Authors: Winifred Holtby
Hugh gazed in wonder on this vast machinery. He had
hitherto believed that social phenomena developed spon
taneously. He had imagined that economic, sexual and
traditional motives pulled men and women hither and
thither into the strange postures of society. He had not seen
these arbiters of human destiny directing knowledge and
desire, appetite and ambition, making articulate the needs of democracy, and effecting those other miracles which
might have been so revolutionary had they not apparently
cancelled out each other. What, thought Hugh, would hap
pen if all the societies quietly disbanded? Would this not
have the same effect as pairing in a parliamentary division?
Why take all this trouble, why endure all this labour, in
order to make people do things which they would probably
do in any case?
But he was too much interested in his own problems to
trouble greatly about the vagaries of human nature. He had never thought much of his fellow creatures. The Christian Cinema Company did no more than confirm his dark sus
picion. When Miss Denton-Smyth wrote imploring him to
attend the At Home to be given by the company to clergy
and social workers, his first instinct was to ignore the letter.
Then he remembered that he had to see a man on business
in Victoria that evening, concerning his new apparatus, and
that the refreshments mentioned on the invitation would
save his supper. He said that he would go. It was with the
intention of finding a free meal that he strode down two
flights of stone steps to an underground room sprinkled with wooden chairs. At one end a row of trestle tables formed a buffet, behind which hatless women stood pouring thin straw-coloured tea and pallid coffee from large metal urns, and handing plates of very small sandwiches and very large
buns to the jostling company.
Hugh saw the Quaker, Guerdon, unhappy and alone as
usual, balancing a large bun on a small saucer, and twitch
ing his long helpless nose. He saw Miss Denton-Smyth
trotting from chair to chair, scattering sandwiches, smiles
and benedictions. Her appearance was as wonderful as ever. Her dress of vivid blue brocade was adorned with feather
trimming. Her frizzled brown hair supported an erection of fancy combs and nodding tassels. Her beads, chains and
lorgnettes tapped and swung and jingled, so that she walked
to a musical accompaniment. Around her moved a sparse
company of clergymen, secretaries of welfare and educa
tional societies and dreary women. Here and there a
younger girl, earnest and spectacled, shook her bobbed head
above the queen cakes. Fragments of conversation drifted
round him. 'So I said, Well, if she moves that amendment
and
carries it, I resign.' 'My dear, an absolutely atrocious
thing to do.
Absolutely
atrocious.
And at the deputation to
the Home Secretary, she took ten minutes, not a second less,
and we were only supposed to have four and a half. . .'
'brought her to the Home, four months gone, and won't be
fifteen till next March - Her own uncle.' 'I'd give them the
lash. That's the only
thing that'll ever teach them.'
'I can't stand this,' thought Hugh, gobbling ham sand
wiches from a plate conveniently marooned on one of the
chairs. 'I can't stand this.'
Then he became conscious of Johnson's huge bulk career
ing towards him across a barrier of benches.
'You here? Good man. Good God! Hold on. I'll come
round.'
Wading through seated ladies, Johnson reeled slowly
round to Hugh, and stood against the wall with him, look
ing across the company.
'Oh, Mr. Johnson, won't you have some tea?'
'Tea? Never touch it. Never touch it.'
The amateur waitress retired sadly. Mr. Johnson was a
rather intriguing novelty to her. His height, his self-assur
ance, the rich male smell of tobacco and whisky round his
clothes, and his Wild-Western air, were all refreshing. He
watched her go, then turned to Hugh.
'D'you know what they all need?'
Hugh shook his head. 'Who?'
'These women. 'Smy belief it would be the salvation of
half of 'em to be raped by the butcher's boy.'
Hugh was shocked.
'My dear fellow,' muttered Johnson, squeezing his arm with the familiarity which Hugh detested. 'Don't you see
what's wrong with 'em all? Sex-starved. Sex-starved. Must
use their energy somehow. Good works. Purity and social welfare. Nosing round to find nice juicy stories about child assault an' prostitutes. Rescue work. Excuse for bishops to talk sanctimonious smut to a lot of sex-starved spinsters.
Anti-Slavery. Feminism. Peace. Pshaw! Relax their com
plexes a bit. Get on a box an' spout at Marble Arch.
Exhibitionism. "Oh, my friends, give ears unto my cry. Harken to the woes of my poor down-trodden sisters in
Melanesia!" Purity? Fugh! "My Lord Bishop, do you
know the terrible things that go on in Hyde Park? Terrible,
terrible. Kissing?
Far
worse than kissing.
I
should never
think of rolling about on the turf with a grocer's assistant." No grocer's assistant would think of asking you, Madam.
Peace crusades? Women's Peace movement?
Don't
they enjoy them? Did you ever see women enjoy themselves as they
do when raising Hell in Trafalgar Square over a peace
crusade?'
Hugh grunted. He thought it possible that Johnson was
right. He was prepared to believe any evil or stupidity of
women. But he wished that Johnson would stop talking.
'Why do they come here?' Johnson continued. 'They
might be eating to the sound of jazz in a Lyons' Pop; they might be hearing music; they might be tending to their own or someone else's children; they might be reading, roller-skating or going to the movies. They might
..."
He sug
gested, with painful audibility, other occupations which
they might pursue, but which are not commonly mentioned
by name in public places. 'But they don't. They come here. Why? Do they care a tinker's cuss for the cinema? Not they.
Do they care for more civilized education? Pshaw! What
they care about is interference. They're doomed to die,
poor things. They're ugly, poorish, unattractive, unsuccess
ful. The burden of their mortality is upon them. They
gotta hitch their waggon to some durable star. I tell you, there's a sorta spurious second-hand immortality in uplift.
We die, but the Cause goes on. We are poor, ill, weak,
despised, obscure. But the Cause is great. The Cause prospers. Here they
are
somebody. They feel they've got their
ringers on the world's pulse. W
7
hy, look at old Miss Foxton
there. Two hundred a year, invalid father to nurse, house
keeper who bullies her, can't raise an eyelid at home. Now
she's on the committee of the End all Wars movement or something, and feels that the Chancellories of Europe stag
ger when she sneezes. I tell you - it's
the
game, this uplift . . .'
'If you think like this,' asked Hugh in his slow, Scotch,
rasping voice, 'why do you come here? Why do you take
such an interest in the Christian Cinema Company?"
'Because you never know. Hell! Macafee. Why d'you
want everything always so cut an' dried? 'Smy belief that
most of life is punk, anyway, and this Uplift stunt is as much
part of life as any other. Besides, we gotta do something.
You care for this science. Can you get what you want with
out Caroline's uplift? No. Can I get my cinema without
Caroline's committees? Who's going to finance it? Artists?
How much capital d'you think art controls in England? A few Jews buy up Old Masters once they've been approved of for about five hundred years. Then they're safe. No risk
of making a fool of yourself over a Rembrandt or Titian, by God. But the new ideas, vitality, art, new flexible media —
before it's got set an' stereotyped by custom. Who cares?
No one I tell you. 'Smy belief the British public's scared of
Art. Scared stiff.' Look here, Macafee. The truth is we've
gotta take the world as we find it, St. Denis is right. By God, St. Denis is right. It sometimes takes a blood 'un to
be right. Not that he's got brains, mark you. Not brains particularly, nor guts. But he's gotta flair. He says Uplift
Pays. And, by God, he's going to make it.'
'Do you believe that the Christian Cinema Company is
going to succeed?' Hugh was becoming more expert at
keeping his feet on the solid ground of his own interests while
Johnson's conversation rolled around him.
'I do. I do. Mind you, last week I mighta told you
differently.
C'est le premier pas qui coute
an' all that. If this
de la Roux girl - by the way, have you met her?'
'Who? The woman who put up the three thousand? Our
principal share-holder? No -'
'Woman? Why, she's a kid! A cute, dandy little kid. I
went round to the office two nights ago and met her there
helping Caroline write to the parsons. An orphan -
and
an
heiress from South Africa; cousin of
Caroline's or something.
Hands out three thousand as if it were threepence in the
plate on Sunday. Now, Macafee, there's your chance. She
likes scientists. Told me so. Went to college in South Africa
and read zoology or something. Not pretty, you know. One of those little quiet ones. A dark horse. She's coming to this
bun fight. That's partly why I'm here.
And
to see Gloria. By the by, have you met the great Gloria?'
'No. I don't know who you mean, but I have never met
her.'
'Gloria St. Denis. By Gosh, there's a woman. 'Smy belief
between you an' me an' the gate-post, she's not his wife at
all. Not the marrying kind - either of 'em, I should say.
But a fine woman, not one of these female anchovies, all leg
and lipstick. There'd be a bit of something to get hold of
with Gloria. And there she is!'
And there she was, straight from her establishment in
Hanover Square, Gloria in her full loveliness, artistically subdued for the occasion. Her black gown was the one in
which she entertained customers. Her pearls were admir
able. Her soft turban hat, her fur coat drooping from one
arm, her air of quiet dignified effrontery, were startling in
that assembly. She walked like a goddess; vitality radiated
from her; she was strong and splendid and serene, as alien
in the hall as Johnson himself. She moved to a table and
sat down.
'Gotta to go and speak to her. Come an' be introduced?' said Johnson.
'No thanks!' Hugh returned to his sandwiches and
watched Johnson lumber between the chairs and hurrying
waitresses until he greeted the lady with a laughing compli
ment.
Hugh had eaten his sandwiches, and was about to set
down his empty plate and flee, when Miss Denton-Smyth's
voice at his elbow made him start and turn.