Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (502 page)

“This fellow Michelangelo,” Cluny was continuing, “at least, I think it was Michelangelo — because, of course, it may have been Cino da Pistoia or Pico della Mirandola — but I think it was Michelangelo, because I remember reading it in a book bound in buckram in two volumes. Yes, it was Symonds’ life of Michelangelo. Well, this chap lived to be 97, or 102, or something, and he never had his boots off during the last fifteen years of his life. They were soled and heeled on him. And he left in his will his direction to his nephew never to wash himself, but to rub himself —
nunca se lavare ma se stroppare.
And he was a jolly old boy, and his praises are sung in all lands where soap is known, and that’s all I’ve got to say about whether life is worth living unwashed.”

He called then upon his friend, the Hon. Hiram S. Whail, who, Cluny said, was a tremendous fellow in his own land. He had invented the machine for washing banknotes and putting them into circulation again.

Mr. Whail was an American of the old style, with rugged features and a huge white beard. He took oratory very seriously, and he took this subject with a deep earnestness. He waved his arms like a windmill and overwhelmed that club with a panegyric of the sons of Old Glory — and of the daughters, too. There was great applause when he spoke of these ladies as being as pure as their native streams, cold as their native rocks, and chaste as the blue skies that spread over Maine. He pointed out that every house in Boston of any size had sixteen bathrooms, and an air of bewilderment overspread his hearers. They could not understand whether this was a joke, a fairy story, or an insult. He then thrust his hands into the tail pockets of his frock coat, drew out a copy of the journal called
Tit-Bits,
read three jokes which had no bearing on anything at all, told a story about a nigger clergyman stealing chickens, and then began to shout a violent peroration as to the virility, sanity and fearlessness of American manhood and American ideals.

This was normal American oratory, and it did a great deal to restore Mr. Debenham to a good temper. He had heard the exact twin of that speech many times at the American Ambassador’s, when he had attended Fourth of July banquets. It seemed to him to be normal, usual and proper to a Foreign Office atmosphere. It was eccentric, but that was Diplomatic America.

But Mr. Macpherson restored him to a furious state. That gentleman immediately approached him, pawed his shoulders and whispered in his ears. Debenham realised that the poet was begging him to make a speech. Cluny indicated two foreign ladies, whom Mr. Debenham took for inferior street-walkers, and assured him that the Princess Odintsov and the Countess Paramatti were really yearning to have a taste of his famous Parliamentary manner. He just had to do it, but he was so really insane with rage — at the thought that these people were what was the matter with the country, at the thought that it was they who had the power to push fellows like Bleischroeder — that he determined to insult them all so grossly that they could not miss noticing it.

Mr. Debenham had just one talent, that of mimicry, and he made them a speech that was the exact counterpart of one that might have been made by Lord Hugo Sheffield, who was the buffoon provided by the Tory Benches for the relief of the House. He said that there was a great deal of tosh — Haw! — about the Englishman’s tub — Haw, haw! — As a matter of fact — Haw, haw, haw! — he did not suppose there were 20,000 persons — people of their own class of life — Haw, haw, haw, haw! — (And he could feel that the odious people round him had a sensible thrill of satisfaction at the suggestion that he included them in his class of life) — who took a bath more than once a week. There might be another 100,000 who took one once a month, and an additional 100,000 who did it more or less accidentally once a year. Say a quarter of a million out of a population of forty-eight millions. In the town of A — Mr. Debenham said that he had once had occasion to make researches. He wanted some plumbing done, so he heard the details from the plumber. In the whole of that city, containing 30,000 inhabitants, there were only fourteen baths, and the public ones, which had been opened six years before, had been converted into a Corn Exchange because nobody visited them.

Nevertheless, Mr. Debenham began his peroration, we were the great, proud and noble empire that the members of the Enamel Club knew themselves to be — an empire where freedom from prejudice and noble intellect flourished — as he felt sure when he gazed upon them — in such a way as it had never done probably since the fabulous Augustan Age. And were they to be told that the victories of peace had been gained in the British bath tub? Perish the thought! Just as the victories of Wellington were gained in the playing grounds of Eton, so the moral, intellectual and artistic ascendency of these Islands — and his eminent friend, Mr. Kakimono Hiroshige had just, sitting at his side, assured him that the arts were flourishing in this country in a rare and refreshing state — the victories of British intellect were gained, he was certain, in the festive halls, not of the bath, but of the Enamel Club!

There was true applause when Mr. Debenham sat down, and many of the members ran from their seats to shake him by the hands. This disgusted Mr. Debenham to just the breaking point. But Mr. Macpherson was standing up and exclaiming at the top of his shrill voice:

“Sit down, all of you. Especially you, Augusta. I’ve got an enormous announcement to make to you. Wealth is going to be poured into all your pockets. I’ve got hold of a new millionaire. If you don’t sit down, Augusta, I certainly shan’t even pretend I’m going to marry you. Sit down all of you. Now listen!”

A dead silence had fallen on the room, and even Mr. Debenham was conscious, through his annoyance, of the wish that he had got hold of the millionaire — to fill the vacated seat at East Byefleet in North Kent. The cotton merchant, that was all they had to fill the gap, was too egregious a fool and always snuffled. At any rate there was one comfort, and that was that the other side had no candidate either.

“There’s a chap called Rothweil,” Mr. Macpherson went on. “At least his name is Rothweil, but he calls himself Fleight, which is a silly sort of thing to do — only, perhaps, he wanted to live incognito!” Well, they all knew the name Rothweil’s Soap. That was what made it particularly appropriate that it should be on that particular evening that he made the announcement. The point was that here was a perfectly virgin fortune. The chap hadn’t gambled and hadn’t drunk, and hardly smoked at all. It was a perfectly virgin fortune for all those chaps, and Mr. Macpherson had this man in his pocket. Wasn’t it glorious? Wasn’t it fun?

Wouldn’t they all of them have to be nice to Mr. Macpherson now? And they were not to believe Augusta Macphail when she said that it was she that had him, because it was not! The man who was going to be Rothweil’s bear-leader was old sanguinary Blood.

At the mention of this name Mr. Debenham became more alert; he sat up in his chair. He had met Mr. Blood several times — at his father’s and in country houses. He had even approached Mr. Blood, but with little success, to try to get him to do something for the party. They would have been only too glad if Mr. Blood would have stood for Corbury — or rather for Byefleet itself — for Corbury, although it was not actually in the division, was within three miles of the chief polling town. Mr. Macpherson repeated:

“The man who’s going to be his bear-leader is old Blood, and if he’s sweet on anybody it’s Wilhelmina, not Augusta. And a good job, too, because I’m sure we all prefer Wilhelmina.”

Mr. Debenham got out of his chair and sat himself down again on the chairman’s dressing gown.

“I say,” he whispered to Mr. Macpherson, “is your friend going in for politics?”

“That’s just what he is going in for!” Mr. Macpherson exclaimed. “He’s starting a new magazine, a new daily paper, and God knows what, just in order to get himself political influence. I tell you there will be millions of money going.” Mr. Debenham rose straight from his chair and went out of the place. He was a member of the club in which Mr. Blood very frequently spent his evenings.

CHAPTER V
I

MR. BLOOD, who had got rid of Mr. Fleight towards seven, had dined at his club and was sitting, reflecting on the chances of the candidates for the Oaks, in a deep chair that looked right down the smoking room. He had so much of the desire to know things that it was his practice to keep his eye even upon the club smoking room.

The club was the chief Government social institution of the more old-fashioned type. He could see old Mr. Hayter, the member for a northern city, playing dominoes with Mr. O’Hague, the ancient member of the Irish League. Mr. Wilde, who had lost Devizes after sitting for it for twenty years, was asleep before the fire. Mr. Remington, the Government agent for Lancashire, was leaning forward and whispering to a man with very red hair — the only man in the room who was under seventy, except, of course, Mr. Blood himself. A fat county-court judge — Mr. Blood could not remember his name — was re-reading, and reading, and re-reading again a slip of paper containing probably the bill for his dinner. A liveried servant was standing beside him.

Mr. Blood judged that Remington, the agent, was up to something questionable, for, as he whispered to the red-haired man he gazed perpetually over his shoulder at Mr. Hayter, whom he seemed to suspect of listening.

A page brought Mr. Blood a slip that he glanced at. Then he said: “Show him up!” and he kept his eye on the agent. The name on the slip was very ill-written; it might have been Girten, in which case Mr. Blood would not know who he was. If it had been Garstein, it represented a political development that Mr. Blood had been expecting without fail, but not so soon. It would mean that Mr. Macpherson had been acting with great vigour in his capacity of news-spreader. He must have telephoned to Mr. Garstein, if it did prove to be that gentleman — in a frenzy of delighted power to give information.

Mr. Remington, the agent, suddenly started. His eyes went very round as he perceived an exceedingly fat man who was following a page across the room. The room itself was nearly one hundred and twenty feet long, its walls being decorated with portraits in oils — and generally by Millais — of departed party leaders. It took the fat man, who was very hot, an appreciable minute to pass Mr. Remington. As soon as Mr. Remington had the back of him, he whispered to the red-haired man, who stared with immense eyes at the fat new-comer. Then Mr. Remington got up and spoke to Mr. Hayter and the Irish member. They dropped their dominoes and stared at the stranger Certainly, therefore, this was Mr. Garstein.

“I was expecting you,” Mr. Blood said to the fat man. “Sit down.” He did not shake hands with him.

The fat man sat down and wheezed a little. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He was clean-shaven, enormous, and had wet, dark hair. His stomach presented the appearance of being a separate bag that he had tied in front of him.

He leant out of his chair towards Mr. Blood; Mr. Blood moved further away. Mr. Garstein took a look at the room — there was no one within twenty yards of him.

The other members had returned to their dominoes, their slumbers and their whispering.

“So you did send for me?” Mr. Garstein whispered. “I could not make out that fellow’s story.”

Mr. Blood asked: “What fellow?”

“Said his name was Cluny Macpherson,” Mr. Garstein whispered on. “Couldn’t make out much from his story. He was too excited. There was something about a club where they did not wash. What do you make of it?”

“How should I know, my good fellow?” Mr. Blood said.

Mr. Garstein wiped his face once more and then completely recaptured his breath.

“I’ve hurried round here,” he said. “That excited chap appeared to recommend it. You seemed to be at the bottom of the show — and another man. A soap man!”

“At the bottom of the club where they did not wash?” Mr. Blood asked.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Garstein said. “There was something about millions and party funds, and you. But there was most about a club where they did not wash. He seemed to be going to make a speech.”

“He was!” Mr. Blood answered.

“Of course, I know,” Mr. Garstein began again; “it was a strong step my coming here. But I seemed to gather you invited. That chap Macpherson was so
extraordinarily
excited.”

“Oh, he’s always excited!” Mr. Blood answered. “But still, it’s just as well you came. What’s your offer? Think it out for a minute while I go and send a message.”

“Offer?” Mr. Garstein said in an appalled manner.

Mr. Blood strolled down the long room; the portraits in oils of departed leaders following him with their eyes had expressions of democratic passion. He went into the hall and asked the telephone porter to ring him up Palatial Hall, Hampstead, and ask for Mr. Fleight. And in a minute or two — during the interval he engaged himself in studying the latest tape prices, and perceived that Redmaynes had dropped to 32 and a quarter — he was in a dark box saying to Mr. Fleight:

“It’s a shame to trouble you so soon. But things have developed. Thanks to Cluny they have developed extraordinarily. Could you come down here? The Opposition caucus are after you.”

The voice of Mr. Fleight said tremulously:

“What? What?”

“The chief devil,” Mr. Blood said, “the chief devil to the Opposition agent in chief is here after you. The chap who does the Opposition’s really filthy work — not the merely dirty one. Could you come down and hear what they have to propose?”

“Oh, I say!” Mr. Fleight’s voice exclaimed. “I’m in the middle of a most painful scene. She might — cut her throat — you know — very painful. If I left.”

“Oh, tell the lady the terms will be most liberal,” Mr. Blood said; “that will calm her for to-night. I want you to come.”

“Of course, you are a most wonderful man!” Mr. Fleight said. “It’s astounding — perfectly astounding, how things fall out as you predict.”

“I didn’t come here to hear that,” Mr. Blood said. “I want you down here to-night. I’ll tell you why — Redmaynes have dropped to 32 and a quarter.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Mr. Fleight said plaintively.

“It means,” Mr. Blood said, “that a man called Cronk will have left the country to-night. He’s the member for Byefleet, near Corbury. You might be the candidate for the constituency to-morrow.”

“I say, how do you know these things?” Mr. Fleight asked. “I don’t know what to do. I might give her some drops that would take her through the night.”

“I shall expect you in three-quarters of an hour,” Mr. Blood said. He hung up the receiver and sauntered into the reading room, where he consulted several commercial books of reference.

In the hall he met the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who had come there to give a labour leader a very earnest talking to.

Mr. Blood nodded friendlily.

“Still keying things up a bit?” he asked.

The Chancellor laughed.

“They want it,” he said. “We need enthusiasm.” He was waiting for a cab. Mr. Blood paused. He did not know the Chancellor very well; it was not a type that he much liked. And Mr. Parment looked more monstrous than usual, because his dress clothes fitted him so badly that it appeared as if his waistcoat and coat were half off his shoulders. He had a moody and very abstracted air, and Mr. Blood could not help seeing, as Mr. Debenham had seen in the afternoon, that he had possibilities of being really dangerous in a heavy, sudden way. It was almost a feeling of madness that he conveyed. Every now and then he would fumble with his coat button, though that was not by any means a habitual gesture of his. Mr. Blood was about to turn away when the Chancellor himself said, in a friendly, family note:

“How’s your brother? Isn’t he ever coming out of retirement? You tell him from me that he ought to.”

“Oh!” Mr. Blood said. And then he remembered that the Chancellor had gone out to India on the same liner some years before with his brother, who was then an engineer with brilliant prospects.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Blood said. “I can’t do anything to wake him up. But I’m much obliged to you for remembering him.”

“Oh, he was a most extraordinary man!” the Chancellor said. “A sort of a sombre genius — if you don’t object to having a genius for a brother.”

He was passing on. Then he paused and took hold of Mr. Blood’s coat lapel.

“Come in here for a minute,” he said, and he drew him into the library. “Why don’t you—’’ he said.

“Couldn’t you be persuaded? The time is really coming for earnest men. I was talking to a young man only this afternoon — young Debenham, Whitecliffe’s son. He’s got talents, you know. And honesty. But no enthusiasm. Now, why couldn’t you help us? You belong to the party.”

“Only platonically,” Mr. Blood got in.

“If you’d stand now — I don’t mind telling you that there will be an opportunity.”

“I’d rather you didn’t tell me,” Mr. Blood said. “Not as a matter of confidence. If, that is to say, you are going to tell me there will be a bye-election in North Kent.”

The Chancellor said: “Ah!” Immediately afterwards he returned to his theme.

“Of course, this isn’t officially my job. But I feel the necessity — out of office hours, as it were — the necessity of preaching a revival of spirit. The old-fashioned spirit — that’s what we want. The fine old determined Whiggism.”

“Oh, great Scott!” Mr. Blood exclaimed. “My dear sir, I’m not a Whig!”

“You mayn’t be,” the Chancellor said, “but you have the spirit. I don’t mind saying that I am not astonished if you think politics is dirty work. I’m not astonished that you stand out of it. I can’t really blame you. I’m going myself — I’m an enthusiast, you know — to try to clean things up. We’ve too many indifférents and too many men merely on the make. I’m going to try to change it. That’s why I’m looking out for men.”

“You’re looking out for trouble, I should say,” Mr. Blood said. “You can’t keep back the Atlantic with torrents of eloquence, not any more than you can with a mop. It’s coming; it’s going to sweep you over. I’ve got a chap.”

The Chancellor did not know Mr. Blood very well. He had addressed him rather on the chance of making an adherent, for he really was contemplating, not a split in the Cabinet, but great developments when certain of the older colleagues should have died or gone into the House of Peers. A perfectly honourable man, he had no idea at all of working against colleagues with whom he disagreed. But he saw a time coming when he must, by the mere process of exhaustion, become the dominating personality of the Government. And he was determined, when that day came, to have done with compromise. For that reason he had addressed Mr. Blood. But it certainly astonished him a little to be addressed, in turn, with so little personal deference. He did not much resent it: he was accustomed to the want of personal respect inseparable from a democratic following. Had he been a minister of the Opposition, he would certainly never have been there, in a club, talking to just any commoner. And he felt it to be rather odd that the person who thus addressed him was not a working man, who need not be expected to be respectful, but a member of the Whig governing class who ought to have a respect for place. He said only:

“Sweep me over, you said?” And then, “Sweep
me
over!”

“Oh well!” Mr. Blood answered, “that is how I feel it. But it’s not much good saying it. What else did you want to say to me? I’m quite at your service.”

The Chancellor said: “Oh!” in quite an accentuated voice, and caught at his knee. “It’s a pain! Hang it! Quite an acute pain. I’ve had it once or twice. I ought to see a doctor. I beg your pardon.” He reflected for a moment, said “The pain was really very severe!” and then recollected his propaganda.

“The point really is,” he continued, “that we do want that earnest tone restored to political life. And, if you determinedly refuse to take advantage of a career that I am perfectly certain you would — eh, eh — adorn, you might at least do a great deal, in the way of speaking to our younger members. You could give them the benefit of your weight and experience. Even of your stake in the country. There is, for instance, the young man we were mentioning — Lord Whitecliffe’s son. And one or two others. If you could make a little circle round you.”