Quincunx

  One morning, finding that the City was almost deserted, I abandoned trade for the day and set off for home. Approaching Westminster, I encountered crowds of people in holiday dress making in the same direction, and asked someone what was going on.

  “Why, it’s the risin’ of Parlyment,” he answered with a sneer as if only a simpleton could fail to know it.

  So that was the explanation for the emptiness of the City! Along the route from St. James to Westminster there were crowds gathered to watch the royal procession return, and mounted soldiers to protect His Majesty from the popular displays of feeling to which he had occasionally been exposed. Quite near our street I came across a gaily-painted wooden box with streamers of coloured ribbons, before which was gathered a crowd of children with their nurses and governesses — and further back some urchins of the street.

  Mr and Mrs Punch had reached that stage in their domestic relations when they were furiously throwing the baby backwards and forwards in anticipation of its final ejection through the window by its male parent.

  “You improvident creature,” Mr Punch cried in a nasal squeak, “you didn’t never ought to have had it. What was you a-thinkin’ of?” With these words he flung his off-spring at his wife who neatly caught it round the neck.

  “Why, you monster, don’t you love your own little child?” asked his wife in a much deeper voice than her spouse.

  “How should I love it if it conflicts with my interests?” her husband demanded. “I can’t afford another mouth to feed!”

  “What’s the cost matter to you?” his spouse retorted. “We shall get our reg’lars of the paritch.”

  “Why, woman, that’s just what will beggar the country and bring us all to our ruin!” Punch riposted in deeper and much better modulated accents.

  “Humbug!” Joan cried. “There’s wealth enough and it’s only equitable that the rich should help the poor. Why, I know Lady Decies has ten thousand a year and she …”

  The young audience was becoming increasingly restless at the turn the performance was taking, and some were beginning to drift away.

  “Don’t speak to me of Equity!” interrupted Mr Punch in an even deeper voice than before. “You’re a Jacobin! An incendiarist!”

  This exordium was interrupted by a man’s voice from behind the little stage that sounded oddly like Joan’s: “Hit me, you ideot!”

  Mr Punch instantly obliged by raising his truncheon and bringing it down hard upon his wife’s head, and the children who remained roared with delight. To their even greater joy, Mrs Punch turned her infant into a weapon and banged it a number of times over her husband’s head. While Punch and Joan continued to trade blows they did not speak but the sound of a fierce argument could be heard coming from behind the box. The voices were too muffled to be heard distinctly, though occasional phrases were comprehensible: “property rights … irresponsibility … population”.

  Suddenly Mr Punch turned away from cudgelling his wife and demanded of the remaining members of the audience in a squeaking voice: “Children, have you ever considered the relation of the means of production to the growth of population?”

  I saw some of the governesses and nurses exchange looks of outrage, and in a moment there were only a few jeering street-urchins left. Though his wife continued to smash their child down upon his head Mr Punch took no notice of her.

  “Only grasp that principle and its terrible implications and you will perceive that while we flatter ourselves as a polity that we are in control of our destiny, the truth is that we are powerless,” he declared passionately, his voice now unequivocally that of an ordinary man.

  While he was speaking, Joan ducked down with the baby leaving her husband on the stage alone.

  “How then may we become free? Only by harmonising ourselves with the randomness of life through the untrammelled operation of the market.”

  While Punch was making this speech his wife reappeared carrying a saucepan which she had substituted for the baby, and crept up behind him.

  The few children who were still watching cried: “Look out behind you, Mr Punch! Look sharp, you silly puppet!”

  “Puppets, that’s all any of us are,” Punch remarked, catching only this word.

  “Hold your noise, you fool,” shrieked Joan, thumping him on the head. Then in a lower and gruffer voice she added: “They don’t want to hear that.”

  It occurred to me now that when the puppeteers emerged at the end to pass the hat round they would find nobody but myself and a few ragged laughing boys, and, embarrassed at the thought, I walked quickly away.

  In the next street the crowd was gathering along the pavement and, finding a good site on a street-corner, I could not resist the temptation to take up my pitch.

  During the next hour or two I sold more dolls than I had ever done in a whole day, though the press of the crowd made it difficult to keep a hold on my tray and several times boys snatched objects or even money from me. Then the procession at last returned and there passed the most magnificent carriages I had ever seen or imagined — each with a squadron of mounted and plumed out-riders on matching bays. At that moment a crowd of boys and youths approached and one of them — a tall, ungainly youth with a jutting jaw and deep-set eyes — appeared to notice me and to draw the attention of some of the others. They ran up and, while the eyes of the rest of the crowd were on the procession, knocked over my tray. They seemed to be impelled by mere high spirits, but the one who had incited them stayed behind when they passed on and pushed me to the ground so hard that for a moment I was stunned. He stood over me, reached into my pockets, and extracted all the money I had taken. Then he was, I think, about to kick me for he had got so far as raising one foot when he was suddenly pulled backwards so unexpectedly that he lost his balance and fell.

  The gentleman — or was it a gentleman? — who had done this looked down at him and remarked benignly: “My most excellent young man, you will learn in due course, I hope, the virtue of moderation. A kick would have been a wholly unnecessary expenditure of energy.”

  The youth, as he stood up and dusted his trowsers, replied venomously: “Oh won’t Squeezem Jack jist be pleased with you! I should say so. You’d better look for another pitch, that’s all.” Then he slunk off and was lost in the crowd.

  As my saviour helped me to my feet I had the chance to look at him. He was tall and stooping with rounded shoulders and a rotund figure and was about fifty years of age. His face, which wore an expression that I can only describe as one of indignant good humour, was red-cheeked and adorned by little half-lens eye-glasses above which bristled a pair of very bushy eyebrows that gave his physiognomy an expression of permanent surprise. His appearance did not efface but recorded the history of his dressing: a neckerchief carelessly tied, stockings ill-matched, and the act of shaving ill-completed. His stained and patched coat was covered in a fine powder and when I knew him better I understood that this was because of his habit, on becoming passionately eloquent on a subject as he often did, of throwing rapid pinches of snuff in the direction of his nose so that it flew about him like a golden mist. He wore an ancient wig which somehow always contrived to get turned round so that the queue hung over one ear, impairing the tenuous dignity of his appearance still further.

  “Silverlight, restrain yourself!” this gentleman suddenly cried, and following his gaze I saw another individual standing anxiously some distance away with a number of what looked like wooden boards, a bundle of material, and a large box sitting beside him on the pavement.

  He was much shorter and slighter than his companion, and about ten years younger. Though so small he had a large head and jaw and possessed quite the most distinguished nose I had ever seen on a human face — indeed, so distinguished was it that the rest of his features were cast into shadow both literally and figuratively by this magnificent organ. Unlike his companion this gentleman was dressed very carefully and I owe it to him to say that in times to come, however severely straitened his circumsta
nces, I never but once saw him when his linen was not impeccable and his clothes equally neat.

  “Beast! Animal!” this gentleman was crying as he shook his fist at the retreating youth. “I shall go after him!” he shouted, making as if to take up the pursuit.

  “Noble fellow, be calm,” the larger gentleman shouted and leaving me he rushed to hold onto the coat-tails of his friend who appeared to be making violent attempts to break loose, though fortunately the cloth held.

  “Impulsive creature,” my rescuer cried. “You’ll endanger your life which — remember! — it is the first duty of the rational man to preserve.”

  “Humbug! The first duty of the Rational Man is to defend his principles!” the little man shouted. “And the principle of Retributive Justice is sacred. He must be punished!”

  The little gentleman, however, gave up the attempt to pursue my attacker and I now had the chance to express my feelings.

  “It was very kind of you,” I began.

  To my surprise, while the little man beamed at this, the elder gentleman started back as if I had struck him.

  “Kind! Fiddlesticks!” he exclaimed almost irritably. He turned to his companion: “Do you think so, Silverlight? Was it kind?”

  “Indeed it was,” he said in what seemed to me an oddly malicious tone.

  “It’s cruel of you to say so!”

  “Well,” I said trying to make peace, but sadly puzzled, “It was at the least a fortunate chance for me.”

  This remark, however, fared no better: “A tautology,” the elder gentleman exclaimed. “Chance rules all things.”

  “On the contrary,” the other insisted, “there is a pattern in all that exists if only we have the wit to perceive it.” He turned to me: “I believe some Principle of Design may have been at work on this very occasion, for I know you. You’re the young gentleman who lodges with Miss Quilliam, are you not?”

  As I nodded I remembered that I had seen them on the stair once or twice.

  “We are neighbours of yours, for we lodge for the moment with a simple family of the name of Peachment,” he continued. “An entirely temporary arrangement until our circumstances improve.”

  Now I recalled that I had once or twice seen the two gentlemen assisting each other up the stairs late in the evening.

  “Of course!” I exclaimed. “You live in the portion of their room that is …”

  “Quite, quite,” Mr Silverlight said quickly. “I have seen you in the company of the lady I take to be your mother?”

  I nodded.

  He held out his hand: “My name is Silverlight and my friend is Pentecost.”

  Mr Pentecost also shook my hand. “Come,” he said, “there will be nothing to be gained by working the rest of the day. Let us accompany you home in case that misguided creature takes the dictates of self-interest to excess.”

  “It will be a pleasure,” Mr Silverlight said, “to restore you to the loving arms of your charming mother.”

  They turned to pick up the objects lying beside them on the pavement and as they did so I realized who they were: “You’re the Merry Andrews!” I cried.

  “Indeed we are,” the elder said somewhat bashfully. “Have you seen our work?”

  “Only a little,” I replied, in fear that they would ask me for my opinion.

  “Don’t you think there’s too much political economy?” Mr Silverlight asked me as we began to make our way homewards.

  “Well, perhaps just a little,” I said tactfully.

  “You see, Pentecost?” said Mr Silverlight. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Punch and Joan can only bear so much. The children don’t like it.”

  “Fiddlesticks! It’s your infernal ideas they don’t like. Even a child can see through them. And if it comes to that, Silverlight, there’s a deal too much good society in your patter.”

  “But for satirical purposes, my dear sir, surely it is justified! Or do you mean that I’m too harsh?”

  “No, Silverlight,” Mr Pentecost said quickly, “I’ll do you the justice to say I think you show great restraint in your treatment of the beau monde.”

  When we got back I took them to meet my mother and Miss Quilliam, both of whom were alarmed to see my bruised and blood-stained appearance. While they fussed and worried over me, my two rescuers stood in the door-way.

  “Here are the gentlemen who saved me,” I kept saying but it was some time before it was established that I had received no serious injury and until then nothing else could be thought of. I made the introductions and my mother warmly expressed her gratitude.

  “I am delighted, utterly enraptured,” Mr Silverlight said, bowing first to my mother and then to Miss Quilliam, “to have been of service. But dear ladies, I did nothing, nothing at all. What was it to show five or six ruffians that I was not afraid of them? They soon ran away when they saw what mettle they had to deal with.”

  My mother and Miss Quilliam, insisting that they enter and be seated, moved their work out of the way and lighted another candle.

  While they were doing this, Mr Silverlight squeezed himself into a corner of the window, moved a piece of paper covering a broken pane and then stretched on tip-toe to look over an intervening roof to where the sun was setting: “Why, how I envy you. You have a western aspect! I think a western aspect best. Pentecost’s chambers and mine face east. So dreary in the evening, one finds.”

  “Yes,” said my mother. “It is often very dreary.”

  “Gentlemen,” Miss Quilliam said, “will you do us the honour of taking a glass of best nine-penny?” With a smile she added: “It is the finest we have to offer.”

  “It is we who should be honoured,” Mr Silverlight answered with a bow. When he caught sight of the gin-bottle he exclaimed: “Ah, the Out-and-Outer! Pentecost favours the Regular Flare-Up which I confess I find a trifle rough. But this has a delightful smoothness.” He turned towards Miss Quilliam and said with another little bow: “I perceive you are accustomed to the fine things of life.”

  “I certainly became so,” she answered, “at one period of my life.”

  “Indeed?” said Mr Silverlight inquisitively.

  “I refer,” Miss Quilliam continued with a slight blush, “to the time when I resided in the house of Sir Perceval and Lady Mompesson.” She added with a smile: “Though to the best of my recollection the Out-and-Outer was not served in their drawing-room.” Seeing an expression of astonishment on Mr Silverlight’s features she explained: “I was governess to their ward.”

  “A private governess!” Mr Silverlight breathed. “And with one of the most … prominent families in the land.”

  “They are known to you?” Miss Quilliam asked.

  “By name and reputation,” Mr Silverlight said, and added haughtily: “Though I have not had the pleasure of being received by them. Many members of the aristocracy are, however, personally known to me. You see, I chummed — I should rather say, shared a lodging — with the nephew of Sir Wycherley Fiennes Wycherley, that is to say, Mr Fiennes Wycherley Fiennes. In fact, we were on terms of the utmost intimacy. His is a sad tale. Perhaps you know it? Wycherley Fiennes spent four thousand pounds in five years and ended badly. Squandered it all on cards and at Hazard.”

  “While you lived in chambers with him?” Miss Quilliam exclaimed. “You quite alarm me, sir. I hope you were not involved.”

  Mr Silverlight coloured and stammered: “It was afterwards that I knew him, as it happened. Pentecost knew him too.”

  Mr Pentecost nodded without looking at his friend.

  “It gave me,” Mr Silverlight went on, “innumerable opportunities to witness at first hand the corruption of the ruling classes.”

  Miss Quilliam and my mother stared at him in amazement.

  “Ladies,” Mr Pentecost said sternly, “I warn you, my friend Silverlight is a Radical of the most scarlet dye. Indeed, he is a very violent Democrat and positively all but an incendiarist.”

  Though I had little idea what these terms meant,
from the way Mr Pentecost spoke them — his eyebrows standing up and his left hand extended accusatorily as if denouncing his companion, while his right hand plied his nose with snuff — I took them for terms of opprobrium. And this made it all the more puzzling that Mr Silverlight appeared to take them as compliments, for at these words he blushed and smiled in embarrassment as we all directed our gaze towards him.

  “My friend does me no injustice,” he said. “I am a mortal foe to Old Corruption which at times has trembled to hear my very name.”

  “Gracious Heavens!” my mother exclaimed.

  “Do not be alarmed, ladies,” Mr Pentecost said; “for if he roars it is, I assure you, as gently as any sucking dove.”

  “Are you an enemy of the superior classes, even though you know them so well?” asked Miss Quilliam, who appeared quite unperturbed.

  “It is because I have lived amongst the aristocracy and know their profound corruption that I am their enemy,” Mr Silverlight said. “Yet I have known men of altruism and generosity amongst them. And I believe that it is from them that the leaders of the poor must come.”

  “Humbugs and frauds every man-Jack of them!” Mr Pentecost snorted. “You’re the only man I ever knew to possess true altruism, Silverlight.” At these words his companion indulged himself in a smile which disappeared as his friend went on: “And that’s only because you’re such a confounded fool.”

  My mother turned away from Mr Pentecost in evident distaste and said to his companion: “Whom do you mean, Mr Silverlight? My father was a friend of Sir Francis Burdett, though he did not share all his opinions.”

  Why had my mother not told me this about my grandfather when she was ready to confide it to a first-met stranger? I wondered indignantly.

  “Why,” Mr Silverlight cried in delight, “I had the honour of knowing Sir Francis well. You know he stood for this seat?”