning, and whole day, perhaps, and a jolly party, and—and—and—
“What's the matter?” asks Mrs. Boodels, handing her instrument of torture to the Professor. “What does he say?”
“He says—” commences the Professor . . . .
Je me sauve! (Exit myself, hurriedly.) I rush to the stable.
“James! Where are they gone?”
“They said, sir, as they were gone to the meet. 'Ounds is out near 'ere.”
CHAPTER IX.
A WET DAY.
RAIN—THE MEDFORDS—CONVERSATION—A PROPOSAL—ACCEPTED—THE TRICK—THE LECTURE.
rovoking! “I do believe,” says Miss Adelaide Cherton, “it's literally set in for rain.”
Mrs. Boodels, without troubling herself to raise her ear-trumpet, smiles blandly and proceeds with her knitting.
Happy Thought. A deaf person can always talk to herself, and obtain a hearing.
Miss Bella exclaims, “Oh, what shall we do if it rains?”
Whereupon Miss Medford observes that the gentlemen will amuse us.
[Miss Medford is an addition to our party. She was brought by Mrs. Orby Frimmely, and Mr. Frimmely subsequently came down with her brother Alfred Medford, a celebrated musical amateur, “of the nobility's concerts.” “A very interesting looking young man,” Mrs. Boodels observes aloud when he arrives, but she is a little afraid of him on finding that he can do a conjuring trick. He only has one.]
Happy Thought.—“Japanese Tommy” style.
I continue reading the newspaper. I determine to withdraw presently to my own room, where I shall lock myself in and . . . .
Happy Thought for Wet Day. Write letters. Jenkyns Soames observes that he shall devote his day to correcting his great work on Scientific Economy for the press. Mrs. Orby Frimmely says, that “it's wonderful to her, how Mr. Soames thinks of all the clever things he writes.”
Happy Thought.—The Anyhow style.
Soames remarks upon this, modestly, that “he has made the one subject his study, and all his thoughts are given to its development.”
Mrs. Boodels requests that the Professor's last observation may be repeated to her.
Solo on the Ear-trumpet by Miss Medford. Milburd strolls in, then Boodels. Mrs. Boodels suddenly informs everyone that she is deeply interested in Mr. Soames' work, and, as it is a wet day, will he read some of it aloud to amuse us?
The ladies look at one another and smile. Mrs. Orby Frimmely exclaims, “Oh do,” and laughs.
Milburd says it's just the thing to while away a happy hour, and instances the Polytechnic as being his favourite place of amusement in London.
Mr. Soames replies to this that the Polytechnic and himself are different institutions.
“All right,” says Milburd; “go ahead!” Whereupon Milburd rushes into the library. Silence during his absence. It is broken by Medford asking Boodels if he's ever seen the trick with the shilling in the tumbler? Boodels replies that he has, but would like to see it again. Medford is just producing his shilling when the Professor returns. The Professor, who has been searching for something in his note book, now asks if they (the ladies) really wish to hear some of his new book.
“Oh! do!” enthusiastically everybody.
“I will fetch it down,” says the Professor, much pleased, and leaves the room.
Medford holds up the shilling and says, “You see this shilling.” Boodels begs his pardon for a minute, and, referring to the Professor, asks, “I say, haven't we let ourselves into too much of a good thing?”
Mrs. Frimmely observes “that it'll be something to do.”
Miss Adelaide says, “I hate lectures.”
Miss Bella strikes in with, “Well, if he bores, we can ask him questions.”
It appears that he's going to have a lively time of it.
Milburd re-enters; he has arranged the library, and begs us to “Walk up!” as if it were a show.
Medford observes that there will be time before the lecture begins to show his conjuring trick with the shilling.
Cazell interrupts him with the gong from the hall, and Chilvern plays a march on the piano. Medford pockets his shilling and observes that “he'll do it afterwards.”
The Professor appears on the scene. He requests that there may be no Tomfoolery.
I say to him, “No, of course not,” as I really do wish Milburd would show some consideration, and treat the matter seriously.
Milburd apologises for his fun, and we attend the Professor to the library. There we find a black board, a glass of water, and a piece of chalk.
“I propose,” commences the Professor, “dealing with the Pleasures of Wealth.” “Brayvo!” from Milburd. Immediately frowned down by everybody.
“I have reduced the calculation to a simple formula, intelligible to all intellects of more or less cultivation.”
Medford asks me in a whisper if I do know his trick with a shilling. I return “hush” and look serious.
Winks between Byrton and Chilvern.
Catching the Professor's eye, Chilvern looks suddenly solemn and deeply interested. It is a pity that they will go on being buffoons.
“The study of algebra suggests the mode of treatment.”
Wry face made by Mrs. Frimmely.
Mrs. Boodels is seated, placidly, with her ear-trumpet raised and on her lips a smile of calm contentment, from which we subsequently infer that she doesn't catch one word.
“As the wealth so the Pleasure. [Here he draws on his slate. Milburd inquires, ‘What's that?’ but is hushed down.]
“As x : 2 :: b : 5.
“The product of the extremes equals the product of the Means, and as long as this sum in proportion is observed, Ruin is impossible.
“⁂ The key here is that b = £1,000,000.
“Then:—
5x = 2b
∴ x = 2b⁄5
= 2,000,000⁄5 = £400,000.
“Not a bad sum per annum,” says the Professor, smiling, in order to throw a little pleasantry into the matter, which is becoming a trifle heavy. Mrs. Boodels asleep. “Though I thought it was more when I commenced the equation.
“I will now,” he says, “write down a text.”
[Watches out . . . . a yawn from Cazell . . . . ladies restless.]
“To Give is a Wealthy Pleasure.
“And on this I make what I call ‘suggestions.’
“The poor man has it in his power to cause the Rich great pleasure.
“Let I stand for me.”
(“Impossible,” interrupts Milburd, sotto voce. Our Philosophic Lecturer takes no notice. He is rising with his subject).
“Let us say ‘I is poor.’”
Miss Bella says, “Excuse me a moment,” and vanishes. Wish I could get out.
“Let all I's rich friends subscribe according to their means from £5 upwards.
“Result, easily attained, £5,000.
“Say that eighty people subscribed £62 10s. apiece. Are there not eighty people in London, Manchester, and Liverpool who could do this and not miss it so much as I should miss a farthing put by accident into a Church plate—of course I mean by mistake for half a sovereign.
“But how could such a mistake arise? you would say.”
(We wouldn't, but he couldn't tell that.)
“Why simply because I never give less in Church than half a sovereign. Ergo, I never give in Church unless I have half a sovereign in my pocket. But I never have half a sovereign in my pocket.”
[Smiles from everyone, and applause from Milburd, towards whom the Professor looks appealingly, as much as to say, “There, I can be just as funny as you, only without Tomfoolery.”]
“Ergo . . . cela va sans dire.
“So, you see, eighty people could make ‘I’ happy.
[Medford is practising his trick with a shilling by himself.]
“Which is equivalent to saying that eighty people could make me happy.
“And ‘I’ has it, you observe, in his power to make eighty people happy by accepting the subscription.”
Note, which I suggest to the Professor. Should this ever meet the eye of Baron Rothschild, let him remember, that by his single act, he can attain to the happiness of eighty people.
“If any of you, here present, happen to be acquainted with the Baron, and will introduce me to him, it will be, I am sure, a step in the interests of humanity generally, and not without its beneficial results to individuals particularly.” (“Hear! hear!”)
.......
With this bit of Practicality the lecture concludes.
He tells me, in confidence, that he finished quickly because he felt he was “above his audience.”
Milburd subsequently offers to introduce the Professor to Baron Rothschild “for a consideration.”
***
No one, as yet has found any of the pleasures of Poverty.
Some one says “Absence of Income-tax.” This is met with Absence of Income. Solution rejected.
***
We found afterwards on our Scientific Lecturer's table MSS. of
“Letters to Rothschild” by a Professor of Scientific Economy.
One commences thus:—
Dear Baron,
You will doubtless be surprised at hearing from an humble individual who has nothing but his Scheme of Personal Scientific Economy, and his unblemished character, to recommend him to your notice.
I am getting up a subscription for myself. This sounds, put shortly, egotistical. On the contrary, it is Cosmopolitanly Philanthropical. If I am enabled to teach my doctrines for nothing, I shall, then, be slave to no man, no, not even to myself, as represented by my own necessities. May I head the list with a sum worthy your munificence and perfectly Oriental wealth? Yes. I hear you say ‘yes.’ I knew it. I shall put your Lordship down for £20,000, and will be careful to send you a receipt for the money. Business is business.
Yrs., &c.
J. Soames.
***
Perhaps one day the Professor of Scientific Economy will publish his “Letters to Baron Rothschild.” But I don't think there will ever appear a very voluminous collection of “Letters of Baron R. to Mr. Jenkyns Soames.”
Milburd asks him “what he should say were the pleasures of poverty.”
The Professor considers.
We all consider.
The Professor wishing to do everything methodically, writes on the slate in large type THE PLEASURES OF POVERTY.
First Pleasure......
.....
....
Then he pauses. Then he speaks. “On thorough consideration, I am convinced that Poverty has no pleasures.
“If any, they are peculiar.
“They are Grim Pleasures.
“One grim Pleasure of Poverty is talking about ourselves.”
“A very poor subject,” observes Miss Medford.
After a silence, during which I am just on the point of saying something, but don't, the Professor adds,
“No. We try very hard, but can not see any pleasure in Poverty.”