The Revolutions

by Gilman, Felix

  * * *

  On Sunday he decided that it was high time he went to church again.

  He didn’t dare go back to his usual place of Sunday worship, for fear that Podmore or Dimmick might be watching. Instead he went to St. James’s on the Marylebone Road. It was a large and handsome structure. He chose it almost on a whim, dithered outside, and ducked in at the last moment. The congregation was numerous and bustling, the pews packed even on a beautiful summer’s day.

  The truth was that he was somewhat relieved to find that he could still enter a church. After all his dabblings in crime and sorcery, he’d been half-afraid that the congregation might sense his wickedness and cast him out. A bell might start ringing; lightning might strike him. Instead the sexton gave him a pitying glance and led him to a vacant seat at the very back of the church, beside two old ladies in black who stiffened as he sat down. A marble angel overhead spread its wings and looked down, stone-faced.

  He supposed that he looked like a desperate man, a vagrant in need of shelter, a sinner in need of salvation. He was all of those things. He’d hardly changed his clothes in a week. He was jealously hoarding the money he’d snatched from Atwood’s flat; he was afraid to visit a bank. The old ladies glared at him, and sniffed. He stared fixedly ahead at the pulpit as the congregation filed in, coughing, murmuring, and gossiping about business and children and holidays and politics and illnesses.

  The congregation rose to sing “Creator of the Stars of Night.” Arthur joined in, stumbling a little over the hymn’s familiar words. If there were a Creator of the Stars, Arthur had seen enough to know that He could not much resemble the God Arthur had always believed in. He found himself trying to imagine the God that the native of the spheres might have worshipped, the God in whose image it might have been made. He simply could not see how it could be the same God that was known to St. James’s Church on the Marylebone Road.

  The minister stood at the pulpit. There was a hush in which every rustle of the minister’s robes and the turning of the pages of his book could be heard, and then he coughed, and began his sermon. He held both sides of the pulpit in his hands and spoke firmly and plainly. His theme was pride, and he took as his text the temptation of Christ in the wilderness by the Devil. Arthur put his head in his hands and imagined the wilderness as the blood-red plains of Mars. He imagined the Devil, standing on a mountaintop, showing off all the ruined glories of the civilizations of Mars. He imagined the Devil with Atwood’s face.

  But it wasn’t Atwood’s fault; it was his own. Everything that had happened, to him and to Josephine. If he hadn’t blundered blindly into Atwood’s house! If he hadn’t let greed and ambition blind him to the dangers of Gracewell’s Engine! He thought of the men who’d gone mad in Gracewell’s Engine, and wondered again what had become of them. Rising out of the room—how callow his ambition seemed now. His errors had multiplied and now it was too late to mend any of them.

  The minister came to the end of his sermon, and Arthur realised that he hadn’t followed most of the man’s argument. Well, it was too late now. He stood again to sing. A collection went round. He fled.

  It was bright and hot outside and he instantly missed his hat, abandoned in Atwood’s flat. He didn’t know where to go next. He stood, blinking in the sun, waiting there in the vague hope that some sign might show him what to do.

  “Arthur!”

  Someone was calling his name. His first instinct was to run.

  “I say—Arthur! Is that you? Good Lord, Arthur, it is you! Wait—wait there! Are you—by God, you look an awful bloody mess. Is this your church now? I haven’t seen you in weeks. God, my boy, if you’ve fallen on hard times you know you need only … What happened to you?”

  By the time he had completed that speech, Arthur’s uncle George Weston had caught up with him, and extended his hand to shake.

  George Weston wasn’t Arthur’s real uncle. He had a number of uncles and aunts on his father’s side, but they were all in the civil service in far-flung parts of the Empire—or possibly, these days, dead. George Weston was Arthur’s foster-father’s brother. The two Weston brothers could not, in Arthur’s opinion, be less alike. George was good-natured, quick-witted, artistic, and generous. He had an energetic way of talking and a habit of tilting his head to one side and nodding as he spoke, as if he wanted to be sure that you agreed with every word before he offered another. He made a good living in publishing, writing humorous stories about boats. It was George Weston who’d first found Arthur work at the Mammoth. He was married to a very lovely woman by the name of Agnes; they had no children.

  Arthur was utterly astonished to see him. He’d begun to think he might never again see any of the figures of his former life. He shook George’s hand, not knowing what to say.

  George studied Arthur carefully, nodding. “Hmm. Hmm. Is something wrong? Is—God, Arthur, is it Josephine?”

  “Josephine,” Arthur said, “is—she’s very ill, George.”

  George started asking all sorts of questions about Josephine’s illness, and insisting that he be permitted to visit her. He considered himself something of an amateur expert on medicine—he liked to write about doctors, and he owned a number of medical encyclopaedias. He meant his questions kindly, but they were not easy to answer.

  “At the very least, Arthur, you must let me buy you lunch!”

  It wasn’t an offer Arthur could refuse. George’s hand on his arm was firm. He steered Arthur through the busy street towards a nearby chop-house. Arthur settled heavily into a chair and George sat down opposite him. George had a newspaper and two or three parcels of shopping—mostly books—which he placed beside his chair.

  George took another long look at Arthur. “Arthur, when did you last eat?”

  “I don’t recall. It’s been rather difficult lately.”

  “I prescribe coffee, and plenty of it. And steak. And green vegetables, as many as possible.”

  He summoned a waiter, who brought coffee. It did Arthur a great deal of good, and it also gave him something to stare at while he lied to his uncle.

  “A state of coma,” Arthur said. “That’s what they call it. The doctors say it’s caused by an infection—an inflammation of the tissues of the brain. She breathes, she eats and drinks, but she cannot speak. Her mind is … elsewhere.”

  “What doctors? Where is she?”

  “Oh—a multitude of doctors. I sought second opinions.”

  “But who? I know one or two good doctors myself. I know a chap who studies the brain. I…”

  “They say she’ll recover, George. They promise me. They’re doing all they can.”

  “By God! I saw Josephine just a few weeks ago, didn’t I? She was in fine health. How terrible. How terrible. You must be … Arthur, if you ever need any help, Agnes and I would…”

  “Of course. Of course.” Arthur sipped his coffee. It made his head spin.

  By the time Arthur’s steak arrived he was ravenously hungry, and he attacked it like a starving man. Perhaps he was starving. He really couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Between mouthfuls of red meat and green vegetables he told George that he’d let the flat on Rugby Street, and moved into cheaper accommodations, because of the costs of Josephine’s care. He confessed that he’d resorted to spiritualists and faith-healers and prayer.

  “Of course,” George said. “Of course. Well, Josephine has my prayers as well, and Agnes’s, when I tell her.”

  “I should have come to see you weeks ago, of course.”

  “You certainly should have. Does your father know?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I don’t recall writing to him; but I seem to have spent most of the last month in a dream, so perhaps I did. Perhaps. George—let’s not argue. I want to hear nothing but good news, just for an hour or two. Ordinary life. Business. How’s business, George? I see you’ve been buying books. I always liked talking about books with you. I miss it. What did you buy? Let me see, let me see. What’s in the newspaper—good
God, I haven’t read a newspaper in—I don’t know how long. Have you sold any stories?”

  “Well—yes. To the Strand. And Longmans is publishing another set of the stories in just another—hmm, another month. Rather exciting, rather frightening, as always.”

  “Well done, George. Well done.”

  “What’s more—can you keep this secret, Arthur? What’s more, I think I may be in the running to be the editor of a new magazine. I might be able to find you work there, if you’re interested…”

  “Thank you, George; but I’m a bit busy at present.”

  “To be frank, Arthur, you look rather desperate.”

  Arthur chewed on his steak. “I dare say I do.”

  “Whatever happened to that job in Deptford?”

  “The building burned down.”

  “Good God. You have been having bad luck. Did you break a mirror, or step on a black cat?”

  “Not that I recall. Tell me about the magazine.”

  “Well, it’ll be something of a salmagundi, at first—but all very humorous, of course, and the best quality. There’s money behind it. Old Podmore himself is putting up half of it—you know, Lord Podmore—and then there’s an American financier … Are you all right?”

  Arthur’s fork had stopped half-way to his mouth.

  “We’re thinking of calling it the Phaeton—the magazine, that is. What do you think?”

  “Very fine. Do you—have you met Lord Podmore, by any chance?”

  “Not yet; but, as a matter of fact, I’ll be dining at the Savoy with His Lordship tomorrow night. The American gentleman, too. You know, he’s a decent sort of fellow, Podmore. Not half the ogre his reputation suggests. A sharp businessman, too. You wouldn’t want to cross him. He plans to outsell the Strand by the end of next year, and by God if I don’t believe he can do it.”

  Arthur told him that it was a joy, and the best sort of medicine, to hear about a dear friend’s good fortune; and that he wanted to hear all about the Phaeton, and all about the dinner with Lord Podmore at the Savoy tomorrow, including the courses, the guests, the hour, and whether they would be sitting in the big dining-room—where Arthur had heard you could see and be seen by royalty on a good day—or in one of the lesser satellite rooms, where you might have to make do with stockbrokers. A great opportunity. Good for George. Long overdue and well deserved.

  Arthur ate like a horse while George chattered away, full of innocent enthusiasm. He felt a great deal stronger, and his mood began to turn around. Sunshine streamed in through the windows. Arthur’s conscience troubled him a little, but he drowned it with coffee, plugged it up with steak and potatoes. He thought that he could probably, if all went well, ensure George’s safety; but what he was planning would certainly be curtains for the Phaeton. A bloody shame. But he had no choice. If this wasn’t a sign from Heaven, he didn’t know what one would look like. The Lord watched over London, and the Marylebone Road, and stupid men like Arthur; and if that was true, then no doubt he watched over everywhere else too, wherever the sun’s rays shone, wherever Josephine was. And He helped those who helped themselves. Arthur smiled and shook George’s hand.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Arthur took the train out to Gravesend the next morning. From there he walked out to Rudder Hill, where he found Mrs Archer in her cottage. The door and the windows were thrown wide open, the clutter had been organised into a multitude of neat piles, and she was packing as if to go on holiday—that is, her enormous son was packing cases, while she sat and barked commands.

  Arthur said hello at the window. Archer’s son rushed out scowling and grabbed him by his collar.

  Mrs Archer emerged from her cottage, wiping her hands on her dress. “You. Heard what happened to Atwood. Atwood gone, Gracewell gone, all over—all debts cancelled, to my mind. Getting out.”

  “An alliance,” Arthur gasped. “When last we met, you suggested an alliance.”

  “Hah! Who with? Who’s left? You?”

  “I can make it worth your while. I know who buggered up your stars, Mrs Archer.”

  “Eh?”

  “Atwood said you were very old, and very strong. Are you stronger than Lord Podmore?”

  “That boy? Hmm. Perhaps.” She motioned for her son to put Arthur down.

  “Yes or no, Mrs Archer?”

  “Don’t hurry an old woman. I’m thinking.”

  * * *

  The Savoy Hotel, which had opened only a few years previously, was currently among the most fashionable and exclusive establishments in London, boasting electric lighting, American elevators, the finest chefs that could be poached from Paris, and so on, and so on. Arthur’s clothes were in such a shocking state that he would be lucky to be permitted to beg outside the gates.

  He entered the courtyard by the carriage entrance, off Savoy Hill, slipping between two large black carriages and then following in the footsteps of a busy-looking footman, adopting the footman’s purposeful stride: long-legged, youthful, a very particular combination of awkwardness and self-important swagger. Atwood had once told Arthur that walking in a man’s shoes was half-way to being him. We are nothing but the sum of our motions, Atwood said. Atwood illustrated that theory by copying Arthur’s gait as they walked side by side along the Embankment, then dropping suddenly to his knees, causing Arthur to stumble and knock his head on a lamppost.

  Nobody looked twice at him as he crossed the courtyard. He might as well have been the young footman’s shadow. Busy servants crossed his path as if he weren’t there. Young lovers idling by the fountain glanced at him, untroubled, as if he didn’t in the slightest blemish the beauty of the courtyard—which was all soft evening shadows, white brick, fragrant flowers, glinting pearls and turquoises. There were a thousand eyes on the balconies above and nobody cried out, Who the devil is that?

  A magician is at home everywhere, Atwood used to say. A magician is at home among kings and princes; a magician is at home on Mars. That was easy for His Lordship to say.

  At the last moment, just as the footman was about to go inside, Arthur couldn’t resist an experiment. He reached up and scratched his head.

  The footman stopped in the doorway. He shifted from foot to foot. He dropped one of the bags, took off his hat, and scratched crossly at his hair.

  * * *

  The footman stepped into an elevator and disappeared. Arthur strode directly through the ante-room, past fireplaces and two huge potted palms, into the restaurant, then across the big dining room to a table not far from the south-western quarter of the room, where Lord Podmore sat with George and two men Arthur didn’t know. According to George, one of them would be an American stockbroker by the name of Frisch, the other a publisher by the name of Snaith.

  They had not yet begun to eat.

  “Podmore!” Arthur said. “What a pleasure to see you here. And George, and Mr Snaith and Mr Frisch.”

  A waiter in a white apron moved smoothly into view. Arthur commanded him to bring a chair, so that he could join his friends at their table.

  “Arthur?” George said. He had a confused half-smile.

  Podmore had been in the middle of an anecdote, or a joke, leaning back expansively with one hand on his enormous belly. Now he watched Arthur with curiosity, and perhaps just a sliver of wariness.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” George said. “This is Arthur Shaw. He’s a friend of mine, and I’m afraid he’s had a terrible run of bad luck lately—his fiancée is—ah … Arthur, now is not the time.”

  The waiter hovered uncertainly. He looked from Arthur to George to Podmore, who remained silent and still.

  Arthur indicated to the waiter where he wanted the chair to be placed, across the table from Podmore. The waiter dithered. Arthur looked at him patiently. A magician is nothing more than a man who expects his orders to be obeyed, as Atwood was fond of saying.

  At last Podmore nodded very slightly. The waiter breathed a sigh of relief and rushed off to find a chair.

  Arthur considered t
hat a draw.

  * * *

  Podmore nodded to Arthur. “Hello, Mr Shaw.”

  “Hello, Your Lordship.”

  Poor George looked confused, and very uncomfortable.

  “Arthur! You know His Lordship?”

  “I might ask you the same question,” Podmore said. “But everyone seems to know everyone these days. Yes: Arthur Shaw and I have met. A bright young man. I was so terribly sorry to hear about Josephine.”

  “Your Lordship is too kind.”

  “You have mud on your shoes,” Podmore observed.

  “I had business out in the country,” Arthur said.

  George tried frantically to meet Arthur’s eye.

  Arthur had a good view of the restaurant, and in particular the entrance and the lobby beyond it. At his back—it gave him a certain confidence—was a pillar, broad at its base and surrounded by a little pyramid of shelves laden with fine china and bottles of dozens of kinds of liquor. Above the shelves shone a row of electrical lights. The pillar, every other pillar in the great room, and every wall, was panelled with ornately carved mahogany. Heavy carved beams partitioned the ceiling into squares of gold and red. In the distance, a tremendous painting dominated the scene, depicting Captain Cook encountering unfriendly natives under a stormy tropical sky. It was a Monday evening and the restaurant was perhaps not quite at the height of glamour that it was said to reach on Sundays, but it was still very busy: at the tables around them were dowager dames in pearls and rubies, and famous actors, and magnates of steel and shipping, and no doubt a smattering of Balkan princes or globe-trotting American heiresses.

  Podmore reached for his wine-glass. Arthur noticed with satisfaction that he was favouring his left hand—his right appeared to have been hurt.

  The man on Arthur’s right—a stocky middle-aged gentleman with a thick moustache and rather rough-hewn features—opened his mouth and proved to be the American, Frisch. “If you don’t mind my asking, Your Lordship, what’s all this about?”