‘BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE.’

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XIV, Issue XVI, 20 April 1895, Page 376

‘BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE.’

A NOVEL WITH A PURPOSE. MR WALTER BESANT’S NEW BOOK. MR WALTER BESANT S latest work belongs to the class known as a novel with a purpose ; and if this form of literary expression be conceded as art, then Mr Besant's new novel is a distinct success. The problem he sets before himself, and to the working out of which he invites his reader’s attention, is, what would be the probable effect upon various characters of the prospect of inheriting wealth beyond the dreams of avarice ? This interesting problem he works out in his customary style, and the conclusions arrived at are disastrous. One of the elements, however, of the problem is that the money in question should have been amassed through dishonourable means, and this factor in the case is supposed to be largely responsible for the subsequent disasters, and is also accountable for some of the most fanciful parts of the characters and incidents related in the story. Of plot—in the Dickensonian sense—there is little ; but of skilful characterdrawing and of c'ever descriptions of life and of London in the last century there is a good deal. The plot, which is simnle. may bemughlydescribed as foliows: —Acolossal sum of monev is left by a man who is supposed to die without leaving a will. His son having left him in early vouth. his grandson and heir-apparent is brought up in ignoraxnce both of bis grandfather's name and fortune. The heir-apparent being requested by his father on his death-bed not to make himself known to his grandfather and not to claim the money made by dishonourable means, delays to put in an appearance, and the advertisement asking for heirs brings in a crowd of cousins anxious to inheri' ot share in the huge fortune, which in default of accredited heirs goes to the Crown. The strivings of these latter to obtain the money and the strivings of the heir not to succumb to the temptation of claiming it constitute the main part of the story. The heir at-law is a young doctor named Lucian Calvert Burlev. but known as Dr. Lucian Calvert ; the family name having been dropped by his father when he ran awas from the parental house to avoid the connection with his father’s unhallowed business. For the last Burley had been a gaming-house keeper and a usurer. AN IDEAL BRIDE. Young Calvert, who inherits some of the bad qualities of his terrible ancestors, is. at the opening of the story, engaged to a beautiful but somewhat fanciful young girl, very different from the matter-of-fact scientific young physician. There was very little of the ’ new ' woman in her: — * The girl was fair in complexion, with blue eyes, which could easily become dreamy and were always luminous; there was at the moment the sweet seriousness in them that so well becomes a beautiful woman ; she was a tall girl, as is demanded by the fashion of the time, dressed as one who respects her own beauty and would become, in her lover’s eyes, as attractive as she could : a strong and healthy girl, able to hold her own yet. as one might conclude from her attitude in the presence of her lover. one who. when she promised to give herself, meant to give everything, and already had no thought but for him. As she sat under him. as he stood over her, everyone could understand here was man masterful. the lord of creation ; and here was woman obedient to the man she loved ; that here was man creative and here was woman receptive ; that ent of her submission would spring up her authority. What more can the world desire ? What more did Nature intend ?’ ‘ BURLEY'S HELL.’ At the opening of the story Grandfather Burley had retired upon his immense fortune, which required a great business establishment simply to manage it, and lived a miserly, lonely life in the old family house in Great College-street, Westminster. The following extract explains in part how the ’ prince of money-lenders’ had amassed his ill-gotten wealth :— * Those who study manners and customs of the nineteenth century have read of Burley's Hell. Itwasakind of club to which every one who had money and wore the dress and assumed the manners of society was freely admitted. The scandalous memoirs of the time talk of Burley’s chef and hi« wines, and the table at which he was alwayspresent all night long, always the same, calm, grave, unmoved, whatever the fortunes of the night : always readv to lend anybody—that is. anybody he knew—any sum of money he wanted on his note of hand. Great fortunes were lost at Burley’s. Men walked out of Burley’s with despair in their hearts and self-murder in their minds Yet—old history 1 old history 1 as Lucian Calvert said. Again : Only those who are students of life in London, when the Corinthian and his friends were enjoying it. still talk about the Finish—Burlev’scrih—where the noble army of the godless assembled night after night, young men and old men. and ladies remarkable for their sprightliness as well as their beauty, and danced and laughed and had supper and drank pink champagne—too sweet —in long glasses. There was generally some kind of fight or row ; there was always some kind of a gamble in some little room upstairs.’ wealth beyond dreams. The origin of the colossal fortune which gives rise to all the trouble is thus accounted for by Lucian to Margaret, his Aoncfe. Speaking of his grandfather Burley, he says :— ‘ “ Nobody knows what the estate is worth, but when this old man's father, who was a miser died, he left the son an income of £20,000 a year, which at 5 per cent, is Z4OO, 000. That was what he began with at five-and-twenty. There was no need for him to do any work at all. But he did all those things that we know.” “Yes?” —for Lucian paused. “He lived quite simply. The whole of that income must have accumulated at compound interest Do you know what that means ?” “No.

But these figures are beginning to frighten me. What does it matter to us how much there is ?” “ Why. mv dear. I am the heir—only in name, I know ; still—well, Marjorie, money at five per cent, doubles itself every thirteen years or so. That is to say. the sum of / 100 in seventy years would become at 5 per cent., and the sum of £400.000 would become in the same period over twelve millions. I don't suppose the old man always got his five per cent., but it is certain that the original principal has grown and developed enormously! Without counting the money-lending business and the other enterprises—there must be millions. Nicholson says there is no doubt that the estate is worth many millions.’ ” THE BEGINNINGS OF EVIL. The documents given by his father to Lucian revealed the sad story of a family owing its origin to crime and its wealth to dishonour. For a time Lucian agreed not to claim the accumulated wealth. But. little by little, the temptation to acquire the money grew on him : — ‘ The thing made him restless. He thought of it night and day ; he talked of it continually. When he did not talk of it he was thinking about it ; he had long moods of silence. “ I must think about it Maggie,” he said. “Why, I don’t believe there ever was a man in such a strange case. I have been without a family and without ancestors for six and twenty years. Then I find out my people—only to be told that I must renounce them, because they are too disgraceful for any decent descendant to acknowledge. And the next moment I find myself the sole undisputed heir to wealth colossal —and that I must not. on account of scruples as to the way it was gotten, put in my claim. Isn’t that worth thinking about ?” ’ A SOCIETY CLOWN. One of the cousins, claimants to the waiting fortune > was a Mr Clarence Burghley. whose profession was ‘ the making of amusement.’ His role of a private society clown is thus cleverly depicted :— ‘ He could play the piano with a light and dexterous touch—and sing to it with a light and flexible tenor. The songs he sang were light and bright, little songs of society—songs about smart people—songs about flirtation—songs of the ball-room, the race-course, the yacht —songs of the surface—they were so light and so actual that they seemed to be improvised. You could not buy these songs.and nobody else had them to sing. Then he could play the violin and make it do tricks like a trained dog, and he could touch the banjo with a master’s hand. He gave, at private houses, little entertainments, consisting of songs and burlesques, parodies and talk. He also had a collection of original comediettas, little dramas, and proverbs, unprinted, unpublished.and not to be procured anvwhere. with which he furnished the private theatricals, he himself being stage manager and actor. Clarence was the son and the grandson of an actor, and therefore to the manner born. All that he did was dexteriously done : all that he sang or acted or played was light and frothy, without reality, without emotion, without passion. He lived by these performances, but he was not accepted as a professional. If he went to a great house, either on a visit or for the evening, he went as a guest —he was treated as a guest, but he was paid as a professional.’ ONE RESULT OF WOMEN’S RIGHTS. The book is full of quiet little bits of sarcasm at the expense of the * new woman,’ in whom Mr Besant is evidently no believer. Many of these and other little reflections are very clever and will to some readers constitute one of the chief charms of the book. Here, for instance, is a passage descriptive of the American town where Ella Burley, another claimant cousin, lived ; she was a cashier in a local factory : — • Woodbury, Mass., is a town in which the feminine element largely predominates. The girls, you see, take all the places,berths, appointments, and do all the work at half the pay that should be given to the men for the same work. Therefore the men—the few men who are bom in this town - go awav West, and the women, thus achieving their independence, are happy. The future of Woobury, Mass., is uncertain ; but as the greater part of a chair-leg can be made by women just as well as by men, it is calculated that another fifty years will see the end of the town. This will be a pity, because it is a verypretty place, and in the summer most umbrageous with shade-trees. Yet who would not rather be a cashier to a chair-leg factory than a mere wife and a meek mother, slaving for a husband and for children ? Woodbury stands for many other places ; we ourselves, if we live long enough, may witness the destruction of our own towns, when women have fully resolved on their independence and have driven the men out of the country.’ LIFE IN THE LAST CENTURY. Dr. and Mrs Lucian Calvert after their honeymoon took up their abode in the old family house. Here, in a disused room Marjorie came upon a quantity of old family documents. Among these were some household books, from which she was enabled to realize the dailylife of the eighteenth century, concerning which Mr Besant gives us a very graphic description and an able disquisition : — ‘ What is the chief difference, however, between our daily life and that of our grandfathers ? There are small differences in manners, deportment, social forms, dress, eating, and drinking. There is a difference in the

standard of living, which is now for the mass of the people very greatly raised. There is a difference in our knowledge of the world, and there are differences due to our habit of reading. We have grown so much richer, and the things that make for comfort have become so much cheaper, that this is natural. We are now all growing poorer, but the higher standard of comfort will remain. There are differences in our religious ideas; there are differences in our morals; there are differences in our ideas on things of State. But these things do not constitute the principal difference. That, I think, lies in the altered value of all possessions.’ AN EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY HOUSEKEEPER. In the description referred to in our last paragraph Mr Besant gives us the following list of the duties and accomplishments of an eighteenth-century housekeeper. Mr Besant seems to be in love with the last century ; and if his pictures of domestic life in that period be accurate, there is little cause for wonder at his preference. How many of the newest women of to day could pass an examination in this list of duties of the ancient housewife? ‘ She was expected to know how to make cakes, puddings. biscuits, and to understand carving ; not the miserable hacking of the present day. but scientific carving, which had its language. She must know pickling and conserving, in an age when they pickled everything. even nasturtium leaves. She must know how to distil scents and strong waters. She could make wine and brew beer. She could make washes for the complexion. She must know all the secrets of the laundry, the larder, the poultry-yard, the dairy, the kitchen garden, the orchard, the hot-house : the making and repairing of dresses, child sh and feminine; she had to understand music, dancing, embroiderv, genealogies, education, alms-giving, medicine, domestic surgery and nursing. Finally, the housewife of the past was expected to take, or to pretend, an intelligent interest in her husband's occupation. Truly, the housewife of a hundred years ago was a most wonderful product of the age. ’ BETTER PAUPER THAN PRISONER. Still another of the cousins claimant was a poor old woman in a workhouse. She refused, however, to prefer a claim which might never be allowed, and—like a wise woman and a philosopher—elected to remain whtre she was:— * “ No,” she said “ I think I will stay where I am. I have never been so comfortable before. I don't want the money. I am contented and thankful I don’t mind being a pauper. Why should I ? I live better than ever I did in my life before ; I am clothed better ; I sleep softer and warmer. And there’s no more work to do. It isn’t a shame to me ; and if it is a shame to my cousins I can't help it.” “No. It is no shame tovou.” Said this model of a contented old pauper—poor and not ashamed—“ If I were to ask for the money they might turn me out of the house!’’ She shuddered. “They might say that if I am going to get money of my own, I had better go away and make room for those that had none.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “That would be the worst misfortune of all. Besides—if I got the money—l might spend it like father spent his. in riotous living and bad companions.” Margaret smiled. “ And then 1 should get into prison for debt, like they sent him. I’d rather be a pauper than a prisoner.” ’ The extracts given above have purposely been of a scrappy nature, as it would be obviously unfair both to author and reader to reveal too much of the plot, or to say what ultimately became of the money and the various claimants for it. The story illustrates in a striking way the hereditary evils of a bad parentage, and some of the cleverest passages of the book are those which satirize the undue veneration of ancestors. Occasionally the incidental remarks and reflections rise almost to an epigrammatic level ; while the book will certainly enhance Mr Besant’s reputation as a student of the last century, as a genealogist, and as a lover of old and picturesque London, in descriptions of which he simply revels. As we have hinted, many of the character sketches are excellent ; and it is in these and other incidentals rather than in a strong plot or exciting story, that the chief attraction and merits of the book consist. And ‘ Beyond the Dreams of Avarice ’is both an attractive and a meritorious book.