True Kings

Introduction

Though the life of Selwyn Weston may be as mysterious to a modern audience as the identity of his narrator, his short story is a great example of Modernist Literature. "True Kings" brings into discussion such topics as individualism, class tension and philosophy.

Transcription

I

"Was it not a characteristic of the true kings in Plato that they had in their houses nothing they could call their own."—WALTER PATER.^[1]Originally seen in the novel Marius the Epicurean by Walter Pater

Nothing but the most dismal night would have driven me so early to my room, for I like to be sure that I shall sleep as soon as my head is pillowed, because thought, otherwise inevitable, were a thing of horror, at all times to be shunned, in this mean place.

The dim light in the hall was still burning when I entered; and the memory, until then dormant, of an unpaid bill would have hastened my steps over the age-worn carpet, to the comparative safety of the stair beyond, had not my glance fallen upon the letter-rack, where was a missive in the space reserved to me. It was not the familiar quarto wrapper that I was accustomed to find there, significant of energy ill spent; or, perhaps, of manuscripts misplaced, and rejected. It had a personal aspect, and I was roused to interest in the writing, forgot for a while my unpaid bill. The letter had been redirected from home in my mother's delicate hand. I noted the crest on the envelope, and found that the rich hand-made paper bore the index of a house in Lancaster Gate.

I was addressed familiarly, and when I had scanned the note, a few brief lines, I discovered the name of a school-day friend, traced with a flourish of pride. He wrote glowingly, with an almost boyish sentiment, of what he called the old days, and asked me to ring his bell of an evening soon. He always dined, at home: would I remember, and give him my first free night?

The letter was two days old, and as I stood won­dering whether I might not go to him at once, a discordant clock, somewhere unseen, chimed the half-hour—it was half-past eight, I supposed. That almost decided me; I could be ringing his bell by nine. Of course, it was impossible that I should dine with him, since I had no clothes for the purpose; but I might call at a later hour, and frankly excuse myself. Clearly, I should not delay.

In the days of our young intimacy, I had limned for him a brilliant future, and I was impatient now to learn the mode of his so evident success. The landlady's step on the basement stair set me moving, so, seizing my hat, I hastened from the house. As I sat on the 'bus, and thought of the imminent parting with my last few pence, I wondered if it were worth my while. Leslie Greene was by three years my senior, but, in spite of this difference—a whole epoch in early years—our friendship had thriven well; and though my notions of friendship had changed with my changing needs, what I could now recall of our early affection would not, I thought, conflict gravely with my more recent exactions. After all, I reflected, friendship has a basis in utility. It has been said, moreover, by one of our sages, that to change one's opinions is to change one's friends. And, indeed, if the mind is to progress beyond itself, friendships must lapse frequently, for there comes a moment to every mind, and to the most virile, moments when the best attuned join issue, thenceforward to walk by diverse ways, the fine balance of their harmony destroyed.

Not only must I realise that my own views had changed: there was also the probability that Leslie's outlook had been modified, if not entirely reversed, by the forces controlling the circle wherein he moved. I pictured him at the antipodes, intel­lectually; and, in any case, quite sure that we had moved in different spheres whose territories seldom merged. I had no hope of finding in our renewed  acquaintance even that primal degree of mutuality which, had we been destined to continue our course together, must have evoked in us that spirit of noble compromise that I hold to be germane to all sound friendship.

 

II

I rang, and the door swung open on the instant. A flunkey glared down on me (I had expected to see a maid), and roughly demanded my mission. There must have been contempt in my smile, for he seemed resentful, and, after undue scrutiny of my card, replied to my question brusquely: "No, Mr. Greene is not at home."

The man lied badly, as such men do. Indeed, it may be said that men lie well only when impelled by some great personal need, seldom at another's bidding. Of course, I realised that Leslie was not at home to strangers, but I was sure that he was within, for it seemed that I heard his voice coming fitfully, fragmentarily, as through a door successively opened and closed.

"If you will take in my card I am sure that your master will see me." I spoke with what arrogance I could assume, but the man was adamant, and I should likely have turned away, angry and disconsolate, had not Leslie himself, coming sud­denly into the hall, perceived me standing in the glare of the portico lamp, and so recognised me.

"Come in, come along in," he called to me.

The flunkey retired, and I entered, suffered a hand-grasp whose quality I remembered—an agony—and felt at once that my doubts had been ill-timed. In the library I was still more at ease. It seemed that silent friends smiled down from every she1f. I was sure that all my favourite books were there, that I had only to seek them out.

The rich trappings of the room held my attention, and to one unaccustomed to such luxury the thick carpet gave a sense of walking on air. The clock on the shelf was magnificent ormolu work of a past period. There were fine tapestries on the walls where the shelves had not encroached, and on a gilded rod which widely spanned one corner. A bright fire burned in the antique hearth, set in a frame of blackest carven oak, purloined perhaps from some baronial hall. An atmosphere of leisured opulence pervaded the room, of which Leslie seemed an appropriate part. He suited exactly the entire harmonic scheme, and I judged that his was the ordering hand, so munificent in the disposal of wealth, yet so conscious of lines and tones and values that the place impressed me rather as some choice work of art than as an emblem of waste, which, in reality, it was. Leslie had been watching me with a smile of amusement.

"You like my room?" he asked.

I opened my lips to affirm, but shut them again without having spoken. Something had jarred suddenly, and I cast about in my soul for the dis­ cord. Leslie was watching me closely. No doubt he had seen me quell the thought that was on my tongue; the restraint had been obvious enough, I knew. Then, in a moment, I found the jarring note: it was the possessive "my" that had offended me.

"I was pleased with the room. Your words destroyed my pleasure."

Leslie was frankly mystified. "But, surely, you don't think—"

"Yes, mirabil e dictum ^[2]Latin translation for “spoken miracles”, I do!"

Leslie laughed, uncertain whether I was pulling his leg. "Well, I'll allow that you do; but, seriously, what do you mean?"

"I mean that the room was all right until it was exclusively your room, Leslie. It was beautiful; it appealed to the artist in me. It was furnished with costly fabrics, which offended the man in me. But I could almost imagine it mine, in common with all mankind. Then you said it was yours, which entirely wrecked the illusion. This room is positively hateful."

"Aren't you rather mixing art with propa­ganda?"

"Only those who are ignorant of both would wish to sever them; in their highest form they are identical."

Leslie gloomed. "In their highest forms all things are alike. But, Alan, I wished to speak of another matter. Have you kept up your writing? "

I smiled, perhaps bitterly. " I have, but it has not supported me."

"You had a promising style at school." "Yes; that's probably why."

Leslie's smile was an insult. "I've always thought that was a fable," said he.

I had an impulse to anger, but kept my counte­nance. "Then to what cause would you ascribe my failure?" I demanded.

He was searching among a pile of papers on his desk, and he did not reply at once. "You were saying that you have failed," he remarked at length.

I was piqued by his too obvious efforts to evade the point at issue. "As you think of failure, yes," I said.

"I believe merely that you need a chance," he rejoined, putting an ample distance between us on the important point.

I reflected. It seemed, rather, that Chance had need of me, who had made me so utterly her dupe. I did not express the thought, but I was lost in brooding on it, so that I was not conscious of what Leslie was saying until a familiar name fell on my ears. The context I had missed entirely. "You mentioned Wychfield?" I asked, ashamed of my inattention.

"I was saying that I hope to found a weekly journal there. It is in my constituency; and I must challenge the Liberal influence there, smash their paper." His attention was busy on the papers, and he did not look at me. In a moment he continued: "So far my journal is a mere project. I need a capable editor, and it occurred to me that you might fit the scheme."

"To propagate your views?"

"Naturally!"

"Or, rather, unnaturally, if at all. What happens when our views conflict? "

"Well, don't you think—I have thought that, say, a salary of £300 a year might go far to modify your views. One might purchase a thousand ideals for half that "

My thoughts went out to a purely personal ideal in the Midland town where he had hoped to send me, amply paid, to do his bidding. The idea was attractive, and I did not doubt that I might learn to compromise with grace, and yet not lose my self­ respect. But what kind of compromise is that which gives under a goad of necessity, and to what depths had I fallen that such thoughts could lodge for even the shortest moment in my mind ? The hands of my friend were restless among the papers; I broke the pause which threatened to embarrass.

"One might, I believe; but are there not enough prostitutes, that you should turn procurer?"

Les1ie smiled at that, and I supposed he had my meaning. "I am asking you to do a quite ordinary thing, which hundreds of able men wou1d accept on the instant, without a moment's thought."

"I agree. If they had real ability they would be afraid to They would divine where thought would lead. But you are right in saying there are many who would be prepared to apply their talents to a purpose less noble than the highest they have known. Such men are prostitutes, men of your making, and among them must you seek your accomplice. Judas^[3]Biblical allusion to the apostle who betrayed Jesus still barters lives for less than gold, and I know a man who sold his sister for a drink."

As I took up my hat, I wondered how this man could ever have been my friend.

"You may change your mind," he said at parting; "if you do, you may come again." But I warned him that he must not delay his search in view of a possibility so remote. I should never again seek him out.

On the seat by the park was an age-worn prostitute, and others passed me by as I strode. I was glad in my heart that I was able still to regard them with pity, as an unsavoury fact of a system wherein the monstrous is suffered to outweigh the beautiful; and it was borne in forcibly upon me that, had I accepted Greene's offer, I must have become even as they.

As I climbed into bed after my long walk, I did not doubt that I should sleep as soon as my head was pillowed.