Philistia | Page 2

would have made the hair of
respectable Philistine Marylebone stand stiffly on end, had it only
known the rank political heresies that were quietly hatching in its
unconscious midst.
While Max Schurz's hall was rapidly filling with the polyglot crowd of
democratic solidarists, Ernest Le Breton and his brother were waiting
in the chilly little drawing-room at Epsilon Terrrace, Bayswater, for the
expected arrival of Harry Oswald. Ernest had promised to introduce
Oswald to Max Schurz's reception; and it was now past eight o'clock,
getting rather a late hour for those simple-minded, early-rising
Communists. 'I'm afraid, Herbert,' said Ernest to his brother, 'he forgets
that Max is a working-man who has to be at his trade again punctually
by seven o'clock to-morrow. He thinks he's going out to a regular
society At Home, where ten o'clock's considered just the beginning of
the evening. Max won't at all like his turning up so late; it smells of
non-productivity.'
'If Herr Schurz wants to convert the world,' Herbert answered chillily,
rolling himself a tiny cigarette, 'he must convince the unproductive as
well as the proletariate before he can set things fairly on the roll for
better arrangement. The proletariate's all very well in its way, no doubt,
but the unproductive happen to hold the key of the situation. One
convert like you or me is worth a thousand ignorant East-end labourers,
with nothing but their hands and their votes to count upon.'
'But you are not a convert, Herbert.'
'I didn't say I was. I'm a critic. There's no necessity to throw oneself
open-armed into the embrace of either party. The wise man can wait
and watch the progress of the game, backing the winner for the time

being at all the critical moments, and hedging if necessary when the
chances turn momentarily against the favourite. There's a ring at the
bell: that's Oswald; let's go down to the door to meet him.'
Ernest ran down the stairs rapidly, as was his wont; Herbert followed in
a more leisurely fashion, still rolling the cigarette between his delicate
finger and thumb. 'Goodness gracious, Oswald!' Ernest exclaimed as
his friend stepped in, 'why, you've actually come in evening dress! A
white tie and all! What on earth will Max say? He'll be perfectly
scandalised at such a shocking and unprecedented outrage. This will
never do; you must dissemble somehow or other.'
Oswald laughed. 'I had no idea,' he said, 'Herr Schurz was such a
truculent sans-culotte as that comes to. As it was an evening reception I
thought, of course, one ought to turn up in evening clothes.'
'Evening clothes! My dear fellow, how on earth do you suppose a set of
poor Leicester Square outlaws are going to get themselves correctly set
up in black broadcloth coats and trousers? They might wash their white
ties themselves, to be sure; they mostly do their own washing, I believe,
in their own basins.' ('And not much at that either,' put in Herbert,
parenthetically.) 'But as to evening clothes, why, they'd as soon think of
arraying themselves for dinner in full court dress as of putting on an
obscurantist swallow-tail. It's the badge of a class, a distinct aristocratic
outrage; we must alter it at once, I assure you, Oswald.'
'At any rate,' said Oswald laughing, 'I've had the pleasure of finding
myself accused for the first time in the course of my existence of being
aristocratic. It's quite worth while going to Max Schurz's once in one's
life, if it were only for the sake of that single new sensation.'
'Well, my dear fellow, we must rectify you, anyhow, before you go. Let
me see; luckily you've got your dust-coat on, and you needn't take that
off; it'll do splendidly to hide your coat and waistcoat. I'll lend you a
blue tie, which will at once transform your upper man entirely. But you
show the cloven hoof below; the trousers will surely betray you.
They're absolutely inadmissible under any circumstances whatsoever,
as the Court Circular says, and you must positively wear a coloured

pair of Herbert's instead of them. Run upstairs quickly, there's a good
fellow, and get rid of the mark of the Beast as fast as you can.'
Oswald did as he was told without demur, and in about a minute more
presented himself again, with the mark of the Beast certainly most
effectually obliterated, at least so far as outer appearance went. His blue
tie, light dust-coat, and borrowed grey trousers, made up an ensemble
much more like an omnibus conductor out for a holiday than a
gentleman of the period in correct evening dress. 'Now mind,' Ernest
said seriously, as he opened the door, 'whatever you do, Oswald, if you
stew to death for it--and Schurz's rooms are often very close and hot,