Next evening, Lydia and Alice reached Mrs. Hoskyn's house in Campden
Hill Road a few minutes before ten o'clock. They found Lord
Worthington in the front garden, smoking and chatting with Mr.
Hoskyn. He threw away his cigar and returned to the house with the
two ladies, who observed that he was somewhat flushed with wine.
They went into a parlor to take off their wraps, leaving him at the
foot of the stairs. Presently they heard some one come down and
address him excitedly thus, "Worthington. Worthington. He has begun making a speech before the
whole room. He got up the moment old Abendgasse sat down. Why the
deuce did you give him that glass of champagne?"
"Sh-sh-sh! You don't say so! Come with me; and let us try to get him
away quietly."
"Did you hear that?" said Alice. "Something must have happened."
"I hope so," said Lydia. "Ordinarily, the fault in these receptions
is that nothing happens. Do not announce us, if you please," she
added to the servant, as they ascended the stairs. "Since we have
come late, let us spare the feelings of Herr Abendgasse by going in
as quietly as possible."
They had no difficulty in entering unnoticed, for Mrs. Hoskyn
considered obscurity beautiful; and her rooms were but dimly lighted
by two curious lanterns of pink glass, within which were vaporous
flames. In the middle of the larger apartment was a small table
covered with garnet-colored plush, with a reading-desk upon it, and
two candles in silver candlesticks, the light of which, being
brighter than the lanterns, cast strong double shadows from a group
of standing figures about the table. The surrounding space was
crowded with chairs, occupied chiefly by ladies. Behind them, along
the wall, stood a row of men, among whom was Lucian Webber. All were
staring at Cashel Byron, who was making a speech to some bearded and
spectacled gentlemen at the table. Lydia, who had never before seen
him either in evening dress or quite at his ease, was astonished at
his bearing. His eyes were sparkling, his confidence overbore the
company, and his rough voice created the silence it broke. He was in
high good-humor, and marked his periods by the swing of his extended
left arm, while he held his right hand close to his body and
occasionally pointed his remarks by slyly wagging his forefinger.
"--executive power," he was saying as Lydia entered. "That's a very
good expression, gentlemen, and one that I can tell you a lot about.
We have been told that if we want to civilize our neighbors we must
do it mainly by the example of our own lives, by each becoming a
living illustration of the highest culture we know. But what I ask
is, how is anybody to know that you're an illustration of culture.
You can't go about like a sandwich man with a label on your back to
tell all the fine notions you have in your head; and you may be sure
no person will consider your mere appearance preferable to his own.
You want an executive power; that's what you want. Suppose you
walked along the street and saw a man beating a woman, and setting a
bad example to the roughs. Well, you would be bound to set a good
example to them; and, if you're men, you'd like to save the woman;
but you couldn't do it by merely living; for that would be setting
the bad example of passing on and leaving the poor creature to be
beaten. What is it that you need to know then, in order to act up to
your fine ideas? Why, you want to know how to hit him, when to hit
him, and where to hit him; and then you want the nerve to go in and
do it. That's executive power; and that's what's wanted worse than
sitting down and thinking how good you are, which is what this
gentleman's teaching comes to after all. Don't you see? You want
executive power to set an example. If you leave all that to the
roughs, it's their example that will spread, and not yours. And look
at the politics of it. We've heard a good deal about the French
to-night. Well, they've got executive power. They know how to make a
barricade, and how to fight behind it when they've made it. What's
the result? Why, the French, if they only knew what they wanted,
could have it to-morrow for the asking--more's the pity that they
don't know. In this country we can do nothing; and if the lords and
the landlords, or any other collection of nobs, were to drive us
into the sea, what could we do but go? There's a gentleman laughing
at me for saying that; but I ask him what would he do if the police
or the soldiers came this evening and told him to turn out of his
comfortable house into the Thames? Tell 'em he wouldn't vote for
their employers at the next election, perhaps? Or, if that didn't
stop them, tell 'em that he'd ask his friends to do the same? That's
a pretty executive power! No, gentlemen. Don't let yourself be
deceived by people that have staked their money against you. The
first thing to learn is how to fight. There's no use in buying books
and pictures unless you know how to keep them and your own head as
well. If that gentleman that laughed know how to fight, and his
neighbors all knew how to fight too, he wouldn't need to fear
police, nor soldiers, nor Russians, nor Prussians, nor any of the
millions of men that may be let loose on him any day of the week,
safe though he thinks himself. But, says you, let's have a division
of labor. Let's not fight for ourselves, but pay other men to fight
for us. That shows how some people, when they get hold of an idea,
will work it to that foolish length that it's wearisome to listen to
them. Fighting is the power of self-preservation; another man can't
do it for you. You might as well divide the labor of eating your
dinner, and pay one fellow to take the beef, another the beer, and a
third the potatoes. But let us put it for the sake of argument that
you do pay others to fight for you. Suppose some one else pays them
higher, and they fight a cross, or turn openly against you! You'd
have only yourself to blame for giving the executive power to money.
And so long as the executive power is money the poor will be kept
out of their corner and fouled against the ropes; whereas, by what I
understand, the German professor wants them to have their rights.
Therefore I say that a man's first duty is to learn to fight. If he
can't do that he can't set an example; he can't stand up for his own
rights or his neighbors'; he can't keep himself in bodily health;
and if he sees the weak ill-used by the strong, the most he can do
is to sneak away and tell the nearest policeman, who most likely
won't turn up until the worst of the mischief is done. Coming to
this lady's drawing-room, and making an illustration of himself,
won't make him feel like a man after that. Let me be understood,
though, gentlemen: I don't intend that you should take everything I
say too exactly--too literally, as it were. If you see a man beating
a woman, I think you should interfere on principle. But don't expect
to be thanked by her for it; and keep your eye on her; don't let her
get behind you. As for him, just give him a good one and go away.
Never stay to get yourself into a street fight; for it's low, and
generally turns out badly for all parties. However, that's only a
bit of practical advice. It doesn't alter the great principle that
you should get an executive power. When you get that, you'll have
courage in you; and, what's more, your courage will be of some use
to you. For though you may have courage by nature, still, if you
haven't executive power as well, your courage will only lead you to
stand up to be beaten by men that have both courage and executive
power; and what good does that do you? People say that you're a game
fellow; but they won't find the stakes for you unless you can win
them. You'd far better put your game in your pocket, and throw up
the sponge while you can see to do it.