Chapter IV
If Penelope had had any sense of humour, she would have deprived the round world of much to laugh at in sad times, when laughter was wanted. But thanks be to whatever gods there are, some folks have no humour, and some have a little, and a few much, and thus the world gets on in spite of the spirit of gravity, which, as may be remembered by students of philosophy, Nietzsche branded as the enemy. Pen went ahead, bent on cutting her own swath in the hay-field, and she cut a big one. Goby and the poet must stand as exemplars of her clear and childlike method. It was Pen’s Short Way with Her Lovers. She got Rivaulx, who was Nationalist and Anti-Semite to his manicured finger-tips, and had been mixed up in the Dreyfus case, and set him cheek by jowl with Gordon, alias Isaac Levi.
She made them dine together in public, and the poor marquis, being head over heels in love with the earnest creature who was so beautiful, submitted like a lamb.
“Very well, I will,” said Rivaulx. There were almighty shrieks in the Paris press. The Journal had an article that was wonderful. The affair woke up anti-Semitism again. Rivaulx had been bought by Jewry; France was once more betrayed; the bottom of the world was falling out.
Pen, with no sense of humour, had a native capacity for discovering every one’s real weakness. As the Frenchman would rather have died than dine as he did, so Gordon would almost prefer to die suddenly than to run the risk of it. He had wonderful brains, and was a power in finance: he could risk a million when he hadn’t it or when he had it as coolly as most men can risk a penny on the chance of a slot-machine working. But physically he was timid. Rivaulx went ballooning. He intended to rival Santos-Dumont.
“You must go with him, Mr. Gordon,” said Penelope. Gordon nearly fainted, but Pen was firm, as firm as a rock. Gordon offered to subscribe to all the hospitals in London if she would let him off. He offered to build a small one and endow it; he even suggested that he would build a church. But the poor man had to go. It was now thoroughly understood that any man who refused to do exactly what she told him was struck off the list. The comic papers were almost comic about it. On the day that Gordon went up with Rivaulx in an entirely non-dirigible balloon, the Crystal Palace grounds were crowded with all the Frenchmen and all the Jews in London. The balloon came down in a turnip-field fifteen miles from anywhere, and Gordon got back to London and went to bed. He was consoled by a telegram from Penelope, who congratulated him on overcoming his natural cowardice, and suggested he should do it again.
“I’ll give her up first,” said Gordon, knowing all the time that he could no more do it than give up finance. He went out and robbed a lot of his friends as a compensation for disturbance, and found himself a hero. In about forty-eight hours the sensation of being looked on as a man of exceptional grit so pleased him that he adored Penelope more than ever. He was as proud of having been in a balloon as Rivaulx was of having dined tête-à-tête with him in the open.
She sent for Rufus Q. Plant, and she introduced him to Lord Bramber. Plant was a big American with the common delusion among Americans that he had an entirely English accent. But he hated aristocrats. Bramber had an Oxford accent (Balliol variety), and disliked Americans more than getting up in the morning. He was a fine-looking young fellow with a good skull, who did nothing with it. He had the tendencies of a citizen of Sybaris, and got up at noon. Plant rose at dawn. Bramber loved horses and hated motor-cars. Plant had a manufactory of motors. Pen sent them away together on a little tour, and hinted delicately to Plant that his English accent would be improved by a little Oxford polish.
“And as for you, Lord Bramber, when you come back, I hope you will be more ready to acknowledge that you don’t know everything. Mr. Plant will do you good, and will teach you to drive a motor!”
She had never been so beautiful. She showed at her best when her interest in humanity made her courageous and brutal. The colour in her cheeks was splendid; her eyes were as earnest as the sea. If Bramber choked, he submitted, though he blasphemed awfully when he got alone.
“Go at once,” said Penelope.
She paired off Carteret Williams with Jimmy Carew, A.R.A. Williams knew as much about art as a hog does of harmony. Jimmy thought the war correspondent a howling Philistine, as indeed he was, and believed anything that could not be painted was a mere by-product of the universe.
“You’ll do each other good,” said Pen, clasping her beautiful hands together with enthusiasm. Jimmy wanted to draw her at once. Williams wished for an immediate invasion, so that he could save her life and write a flamboyant article about it.
“Show him pictures, Mr. Carew, beginning with Turner and Whistler.”
“Make him understand that art isn’t everything, Mr. Williams.”
She sent them away together, and was wonderfully pleased with herself.
“They are all fine men,” she said, thoughtfully, “but it is curious that every man I know thinks every other man more or less of a fool or an idiot, or a cad. They are dreadfully one-sided. When they come back they will be much improved. This is my work in the world, and I don’t care a bit what people say.”
People said lots, though after a bit the fun died down, except among her own people. And even they laughed at last. At least, every one did but Titania, and she had no more sense of humour than Penelope herself. Indeed, she had less, for Penelope could understand a joke when it was explained to her carefully, and Titania couldn’t. And in after years Pen came to see the humourous side of things. She even appreciated a joke against herself, which is the crucial test of humour. But Titania died maintaining that life was a serious business, and should be taken like medicine.
“I never heard of more insane proceedings,” said Titania, “never! The notion of sending that poor Jew up in a balloon with that mad Frenchman! Balloons at the best are blasphemous. And to make Captain Goby read with poor little De Vere! I’m sure there will be murder done before she’s married. And now it’s an understood thing that she will marry one of them. And Brading laughs! If he is only her half-brother, I consider him responsible. And Augustin smiles and smokes and smokes and smiles. And Chloe Cadwallader, whom I never approved of and never shall, backs her up, of course. One of these days I shall tell Chloe Cadwallader what I think of her!”
“I say, granny, what do you think of her?” asked Bob.
“Never mind,” said Titania; “there are things that you know nothing of, Robert.”
“Oh, are there?” said Bob. “I say, granny, I ain’t sure of that. I’ve been expelled from three schools, and Baker says—”
“Oh, bother Baker,” cried his exasperated grandmother. “I think Mr. Guthrie might keep you away from Baker.”
“He can’t,” said Bob, cheerfully. “Old Guth and I have made a treaty. I do what he tells me between ten and twelve, and what I like afterward. If we are reading Latin, and the clock strikes twelve, I say, ‘Mr. Guthrie, don’t you think Latin’s rot?’ and he says, ‘Oh, is it twelve? I thought it was only eleven!’ I get on with Guth, I tell you.”
And he was very thick with Goby, who had given him the pedigree bull-pup. Mr. de Vere now owned the interesting one which had to be fed with gloves on, and loathed it with an exceeding hatred only exceeded by his hatred for Goby.
“I say, Pen, you go it,” said Bob. “There’s heaps of fun in this. They all tip me now like winking.”
But Pen did not see the fun. It was a serious business. She looked after her lovers with the greatest care. They brought her reports; they complained of each other. She smoothed over difficulties, and explained what they were to do.
“How the devil am I to live on a thousand a year!” said Goby. But he tried it and found it quite exciting. It exercised his self-control wonderfully. He went into the War Office once a week and demanded some kind of job, and was put off with all kinds of regulations. He sent a telegram to Penelope the first week, saying that according to his accounts he had spent no more than £20. She wired congratulations, and received another wire:
“Have made a mistake. Forgot to include a few bills. Will be more careful in future.
“GOBY.”
Plant said:
“What, a thousand a year! That’s easy. I can live on thirty shillings a week. My dear Lady Penelope, I’ve done it on half a dollar a day. I’ll show you.”
He took one room in Bloomsbury, and sent in his bills and accounts to her weekly. She suggested he should find out if his great success in the United States had ruined any one in particular, and if so that he should compensate them. This cost him a hundred thousand dollars. Almost every other day she got a telegram something like this:
“Have found another person I ruined. Am cabling five thousand dollars to widow and orphans. Man is dead.”
Or,—
“Another find. Man said to be a lunatic, but perfectly sane except on point of Trusts. Have cabled for his transfer to more comfortable asylum.”
Or,—
“Widow refuses money with insults. Have settled it on daughter, and have given son job.”
Or,—
“Man in question has given amount cabled to Republicans of New York. Has recovered and has started a Trust himself.”
This was very satisfactory. Penelope saw she was doing good. In the middle of her joy, she received a wire from Goby.
“May I stop poetry with De Vere? Doctor says I am overdoing it. GOBY.”
She also received one at the same time from De Vere:
“If I could have a week to myself to write satire, should be eternally grateful. Doctor says rowing may be carried to excess. The bulldog is well.
“DE VERE.”
The Marquis de Rivaulx, after a fortnight with Gordon, asked to be allowed to go over to Paris to see his mother. But he acknowledged that Gordon was not a bad chap, though he was as white as a sheet in the balloon.
“And he told me, my dear lady, what to buy. He knows very well what to buy and what to sell. He is immensely clevair, oh, yes. And may I go and see maman?”
She let him go, but not before he promised to take no part in any further anti-Semitic proceedings. She told Gordon not to brag so much of having been in a balloon.
“You know you were afraid,” she said. “The marquis said you were.”
“Of course I was,” said Gordon, “but I went, didn’t I?”
That was unanswerable.
She had an “at home” once a week. It was understood that no one but her own relatives and members of the horde were to call on that day. She then issued any directions that she thought of during the week. Bradstock was now openly and recklessly on her side.
“I believe you’re doing good, real good,” said Augustin. “I’m proud of you. Don’t mind my laughing, Pen. Oh, but you are wonderful.”
He gave her advice.
“Kick young Bramber into public life,” he said. “He’s got brains.”
“Lord Bramber,” said Pen, “you are to go into Parliament at once. Speak to Lord Bradstock about it, and I’ll talk to Mrs. Mytton on your behalf. I expect you to be an Under-Secretary of State at once.”
“Damn! this is worse than Plant,” said the obedient Bramber. Nevertheless, he owned that Plant was a man, and a real good sort.
“I go to see him, Lady Penelope, in his room in Bloomsbury. He’s living on about half a crown a day. I—oh—yes, I’m coming down to the thousand by degrees. And of course if you want me to go into the House, I’ll go.”
Carteret Williams was there, and was put through his paces by Pen about art. He had learnt something about it by rote.
“The Academy is composed of painters,” he said, mechanically, “but there are few artists in it. I quite agree with Carew, who had his pictures chucked before they made him an associate through fear. Turner is a very great artist. He shows how near the sublime can get to the ridiculous. Whistler is also great. He shows how near the ridiculous can go to the sublime. Art is a combination of the material and the spiritual. So Carew says. He showed me a lot of Blake, and he says that the beauty of Blake is that you can’t understand him by any ordinary means, such as the intellect. I’m not up to Blake yet. The old masters are very fine. I admit it. Velasquez is dry, but wonderful. Rembrandt appeals to me because he is very dark; I think he would be better if he were darker. We go to the National Gallery every day, and then I take him to the Press Club, where he hears about real life.”
When Carew came, he owned that Williams wasn’t a bad sort.
“And he’s doing his level best to understand,” said Carew, with enthusiasm. “He stands before a picture of mine every day for an hour while I explain it. He sees something in it at last. And he’s reading about art, and is beginning to see why a photograph isn’t the last word of things. He’s led a wonderful life, Lady Penelope, and when he gets on what he’s seen and done, I feel almost ashamed to live as I do.”
“That’s right,” said Pen; “every artist should. And every man who is not an artist should be sorry that he is not. We are far from perfect yet.”
How beautiful she looked, thought Carew.
“She lives in the world of the ideal, and so do I.”
“I am very much pleased with everything,” said Pen at large to the assembly, and De Vere, who was having a holiday for his satire, was pleased too. And Goby was delighted at being let off poetry for awhile.
“Not but what there’s something in it, I admit,” said Goby, critically. “Robert Lindsay Gordon is a fair snorter at it. I can’t say I’m up to Shelley yet. De Vere read me the Epi-something-or-other.”
“‘Epipsychidion,’” said Pen.
“That’s it, a regular water-jump of a word,” said Goby, “and he took it in his stride, while I boggled on the bank. However, I’m coming up hand over hand with him. I’m reading Keats with him. He’s all right when you get to know him, Lady Penelope, and rowing’s doing him no end of good. He’s a well-made little chap, and getting some good muscle. If I’m not dead by the time I can take the Epi-what’s-his-name, I’ll make a man of him.”
Rivaulx, who had come in with Gordon on his return from seeing his mother in Paris, was very proud of himself.
“A year ago I should not have had the courage to show myself with a Jew,” said Rivaulx, triumphantly. “Lady, dear lady, I thought I should have died when I asked him to dinner. But now I like him. He is wonderful. When he says ‘buy,’ I buy, and heigh, presto! the shares go up like my balloon. And when he says ‘sell,’ I sell, and they go down like a barometer when you go up. Oh, yes, and all your aristocracy admire him. I saw seven great lords with him the other day, and they said: ‘What company am I to be a director of, Gordon?’ and he said he’d ask his clerk. But I have refused to be a director. I should not like maman to know I know him. She is very dreadful against Jews, owing to the affaire in France.”
And that was the celebrated afternoon that Penelope, who found that she was doing good in every way to all mankind by obliterating all class and professional jealousies, raised passion and curiosity to its highest point by saying, with the sweetest blush:
“Very well, then, I promise to marry one of you!”