Chương Chương 5 · The Council of the Provosts_

. The Council of the Provosts_

The King got up early next morning and came down three steps at a time

like a schoolboy. Having eaten his breakfast hurriedly, but with an

appetite, he summoned one of the highest officials of the Palace, and

presented him with a shilling. "Go and buy me," he said, "a shilling

paint-box, which you will get, unless the mists of time mislead me, in

a shop at the corner of the second and dirtier street that leads out

of Rochester Row. I have already requested the Master of the

Buckhounds to provide me with cardboard. It seemed to me (I know not

why) that it fell within his department."

The King was happy all that morning with his cardboard and his

paint-box. He was engaged in designing the uniforms and coats-of-arms

for the various municipalities of London. They gave him deep and no

inconsiderable thought. He felt the responsibility.

"I cannot think," he said, "why people should think the names of

places in the country more poetical than those in London. Shallow

romanticists go away in trains and stop in places called

Hugmy-in-the-Hole, or Bumps-on-the-Puddle. And all the time they

could, if they liked, go and live at a place with the dim, divine name

of St. John's Wood. I have never been to St. John's Wood. I dare not.

I should be afraid of the innumerable night of fir trees, afraid to

come upon a blood-red cup and the beating of the wings of the Eagle.

But all these things can be imagined by remaining reverently in the

Harrow train."

And he thoughtfully retouched his design for the head-dress of the

halberdier of St. John's Wood, a design in black and red, compounded

of a pine tree and the plumage of an eagle. Then he turned to another

card. "Let us think of milder matters," he said. "Lavender Hill! Could

any of your glebes and combes and all the rest of it produce so

fragrant an idea? Think of a mountain of lavender lifting itself in

purple poignancy into the silver skies and filling men's nostrils with

a new breath of life--a purple hill of incense. It is true that upon

my few excursions of discovery on a halfpenny tram I have failed to

hit the precise spot. But it must be there; some poet called it by

its name. There is at least warrant enough for the solemn purple

plumes (following the botanical formation of lavender) which I have

required people to wear in the neighbourhood of Clapham Junction. It

is so everywhere, after all. I have never been actually to

Southfields, but I suppose a scheme of lemons and olives represent

their austral instincts. I have never visited Parson's Green, or seen

either the Green or the Parson, but surely the pale-green shovel-hats

I have designed must be more or less in the spirit. I must work in the

dark and let my instincts guide me. The great love I bear to my people

will certainly save me from distressing their noble spirit or

violating their great traditions."

As he was reflecting in this vein, the door was flung open, and an

official announced Mr. Barker and Mr. Lambert.

Mr. Barker and Mr. Lambert were not particularly surprised to find the

King sitting on the floor amid a litter of water-colour sketches. They

were not particularly surprised because the last time they had called

on him they had found him sitting on the floor, surrounded by a litter

of children's bricks, and the time before surrounded by a litter of

wholly unsuccessful attempts to make paper darts. But the trend of

the royal infant's remarks, uttered from amid this infantile chaos,

was not quite the same affair.

For some time they let him babble on, conscious that his remarks meant

nothing. And then a horrible thought began to steal over the mind of

James Barker. He began to think that the King's remarks did not mean

nothing.

"In God's name, Auberon," he suddenly volleyed out, startling the

quiet hall, "you don't mean that you are really going to have these

city guards and city walls and things?"

"I am, indeed," said the infant, in a quiet voice. "Why shouldn't I

have them? I have modelled them precisely on your political

principles. Do you know what I've done, Barker? I've behaved like a

true Barkerian. I've ... but perhaps it won't interest you, the

account of my Barkerian conduct."

"Oh, go on, go on," cried Barker.

"The account of my Barkerian conduct," said Auberon, calmly, "seems

not only to interest, but to alarm you. Yet it is very simple. It

merely consists in choosing all the provosts under any new scheme by

the same principle by which you have caused the central despot to be

appointed. Each provost, of each city, under my charter, is to be

appointed by rotation. Sleep, therefore, my Barker, a rosy sleep."

Barker's wild eyes flared.

"But, in God's name, don't you see, Quin, that the thing is quite

different? In the centre it doesn't matter so much, just because the

whole object of despotism is to get some sort of unity. But if any

damned parish can go to any damned man--"

"I see your difficulty," said King Auberon, calmly. "You feel that

your talents may be neglected. Listen!" And he rose with immense

magnificence. "I solemnly give to my liege subject, James Barker, my

special and splendid favour, the right to override the obvious text of

the Charter of the Cities, and to be, in his own right, Lord High

Provost of South Kensington. And now, my dear James, you are all

right. Good day."

"But--" began Barker.

"The audience is at an end, Provost," said the King, smiling.

How far his confidence was justified, it would require a somewhat

complicated description to explain. "The Great Proclamation of the

Charter of the Free Cities" appeared in due course that morning, and

was posted by bill-stickers all over the front of the Palace, the King

assisting them with animated directions, and standing in the middle of

the road, with his head on one side, contemplating the result. It was

also carried up and down the main thoroughfares by sandwichmen, and

the King was, with difficulty, restrained from going out in that

capacity himself, being, in fact, found by the Groom of the Stole and

Captain Bowler, struggling between two boards. His excitement had

positively to be quieted like that of a child.

The reception which the Charter of the Cities met at the hands of the

public may mildly be described as mixed. In one sense it was popular

enough. In many happy homes that remarkable legal document was read

aloud on winter evenings amid uproarious appreciation, when everything

had been learnt by heart from that quaint but immortal old classic,

Mr. W. W. Jacobs. But when it was discovered that the King had every

intention of seriously requiring the provisions to be carried out, of

insisting that the grotesque cities, with their tocsins and city

guards, should really come into existence, things were thrown into a

far angrier confusion. Londoners had no particular objection to the

King making a fool of himself, but they became indignant when it

became evident that he wished to make fools of them; and protests

began to come in.

The Lord High Provost of the Good and Valiant City of West Kensington

wrote a respectful letter to the King, explaining that upon State

occasions it would, of course, be his duty to observe what formalities

the King thought proper, but that it was really awkward for a decent

householder not to be allowed to go out and put a post-card in a

pillar-box without being escorted by five heralds, who announced, with

formal cries and blasts of a trumpet, that the Lord High Provost

desired to catch the post.

The Lord High Provost of North Kensington, who was a prosperous

draper, wrote a curt business note, like a man complaining of a

railway company, stating that definite inconvenience had been caused

him by the presence of the halberdiers, whom he had to take with him

everywhere. When attempting to catch an omnibus to the City, he had

found that while room could have been found for himself, the

halberdiers had a difficulty in getting in to the vehicle--believe

him, theirs faithfully.

The Lord High Provost of Shepherd's Bush said his wife did not like

men hanging round the kitchen.

The King was always delighted to listen to these grievances,

delivering lenient and kingly answers, but as he always insisted, as

the absolute _sine qua non_, that verbal complaints should be

presented to him with the fullest pomp of trumpets, plumes, and

halberds, only a few resolute spirits were prepared to run the

gauntlet of the little boys in the street.

Among these, however, was prominent the abrupt and business-like

gentleman who ruled North Kensington. And he had before long, occasion

to interview the King about a matter wider and even more urgent than

the problem of the halberdiers and the omnibus. This was the great

question which then and for long afterwards brought a stir to the

blood and a flush to the cheek of all the speculative builders and

house agents from Shepherd's Bush to the Marble Arch, and from

Westbourne Grove to High Street, Kensington. I refer to the great

affair of the improvements in Notting Hill. The scheme was conducted

chiefly by Mr. Buck, the abrupt North Kensington magnate, and by Mr.

Wilson, the Provost of Bayswater. A great thoroughfare was to be

driven through three boroughs, through West Kensington, North

Kensington and Notting Hill, opening at one end into Hammersmith

Broadway, and at the other into Westbourne Grove. The negotiations,

buyings, sellings, bullying and bribing took ten years, and by the end

of it Buck, who had conducted them almost single-handed, had proved

himself a man of the strongest type of material energy and material

diplomacy. And just as his splendid patience and more splendid

impatience had finally brought him victory, when workmen were already

demolishing houses and walls along the great line from Hammersmith, a

sudden obstacle appeared that had neither been reckoned with nor

dreamed of, a small and strange obstacle, which, like a speck of grit

in a great machine, jarred the whole vast scheme and brought it to a

stand-still, and Mr. Buck, the draper, getting with great impatience

into his robes of office and summoning with indescribable disgust his

halberdiers, hurried over to speak to the King.

Ten years had not tired the King of his joke. There were still new

faces to be seen looking out from the symbolic head-gears he had

designed, gazing at him from amid the pastoral ribbons of Shepherd's

Bush or from under the sombre hoods of the Blackfriars Road. And the

interview which was promised him with the Provost of North Kensington

he anticipated with a particular pleasure, for "he never really

enjoyed," he said, "the full richness of the mediaeval garments unless

the people compelled to wear them were very angry and business-like."

Mr. Buck was both. At the King's command the door of the

audience-chamber was thrown open and a herald appeared in the purple

colours of Mr. Buck's commonwealth emblazoned with the Great Eagle

which the King had attributed to North Kensington, in vague

reminiscence of Russia, for he always insisted on regarding North

Kensington as some kind of semi-arctic neighbourhood. The herald

announced that the Provost of that city desired audience of the King.

"From North Kensington?" said the King, rising graciously. "What news

does he bring from that land of high hills and fair women? He is

welcome."

The herald advanced into the room, and was immediately followed by

twelve guards clad in purple, who were followed by an attendant

bearing the banner of the Eagle, who was followed by another attendant

bearing the keys of the city upon a cushion, who was followed by Mr.

Buck in a great hurry. When the King saw his strong animal face and

steady eyes, he knew that he was in the presence of a great man of

business, and consciously braced himself.

"Well, well," he said, cheerily coming down two or three steps from a

dais, and striking his hands lightly together, "I am glad to see you.

Never mind, never mind. Ceremony is not everything."

"I don't understand your Majesty," said the Provost, stolidly.

"Never mind, never mind," said the King, gaily. "A knowledge of Courts

is by no means an unmixed merit; you will do it next time, no doubt."

The man of business looked at him sulkily from under his black brows

and said again without show of civility--

"I don't follow you."

"Well, well," replied the King, good-naturedly, "if you ask me I don't

mind telling you, not because I myself attach any importance to these

forms in comparison with the Honest Heart. But it is usual--it is

usual--that is all, for a man when entering the presence of Royalty to

lie down on his back on the floor and elevating his feet towards

heaven (as the source of Royal power) to say three times 'Monarchical

institutions improve the manners.' But there, there--such pomp is far

less truly dignified than your simple kindliness."

The Provost's face was red with anger, and he maintained silence.

"And now," said the King, lightly, and with the exasperating air of a

man softening a snub; "what delightful weather we are having! You must

find your official robes warm, my Lord. I designed them for your own

snow-bound land."

"They're as hot as hell," said Buck, briefly. "I came here on

business."

"Right," said the King, nodding a great number of times with quite

unmeaning solemnity; "right, right, right. Business, as the sad glad

old Persian said, is business. Be punctual. Rise early. Point the pen

to the shoulder. Point the pen to the shoulder, for you know not

whence you come nor why. Point the pen to the shoulder, for you know

not when you go nor where."

The Provost pulled a number of papers from his pocket and savagely

flapped them open.

"Your Majesty may have heard," he began, sarcastically, "of

Hammersmith and a thing called a road. We have been at work ten years

buying property and getting compulsory powers and fixing compensation

and squaring vested interests, and now at the very end, the thing is

stopped by a fool. Old Prout, who was Provost of Notting Hill, was a

business man, and we dealt with him quite satisfactorily. But he's

dead, and the cursed lot has fallen on a young man named Wayne, who's

up to some game that's perfectly incomprehensible to me. We offer him

a better price than any one ever dreamt of, but he won't let the road

go through. And his Council seems to be backing him up. It's midsummer

madness."

The King, who was rather inattentively engaged in drawing the

Provost's nose with his finger on the window-pane, heard the last two

words.

"What a perfect phrase that is!" he said. "'Midsummer madness'!"

"The chief point is," continued Buck, doggedly, "that the only part

that is really in question is one dirty little street--Pump Street--a

street with nothing in it but a public-house and a penny toy-shop, and

that sort of thing. All the respectable people of Notting Hill have

accepted our compensation. But the ineffable Wayne sticks out over

Pump Street. Says he's Provost of Notting Hill. He's only Provost of

Pump Street."

"A good thought," replied Auberon. "I like the idea of a Provost of

Pump Street. Why not let him alone?"

"And drop the whole scheme!" cried out Buck, with a burst of brutal

spirit. "I'll be damned if we do. No. I'm for sending in workmen to

pull down without more ado."

"Strike for the purple Eagle!" cried the King, hot with historical

associations.

"I'll tell you what it is," said Buck, losing his temper altogether.

"If your Majesty would spend less time in insulting respectable people

with your silly coats-of-arms, and more time over the business of the

nation--"

The King's brow wrinkled thoughtfully.

"The situation is not bad," he said; "the haughty burgher defying the

King in his own Palace. The burgher's head should be thrown back and

the right arm extended; the left may be lifted towards Heaven, but

that I leave to your private religious sentiment. I have sunk back in

this chair, stricken with baffled fury. Now again, please."

Buck's mouth opened like a dog's, but before he could speak another

herald appeared at the door.

"The Lord High Provost of Bayswater," he said, "desires an audience."

"Admit him," said Auberon. "This _is_ a jolly day."

The halberdiers of Bayswater wore a prevailing uniform of green, and

the banner which was borne after them was emblazoned with a green

bay-wreath on a silver ground, which the King, in the course of his

researches into a bottle of champagne, had discovered to be the quaint

old punning cognisance of the city of Bayswater.

"It is a fit symbol," said the King, "your immortal bay-wreath. Fulham

may seek for wealth, and Kensington for art, but when did the men of

Bayswater care for anything but glory?"

Immediately behind the banner, and almost completely hidden by it,

came the Provost of the city, clad in splendid robes of green and

silver with white fur and crowned with bay. He was an anxious little

man with red whiskers, originally the owner of a small sweet-stuff

shop.

"Our cousin of Bayswater," said the King, with delight; "what can we

get for you?" The King was heard also distinctly to mutter, "Cold

beef, cold 'am, cold chicken," his voice dying into silence.

"I came to see your Majesty," said the Provost of Bayswater, whose

name was Wilson, "about that Pump Street affair."

"I have just been explaining the situation to his Majesty," said Buck,

curtly, but recovering his civility. "I am not sure, however, whether

his Majesty knows how much the matter affects you also."

"It affects both of us, yer see, yer Majesty, as this scheme was

started for the benefit of the 'ole neighbourhood. So Mr. Buck and me

we put our 'eads together--"

The King clasped his hands.

"Perfect!" he cried in ecstacy. "Your heads together! I can see it!

Can't you do it now? Oh, do do it now!"

A smothered sound of amusement appeared to come from the halberdiers,

but Mr. Wilson looked merely bewildered, and Mr. Buck merely

diabolical.

"I suppose," he began bitterly, but the King stopped him with a

gesture of listening.

"Hush," he said, "I think I hear some one else coming. I seem to hear

another herald, a herald whose boots creak."

As he spoke another voice cried from the doorway--

"The Lord High Provost of South Kensington desires an audience."

"The Lord High Provost of South Kensington!" cried the King. "Why,

that is my old friend James Barker! What does he want, I wonder? If

the tender memories of friendship have not grown misty, I fancy he

wants something for himself, probably money. How are you, James?"

Mr. James Barker, whose guard was attired in a splendid blue, and

whose blue banner bore three gold birds singing, rushed, in his blue

and gold robes, into the room. Despite the absurdity of all the

dresses, it was worth noticing that he carried his better than the

rest, though he loathed it as much as any of them. He was a gentleman,

and a very handsome man, and could not help unconsciously wearing even

his preposterous robe as it should be worn. He spoke quickly, but with

the slight initial hesitation he always showed in addressing the King,

due to suppressing an impulse to address his old acquaintance in the

old way.

"Your Majesty--pray forgive my intrusion. It is about this man in Pump

Street. I see you have Buck here, so you have probably heard what is

necessary. I--"

The King swept his eyes anxiously round the room, which now blazed

with the trappings of three cities.

"There is one thing necessary," he said.

"Yes, your Majesty," said Mr. Wilson of Bayswater, a little eagerly.

"What does yer Majesty think necessary?"

"A little yellow," said the King, firmly. "Send for the Provost of

West Kensington."

Amid some materialistic protests he was sent for, and arrived with his

yellow halberdiers in his saffron robes, wiping his forehead with a

handkerchief. After all, placed as he was, he had a good deal to say

on the matter.

"Welcome, West Kensington," said the King. "I have long wished to see

you touching that matter of the Hammersmith land to the south of the

Rowton House. Will you hold it feudally from the Provost of

Hammersmith? You have only to do him homage by putting his left arm

in his overcoat and then marching home in state."

"No, your Majesty; I'd rather not," said the Provost of West

Kensington, who was a pale young man with a fair moustache and

whiskers, who kept a successful dairy.

The King struck him heartily on the shoulder.

"The fierce old West Kensington blood," he said; "they are not wise

who ask it to do homage."

Then he glanced again round the room. It was full of a roaring sunset

of colour, and he enjoyed the sight, possible to so few artists--the

sight of his own dreams moving and blazing before him. In the

foreground the yellow of the West Kensington liveries outlined itself

against the dark blue draperies of South Kensington. The crests of

these again brightened suddenly into green as the almost woodland

colours of Bayswater rose behind them. And over and behind all, the

great purple plumes of North Kensington showed almost funereal and

black.

"There is something lacking," said the King--"something lacking. What

can--Ah, there it is! there it is!"

In the doorway had appeared a new figure, a herald in flaming red. He

cried in a loud but unemotional voice--

"The Lord High Provost of Notting Hill desires an audience."