But people ought not to go about having dressmakers for mothers. …
And coming into other people's houses and influencing their sons. …
8
That night when everything was over Billy sat at the writing-table of his sumptuous bedroom—the bed was gilt wood, the curtains of the three great windows were tremendous, and there was a cheval glass that showed the full length of him and seemed to look over his head for more—and meditated upon this visit of his. It was more than he had been prepared for. It was going to be a great strain. The sleek young manservant in an alpaca jacket, who said “Sir” whenever you looked at him, and who had seized upon and unpacked Billy's most private Gladstone bag without even asking if he might do so, and put away and displayed Billy's things in a way that struck Billy as faintly ironical, was unexpected. And it was unexpected that the brown suit, with its pockets stuffed with Billy's personal and confidential sundries, had vanished. And apparently a bath in a bathroom far down the corridor was prescribed for him in the morning; he hadn't thought of a dressing-gown. And after one had dressed, what did one do? Did one go down and wander about the house looking for the breakfast-room or wait for a gong? Would Sir Godfrey read Family Prayers? And afterwards did one go out or hang about to be entertained? He knew now quite clearly that those wicked blue eyes would mark his every slip. She did not like him. She did not like him, he supposed, because he was common stuff. He didn't play up to her world and her. He was a discord in this rich, cleverly elaborate household. You could see it in the servants' attitudes. And he was committed to a week of this.
Billy puffed out his cheeks to blow a sigh, and then decided to be angry and say “Damn!”
This way of living which made him uncomfortable was clearly an irrational and objectionable way of living. It was, in a cumbersome way, luxurious. But the waste of life of it, the servants, the observances, all concentrated on the mere detail of existence? There came a rap at the door. Benham appeared, wearing an expensive-looking dressing-jacket which Lady Marayne had bought for him. He asked if he might talk for a bit and smoke. He sat down in a capacious chintz-covered easy chair beside Prothero, lit a cigarette, and came to the point after only a trivial hesitation.
“Prothero,” he said, “you know what my father is.”
“I thought he ran a preparatory school.”
There was the profoundest resentment in Prothero's voice.
“And, all the same, I'm going to be a rich man.”
“I don't understand,” said Prothero, without any shadow of congratulation.
Benham told Prothero as much as his mother had conveyed to him of the resources of his wealth. Her version had been adapted to his tender years and the delicacies of her position. The departed Nolan had become an eccentric godfather. Benham's manner was apologetic, and he made it clear that only recently had these facts come to him. He had never suspected that he had had this eccentric godfather. It altered the outlook tremendously. It was one of the reasons that made Benham glad to have Prothero there, one wanted a man of one's own age, who understood things a little, to try over one's new ideas. Prothero listened with an unamiable expression.
“What would you do, Prothero, if you found yourself saddled with some thousands a year?”
“Godfathers don't grow in Brixton,” said Prothero concisely.
“Well, what am I to do, Prothero?”
“Does all THIS belong to you?”
“No, this is my mother's.”
“Godfather too?”
“I've not thought. … I suppose so. Or her own.”
Prothero meditated.
“THIS life,” he said at last, “this large expensiveness— …”
He left his criticism unfinished.
“I agree. It suits my mother somehow. I can't understand her living in any other way. But—for me. …”
“What can one do with several thousands a year?”
Prothero's interest in this question presently swamped his petty personal resentments. “I suppose,” he said, “one might have rather a lark with money like that. One would be free to go anywhere. To set all sorts of things going. … It's clear you can't sell all you have and give it to the poor. That is pauperization nowadays. You might run a tremendously revolutionary paper. A real upsetting paper. How many thousands is it?”
“I don't know. SOME.”
Prothero's interest was growing as he faced the possibilities.
“I've dreamt of a paper,” he said, “a paper that should tell the brute truth about things.”
“I don't know that I'm particularly built to be a journalist,” Benham objected.
“You're not,” said Billy. … “You might go into Parliament as a perfectly independent member. … Only you wouldn't get in. …”
“I'm not a speaker,” said Benham.
“Of course,” said Billy, “if you don't decide on a game, you'll just go on like this. You'll fall into a groove, you'll—you'll hunt. You'll go to Scotland for the grouse.”
For the moment Prothero had no further suggestions.
Benham waited for a second or so before he broached his own idea.
“Why, first of all, at any rate, Billy, shouldn't one use one's money to make the best of oneself? To learn things that men without money and leisure find it difficult to learn? By an accident, however unjust it is, one is in the position of a leader and a privileged person. Why not do one's best to give value as that?”
“Benham, that's the thin end of aristocracy!”
“Why not?”
“I hate aristocracy. For you it means doing what you like. While you are energetic you will kick about and then you will come back to this.”
“That's one's own look-out,” said Benham, after reflection.
“No, it's bound to happen.”
Benham retreated a little from the immediate question.
“Well, we can't suddenly at a blow change the world. If it isn't to be plutocracy to-day it has to be aristocracy.”
Prothero frowned over this, and then he made a sweeping proposition.
“YOU CANNOT HAVE ARISTOCRACY,” he said, “BECAUSE, YOU SEE—ALL MEN ARE RIDICULOUS. Democracy has to fight its way out from under plutocracy. There is nothing else to be done.”
“But a man in my position—?”
“It's a ridiculous position. You may try to escape being ridiculous. You won't succeed.”
It seemed to Benham for a moment as though Prothero had got to the bottom of the question, and then he perceived that he had only got to the bottom of himself. Benham was pacing the floor.
He turned at the open window, held out a long forefinger, and uttered his countervailing faith.
“Even if he is ridiculous, Prothero, a man may still be an aristocrat. A man may anyhow be as much of an aristocrat as he can be.”
Prothero reflected. “No,” he said, “it sounds all right, but it's wrong. I hate all these advantages and differences and distinctions. A man's a man. What you say sounds well, but it's the beginning of pretension, of pride—”
He stopped short.
“Better, pride than dishonour,”