The White Monkey

The chronicler, catechised (as he often is) concerning Soames, knows not precisely what he stands for. Taking him for all in all he was honest, anyway. He lived and moved and had his peculiar being, and, now he sleeps. His creator may be pardoned for thinking there was something fitting about his end; for, however far we have travelled from Greek culture and philosophy, there is still truth in the old Greek proverb: “That which a man most loves shall in the end destroy him.”

JOHN GALSWORTHY.

PART I

Chapter I.

PROMENADE

Coming down the steps of ‘Snooks’ Club, so nicknamed by George Forsyte in the late eighties, on that momentous mid-October afternoon of 1922, Sir Lawrence Mont, ninth baronet, set his fine nose towards the east wind, and moved his thin legs with speed. Political by birth rather than by nature, he reviewed the revolution which had restored his Party to power with a detachment not devoid of humour. Passing the Remove Club, he thought: ‘Some sweating into shoes, there! No more confectioned dishes. A woodcock—without trimmings, for a change!’

The captains and the kings had departed from ‘Snooks’ before he entered it, for he was not of ‘that catch-pe

Down Whitehall, under the grey easterly sky, the towers of Westminster came for a second into view. ‘A certain unreality in that, too,’ he thought. ‘Michael and his fads! Well, it’s the fashion—Socialistic principles and a rich wife. Sacrifice with safety! Peace with plenty! Nostrums—ten a pe

Passing the newspaper hubbub of Charing Cross, frenzied by the political crisis, he turned up to the left towards Danby and Winter, publishers, where his son was junior partner. A new theme for a book had just begun to bend a mind which had already produced a ‘Life of Montrose,’ ‘Far Cathay,’ that work of Eastern travel, and a fanciful conversation between the shades of Gladstone and Disraeli—entitled ‘A Duet.’ With every step taken, from ‘Snooks’ eastward, his erect thin figure in Astrakhan-collared coat, his thin grey-moustached face, and tortoise-shell rimmed monocle under the lively dark eyebrow, had seemed more rare. It became almost a phenomenon in this dingy back street, where carts stuck like winter flies, and persons went by with books under their arms, as if educated.

He had nearly reached the door of Danby’s when he encountered two young men. One of them was clearly his son, better dressed since his marriage, and smoking a cigar—thank goodness—instead of those eternal cigarettes; the other—ah! yes—Michael’s sucking poet and best man, head in air, rather a sleek head under a velour hat! He said:

“Ha, Michael!”

“HALLO, Bart! You know my governor, Wilfrid? Wilfrid Desert. ‘Copper Coin’—some poet, Bart, I tell you. You must read him. We’re going home. Come along!”

Sir Lawrence went along.

“What happened at ‘Snooks’?”

“Le roi est mort. Labour can start lying, Michael—election next month.”

“Bart was brought up, Wilfrid, in days that knew not Demos.”

“Well, Mr. Desert, do you find reality in politics now?”

“Do you find reality in anything, sir?”

“In income tax, perhaps.”

Michael gri

“Above knighthood,” he said, “there’s no such thing as simple faith.”

“Suppose your friends came into power, Michael—in some ways not a bad thing, help ’em to grow up—what could they do, eh? Could they raise national taste? Abolish the cinema? Teach English people to cook? Prevent other countries from threatening war? Make us grow our own food? Stop the increase of town life? Would they hang dabblers in poison gas? Could they prevent flying in war-time? Could they weaken the possessive instinct—anywhere? Or do anything, in fact, but alter the incidence of possession a little? All party politics are top dressing. We’re ruled by the inventors, and human nature; and we live in Queer Street, Mr. Desert.”

“Much my sentiments, sir.”

Michael flourished his cigar.

“Bad old men, you two!”

And removing their hats, they passed the Cenotaph.

“Curiously symptomatic—that thing,” said Sir Lawrence; “monument to the dread of swank—most characteristic. And the dread of swank—”

“Go on, Bart,” said Michael.

“The fine, the large, the florid—all off! No far-sighted views, no big schemes, no great principles, no great religion, or great art—aestheticism in cliques and backwaters, small men in small hats.”

“As panteth the heart after Byron, Wilberforce, and the Nelson Monument. My poor old Bart! What about it, Wilfrid?”

“Yes, Mr. Desert—what about it?”

Desert’s dark face contracted.

“It’s an age of paradox,” he said. “We all kick up for freedom, and the only institutions gaining strength are Socialism and the Roman Catholic Church. We’re frightfully self-conscious about art—and the only art development is the cinema. We’re nuts on peace—and all we’re doing about it is to perfect poison gas.”

Sir Lawrence glanced sideways at a young man so bitter.

“And how’s publishing, Michael?”

“Well, ‘Copper Coin’ is selling like hot cakes; and there’s quite a movement in ‘A Duet.’ What about this for a new ad.: ‘A Duet, by Sir Lawrence Mont, Bart. The most distinguished Conversation ever held between the Dead.’ That ought to get the psychic. Wilfrid suggested ‘G.O.M. and Dizzy—broadcasted from Hell.’ Which do you like best?”