The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  At the Great West Entrance of the Cathedral had been erected a covered way of crimson cloth, ornamented with such devices as the royal arms and those of the Prince of Wales. Within the pavilion at the top of the steps, decorated in magenta relieved with vertical bands of white, was, above the entrance, the inscription which caused Victoria to stop just a moment and tightly grip the arm of the son her love had borne from the loins of her own Prince—her Albert, now dead. The Prince of Wales looked into his mother's eyes, and for a moment they were as ordinary mortals, aware only of their love each for the other, of the great joy that surrounded them and of the debt of thanks they must offer up to the divine Lord in whose sight all men of any station were equal. . The inscription read:

  I WAS GLAD WHEN THEY SAID TO ME, "WE WILL GO INTO THE HOUSE OF THE LORD."

  With unashamed tears in their eyes, a mother and her son entered the portals at which all men are welcome.

  §

  For George MacDonald it had at first been an amusing day. Sober citizens merely stared at him amidst their shouts and cheering directed toward the procession, which the American was following with a visitor's curiosity. But as the day progressed, gin and ale released what natural reserve remained in the now dispersing crowds, and Mac, as he was called by his friends, became the object of unwelcome attention wherever he went. Elegant clothes, his top hat and a square-cut, formal beard made the young man, for the common folk at least, a very acceptable facsimile of the person for whom they had officially been asked to give thanks. The fact was (even though his accent belied the impression) that Mac looked remarkably like the Prince of Wales.

  Only evening and the illuminations had brought him peace, and he had returned along the processional route by Ludgate Hill, the Holborn Viaduct, Oxford Street, Hyde Park and Constitution Hill. Even from the. hotel entrance he could see three rows of colored lights which studded the vast roof of the dome of St. Paul's like gems; they were composed of ships' lanterns fitted with the most powerful lenses, calculated to be visible at a distance of more than five miles. Even the yellow fog seemed to respect the day's events and only swirled about over the Thames, which at low water had stranded many boats, whose skippers (drunk with the excuse of celebration) beached their craft and began intermittently to sound foghorns, sirens and bells as a tribute to the occasion and release of their spirits.

  Mac was fatigued but determined, after being part of such a moment in Britain's history, to enjoy a fine dinner. He crossed the foyer of the Terminus Hotel as the servants turned up gas lamps on the walls. He had come back to change quickly and once again venture out into the mass of humanity that crammed the streets. He took off his gloves, accepted a key and proffered telegram from the clerk at Reception.

  “From some place in Germany, sir."

  The clerk squinted across at the open telegram. Mac conveyed to the man, with a steely look which never failed, that his interest was unwanted. The clerk fumbled with papers behind the counter and sat down. Mac read the wire. It was from Austin, with the news that George's arrival was imminent. Plans were afoot, and the three of them would shortly again be together.

  "Will you be needing a bed warmer, sir?"

  The clerk's head had emerged from behind the counter and inquired with the faint hint of a second meaning. Mac ignored the question and strode toward the stairway. But before he took the stairs, two at a time, to the first floor, it was first "the Prince of Wales" who answered the clerk with a wink; then, English style, Mac replied in the affirmative. "If I may," he added.

  §

  In England at this time, barmaids were a great institution. There was seldom more than one man behind a bar, and the station counters of the developing .railway system were attended exclusively by females. A more efficient source of ruin for both male customers and female bar staff it would be difficult to imagine. The girls were chosen for their beauty and attractiveness; an excellent inducement to enter, they offered continuous enticement to slake, quench, then drown a thirst.

  The fascination in the gin palace of its lovely (but officially untouchable) women for the youth of the great metropolis could be relieved only by alcoholic excess. Especially for the lower classes, long working days in unpleasant surroundings ended with few alternatives for the hours before sleep. A sweet smile of welcome from a woman at a bar, made increasingly more alluring by cheap alcohol, was the obvious choice for the majority without vocation or future.

  On the corner where the Strand meets Bow Street was a place known as the Gaiety, a famous saloon flooded with light—gas inside, naked torches over the pavement. Mac had seen earlier that to coincide with the great celebration, the annual "Beautiful Barmaid Show" was to be held that very night.

  The beauty contest—a bar-top parade of the final selection amongst London's taverns—gave some of the women a prospect of better things: high salaries in aristocratic circles, often serving their betters more than alcohol. For many others it merely confirmed their fall from grace and indicated that henceforth it would continue more rapidly.

  The Master of Ceremonies, in a glittering sequined frock coat, was brash, loud and enthusiastic. His strong voice commanded the attention of the large smoke-filled room, packed to capacity. The portly figure strutted on top of the long bar. On its mahogany surface was laid a red carpet that ended at some hastily assembled steps leading from the floor. Directly behind them was an open door, beyond which was only darkness. The hush from the crowd was one of anticipation.

  At the end of his speech, in a pause for breath, as the M.C. made ready for a grand finale, the atmosphere suddenly seemed to Mac too thick, too rancid, stale and decadent. It represented all that he sought to escape from. He knew it well and hated his familiarity with the coarse and commonplace. He began to edge his way past the Cockney faces drink-ruined and life-scarred, sweating and leering—figures in a nightmare.

  "Nah, come on, ladies and gents, if there be any among ya."

  A humorous roar from the crowd startled Mac. He pushed nearer to the main doors.

  "Let's 'ave yer votes. The Gin Palace Queen o' London Town she'll be, an' on to 'igher things. They've all a number, so cast yer one an' only. Bets on the side finishes now, folks, so once again a big'and."

  The roar of the crowd, coupled with applause, heralded eight young women. From behind the bar they stumbled up the steps, and giggling, they paraded down the red carpet. Rouged faces, bared bosoms and certainly, for Victorian England, an astonishing amount of exposed leg thrusting out of a dress held to a height that left only one further question begging—one that some of the crowd now took up. An exchange began between the crowd and several of the girls, who aggressively gave as good as they got.

  Mac slipped out the entrance between the two doors with colored glass panes. As they closed behind him, a further roar went up from the crowd, indicating that voting had commenced. The cold air was a relief, and Mac's burning cheeks responded gratefully. As he pulled his coat about him, he looked up into the dark night sky, the flanking torches crackling with flames that leaped up and away from the building as if, Mac thought morbidly, they were the Hell-bound spirits of the crowd within.

  "Lookin' for a star, sir?''

  The small voice surprised Mac as if it had come from his own mind; he turned and saw beside him a wan-faced, hollow-eyed young woman who could have been little more than twenty.

  '4You'd have to stand in the dark for that, sir."

  She indicated the torches. It was the first time Mac had thought of light's obscuring anything. He looked at the woman with interest.

  "I knows a great deal of stars, sir."

  She was obviously starving, but the transparency of her skin enhanced her large pale green eyes; her red lips were so delicately etched, framing regular white teeth, that Mac could do nothing but watch them shape words. She had a girlish figure and long, dark hair. She wore a simple smock and dull brown half coat, but the impression she made above all was wholesome—clean—not at all like most of the poor M
ac had encountered in England. She smiled sadly, continuing:

  " 's all I've got, sir—them there stars and this here city. 's what me father used to tell me."

  She looked up again for emphasis, coughed, then gazed directly and winningly at Mac, who was already a willing subject. The obvious quality she had was a real and unassumed pride.

  "I likes t’ think of stars as bein' people now an' again—'cause it makes 'em seem beautiful—for a time —like."

  There was an innocence in her expression that gave delicacy to the pause between them.

  Her eyes, Mac saw, were as yet unscarred with the frightful understanding of the life for which she was destined. How she had survived Mac suddenly wanted to know; who she was; her name

  The doorman's voice contained none of Mac's curiosity. "Gar'n' be off wi' ya."

  His hand swept out to strike, but catlike, the girl was out of range, into the darkness and gone. Mac strained after her with his eyes.

  "Cab, sir?" asked the doorman.

  He touched his cap as Mac absently gave him a coin, shook his head and began to walk. "Keep a look out, sir."

  The doorman understood one thing: money; his job was to recognize where to get it, and sharp eyes had taught him to appreciate Americans, who were already establishing a reputation for generosity.

  "You ain't been over here long enough to know the way afoot."

  Mac had gone only a few steps into the darkness when the woman's voice came to him again. "Would you 'ave a shillin', sir?"

  She fell into step with him and stopped as Mac turned to her.

  "How old are you?" he asked gently. "Twenty. Why?"

  Mac guessed how this young woman had been treated by others in a city and a country where amongst the rich he'd seen dogs eating from tables and cats fed morsels whose taste would have amazed this lovely creature.

  "Have you eaten?"

  She hesitated for only a moment. Just long enough for pride to construct the lie.

  "Oh, yes, sir—I've 'ad a very large dinner." Mac's frown forced her to details. "First there was oysters, sir."

  "Then I 'ad a large piece of steak an' kidney with boiled carrots an'—brocc'li."

  She ended lamely, unable to pronounce the exotic vegetable, let alone conceive of its taste.

  Mac didn't believe a word of it.

  A hint of color appeared in her cheeks, and the look of indignation caused Mac to laugh spontaneously. She pointed quickly back to the Gaiety and continued fast:

  "I was one o' them afore I got took ill. I 'ave gen'lemen friends, sir. An' proper they are, too."

  She paused a moment to allow Mac time to absorb and be impressed with her connections.

  "I'm only out on the streets 'cause I wouldn't do what they wanted. I was to.. I was to look pretty an' serve—no more 'n that. But some o' them gen'lemen..."

  She didn't have to go on. The only surprise in her story was that she had not succumbed to the temptation of the " 'igher things" that had obviously been offered.

  Mac stared at her, warming to this woman chance had chosen to throw to him.

  "It ain't a story."

  Misinterpreting Mac's gaze, the woman was again on the defensive. "What's your name?" he asked firmly. "May," she replied.

  He had no time to savor the word. She dgain fought back, it occurred to Mac, rather like a child. "What's yours?" ' 'George MacDonald.''

  She assimilated the name, then smiled, proving instinct right.

  "I bet your friends call you Mac?" "Call me Mac," said the American. Now they were both smiling.

  "You reminds me of a doctor," said May suddenly, her head cocked to one side, looking Mac up and down with sharp eyes.

  "Why is that?" questioned Mac. May hesitated. "You've the air about ya."

  "I almost was," Mac said quietly, "once." For a moment he sank into the dangerous world of lost possibilities.

  "See, I knew ya was somethin' special," said May innocently.

  "At a place called Harvard' Mac went on absently.

  "You ain't like those I've come across," said May quickly; "gentlemen I'm meanin'. Somehow," she stated, looking directly into Mac's eyes, "you're different."

  Mac focused on the young woman before him, and his course of action was decided. For his amusement—her pleasure or amazement, depending on how she would cope.

  "May—for tonight—you do have one gentleman friend, and that meal you haven't seen for at least a week..."

  She dropped her eyes at this last, and Mac finished softly:

  "... shall be yours tonight also."

  Defiantly she looked up, mood changed, hackles risen.

  "I ain't bein' bought."

  "No," Mac stated, "you ain't."

  "I ain't bein' thought no dolly-mop, no five-penn'orth 'ore." "Indeed not, May." Mac was all understanding. "To me you are every bit a lady.''

  At this Mac raised his arm and hailed the cab he had seen approaching. The horse reined in and the cabbie leaned down. "Whereto, sir?"

  Mac opened the door and indicated to the astonished May that she should enter. "Claridge's."

  The cabbie looked May up and down. "With 'er, sir?"

  Mac looked at May's face turned up to him. She knew that she was entirely in his hands.

  When Mac spoke, he did so in a manner that the Prince of Wales himself would have envied. "Yes, cabbie... with 'er."

  May climbed into the cab like a lady. Mac followed, slamming the door. The cabbie, made fully aware of his status as a public servant, cracked a whip and drove his hansom into the darkness, west toward Piccadilly, Berkeley Square and the corner of Davies and Brook streets.

  §

  In 1815 a French chef of proved ability, Jacques Mivart, had taken over a house where he created sumptuous accommodation to match his excellent table. In time success allowed him expansion, and four adjacent houses became the sizable property of Mivart's de luxe establishment. Visiting royalty added to the hotel's reputation, and the Prince Regent, by reserving a permanent suite on the first floor, turned the exceptional into the exclusive.

  In 1851 the hotel was bought and became known for a while as "late" Mivart's, but a continuing high standard maintained by the new owners allowed their name that rare privilege, the same connotations "Mivart's" had given the city, an empire and indeed the world; Mr. and Mr. Claridge began to create a legend.

  The ladies' room at Claridge's was all pink and mirrors. At Mac's insistence, May had been ushered in by an attendant, whose disapproval was made obvious in a permanently frozen stare. Wiping smudges from her face with the white, soft towels, May surveyed features that shone back at her. The pale green eyes were wide with wonder. In the background a lady of some distinction, all flounced dress and corset, waited impatiently, unwilling to allow herself near the natural beauty her beady eyes perceived. She had assumed the contrived look of disgust perfected over the years for such as May.

  Rising to the occasion, May began to enjoy herself. As she strode to the door she thrust the towel at the lady, who automatically took it and was left gasping in indignation. May crossed the foyer, entered the lounge and looked nervously for Mac, already at table in the large and crowded dining room.

  If Mac had ordered tripe and onions served in his top hat, the waiters at Claridge's would have obliged the whim without a murmur. To them, May was a similar aberration, an obvious night's adventure for the gentleman, so they maintained their standard—superb efficiency, seen and not heard—which served to relax May's nervousness, as did the Krug champagne which Mac poured without waiting for the wine waiter, who hovered elsewhere. Food arrived, and May, unable to contain herself, fell upon it, engaging in conversation only, it seemed to Mac, when her mouth was quite full.

  "You got business 'ere?" May asked, enchanting Mac immediately.

  "Perhaps," he replied, "when my friends arrive."

  She cocked her head to one side.

  "Nice to 'ave—'ard to keep."

  The wistful philosophy struck hom
e to Mac.

  "True 'uns is rare," she finished sadly.

  "Yes, May, they are," Mac said thoughtfully. He was already thinking of George and Austin, impatient to see them.

  May took a large gulp of the champagne to clear her throat.

  "Do you pray, sir?"

  "I go to church," said Mac. "Do you?"

  May spluttered at the thought, coughed, calmed herself and replied, "I ain't fit."

  "You're wrong, May. You should."

  "Oh, sir—I couldn't."

  She was most perplexed at the idea of brushing shoulders with what she thought of as respectable people.

  Mac knew that most of them treated church as they might theater or Rotten Row on a Sunday afternoon: a show place each for the others. Where mothers began matchmaking; where others were merely easing consciences disturbed by clandestine afternoons with mistresses or lovers.

  May was drunk. She leaned forward to convey an intimate thought to Mac and in so doing knocked over onto the table and into her lap the newly filled glass of champagne. Immediately, blushing like a rose, aghast at her clumsiness, she leaped up. Mac calmed her, and a waiter replaced her chair. Carefully this time, May again leaned forward to whisper gravely about church.

  "To tell the truth, Mac, I gets the giggles." She hiccuped loudly. Mac burst into laughter.

  The effect of the evening, the delights of the meal and the joy of them both must all have contributed to the look in both pairs of eyes as they met across the table despite tears of laughter.