He did not reply to the angry ham’s letter, but caused five tickets to be bought.
“I will sit among empty chairs,” he thought, “and have two empties on each side of me, one for my coat and hat, one to keep the bore off, and one on each side, to remove the cigarette-smoker and the chocolate-muncher a little farther. But why the devil does this ham woman not give the money herself? She draws most of her money from this County, in rents. Let her pay some of it back as conscience money, and for the rest, go round and beg from door to door, and plead her cause herself, instead of getting up a vile entertainment of this sort, with all sorts of extra expenses, of advertisements, printings, hire of hail, lighting, heating, to soak away any profits. She will provide something atrocious in the way of song and music, and the badness of it all will be excused by the plea, that it is all for charity; and in the end, when she has made night hideous and life loathsome for two and a half hours, shell have nine-teen-and-sixpence to give to the Fund.”
He had long known the sort of concert given in the country, Alas, he had long known the type of amusement offered to the people everywhere. Still, he went to this one, sat through all of it, slept upon his first impressions, waited for the announcement of the takings, and then wrote as follows:
“The art powers of a race,” he wrote, “do not decline; they are there. In some ages, they are encouraged, with good models and good incentives; in others, they are neglected or thwarted, with no incentive and with base models.
“What has happened in the English countryside? It must once have had an art encouragement and good models; the survivals prove it. Most villages had also some art of festival of dance, play or song; the survivals prove that. Where is the art now? Here and there an old man may still put a straw crown on the top of a rick, but who could carve a gargoyle for his church or be trusted to paint a decoration there? As for the festivals, I have lately been to one.
“Perhaps, it would be fair to explain that the idea of a festival, as something quite apart from the idea of making money, is dead among us. This festival was the attempt of a community to make money for a local charity. A charity in this country is usually made necessary by the stupidity of ruling classes, who at times call on the stupidity of all other classes to keep it, and thereby them, from a deserved death. So here.
“The festival was called a concert, a word defined in the Oxford Dictionary as ‘a musical performance (usually of a series of separate pieces) in which a number of singers or players or both, take part.’ It took place, as such things usually do, in a building plainly designed as a morgue and then thwarted of its natural prey of suicides. In this disappointed morgue, designed for four hundred, a hundred and twenty people gathered to support charity for two hours upon old wooden chairs. It was a cold night, the building was not warmed, so far as one could perceive; it was as cold as charity. The total receipts, we heard, were just under twelve pounds. The expenses, with hire of hall, lighting, advertisements, leaflets, printing, secretary and accompanist came to nine pounds, eighteen shillings and fourpence. The charity is up by fourpence a head.
“I do not grudge the charity its two pounds; but I ask, what has happened to the English countryside, that a performance such as I endured can be offered as entertainment?
“I saw at that concert the results of a century and a half of landlordism and commercialism; both of which have driven the salt and marrow of the land out of the country or into the towns. I saw the art-starved soul in all its native hideousness. One man, indeed, tried to play some Chopin Études, but upon an Institute piano, which, as I have proved, has four dead notes and some loose wires in it. The organisers had not even taken the trouble to send a tuner. These attempts at Chopin were not only the only ambitious things in the programme, they were the only musical things.
“Now, we are by nature a musical and music-loving people. Our past proves that. We have welcomed musicians and composers for centuries; Beethoven blessed us; Handel, Haydn, Chopin all found welcome and shelter here. Yet in a fair-sized town like Stubbington a popular concert, given for a popular cause, contained not one other item which could be described as music. Imbecile song was followed by imbecile noise, made now upon a trombone, then upon what is called a ‘boys-get-bizziphone,’ of which the best that could be said, is that at times it was less loud than at others.
“I am not a Bolshevik in any way, but the arts are the fruits of a way of life; and in this concert I was offered the fruits of our present way of life, and have no hesitation in saying that any change would be for the good.”
He read this through.
“That’ll make ’em squirm,” he said.
He thought a little, and then added:
“I am not a revolutionary in any way, but if this be the entertainment of the New Jerusalem which we were promised when the War ended, then I vote that we try for a newer Jerusalem, by any means. If these be the results, as may be argued, of five generations of blood-sports, which begin now with snobbery and end in death, let us abolish fox-hunting. If this be the result of the schools, let us reform them root and branch. But probably these are some of the results of darkness in a ruling class, forgetful of its obligations.”
“That will make ’em squirm,” he said, with glee. It did.
There are many things better than making people squirm; nearly all these things can be practised easily, without any subsequent reapings of storms. But the angry ham had cut Frampton in the street, and here was his chance to make her a little thoughtful another time. The letter went to the Gazette. Young Harold was away when it came in, but his acting chief had it set up, and the proofs sent to Mullples by special messenger. The letter was in the paper that night, and in the hands of all the performers at the concert by noon the next day. It gave most of them acute pain and roused their deepest fury. It did not reach the angry ham till late that night, as she had gone to London for a day’s shopping, “and to have her face done.”
When it did reach her, she raged exceedingly, but not more bitterly than the other victims. In her rage, she was not less lovely than at other times, but less coherent. Frampton’s last page kept her awake for most of the night. In the morning, she was able to consult Sir Peter. He was at all times gentle towards the point of view opposed to his own. He read the letter, and said that he thought it an ill-advised, intemperate, and, therefore, unjust letter, but that it represented a point of view. As to the charges brought, it was wiser to look upon them as a reaction. The concert had made, as it were, a statement and had provoked a reply. It was the rebound of the ball, which had been flung down. He felt that his wife should not give the letter an undeserved importance by replying to it. Any intemperate letter destroyed itself; this one would be forgotten in a week, or less, if left to itself, without answer. As to the man, he was a clever fellow, unused to country ways; he was a terrible fellow, no doubt, and in some ways an antisocial fellow, but there he was, just at their doors, and the best thing to do about it was to ask him to lunch, and to see if they could not get him to organise something in the village, a gymnasium for the lads, or a choral society.
“We’ve got to live with him, whether we like it or not,” he said. “I’m sure that that’s the way to handle him. Get him busy.”
In this, as in so many things, Sir Peter was wise; but wisdom is lost upon the angry. Was she, Laetitia, to ask a Bolshevik to lunch? Was she, who had been told that she began with snobbery and ended with death, to be told to live with the teller? Was she to be told in her own county that her concert had revealed the art-starved soul in all its native hideousness? She was not going to turn the other cheek and sit down tamely under such insolence. She was outraged and horrified and wanted to hurt.