Читать книгу The storm of London: a social rhapsody онлайн

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“By God!” exclaimed Lord Somerville as he leaned back on the cushions of his brougham, “I never realised the brutal ferocity of London life until I saw its nocturnal Bacchanals synthesised within so many square feet.”

He passed in review, in his mind’s eye, what he had seen:—Lady Carlton in the leading part of the wildest of street rovers, cigarette in her mouth, reeling from one side of the pavement to the other, nudging this one, thrusting her cigarette under the nose of another, pulling the beard of a stolid policeman, vociferating at the cab drivers. Lord Somerville had seen a good deal of what these women were trying to impersonate, but he never remembered having blushed so deeply, nor of having been so conscious of shame, as he felt that night. But this was only the beginning of the show. The last tableau was most striking. The front of the houses, represented by painted scenery, suddenly rolled off as by enchantment, and there, in view of a breathless public, were to be seen the interiors of gambling houses, massage establishments, night clubs—you can guess the rest! This final scene was all pantomimic, and although not one word was spoken, still, the despair of the man who sees his gold raked away on the green baize, the heartrending bargains of human flesh for a few hours of oblivion, were vivid pictures which left very few shreds of illusions in the minds of a dumbfounded audience. Then came the grand finale of hurry and skurry between the police and the gamblers and night revellers of all sorts; and this was a triumph of mise-en-scène and animation. To make it still more realistic, the Countess of Lundy had elected to appear in a night wrap, as two constables made a raid on the so-called massage establishment. But what a night wrap! The Earl smiled as he recalled the masterpiece in which Doucet of Paris had surpassed himself, revealing with subtle suggestiveness the lissome shape of arms and legs, and full curves of the breast through a foam of white lace and chiffon. As he sat in the darkness of his brougham, he closed his eyes and saw the Countess as she had stood in front of the footlights, unblushingly courting the approval of her public; and he still heard in his ears the furious applause of London Society gathered that night in Islington Hall. What had most struck this leader of fashion was the total ignorance in which one class of well-fed, well-protected human beings lived of all miseries that unshielded thousands have to bear. He thought of the many women on whom he daily called, dined with, joked with; how many possessed that ferocious glance of the pleasure-seeker, the audacious stare of the flesh hunter; but he had never noticed in any of these fearless women of his world the slightest slackening of tyranny, nor had he ever noticed, for one moment even, the pathetic humility of the hunted-down street angler, which is after all her one redeeming feature in that erotic tragedy.