All the King's Men

No country possesses such happy segregation of the sexes, precipitated and maintained by the time-honoured institution of gentlemen's clubs and ladies' circles, as does our noble Britannia. Nor, should it be acknowledged, does any other country but England desire such a legal separation. For, the hot-blooded Italians, the smouldering Spaniards and passionate French -- not to forget the sturm-und-drang Germans -- prefer to spend their days and nights in mixed company. Indeed, even the upstart American Colonials abandoned their Imperial roots in this regard, instead casting their lot with the natives of that place - but then the colonials had always been a strange brew. However, every country named could afford the result of such constant liaison, so the wise men murmured behind their pipes -- but this land, this noble earth, this...England! must take more care since, really, it only was an island, and the sheep must have some of it to graze on. Couldn't fill it up with new neighbourhoods but a century young -- preposterous. Best keep the men in their clubs and the ladies in the market and the sheep on the fields and have done.

But why stop such division at halves? Why opt for the facile when there were nouveau riche to be kept from baronets, and baronets from peers, and Whigs from Tories and all these from lawyers? And so, in one of those particular clubs -- The Cravat, by name -- we find la creme de la creme of piddling society, in the following unnotable Messieurs.

"Capital, Sir John, capital!" Sir William Lucas exclaimed, rocking backwards on his heels and stuffing his thumbs into his lapels. "Why, when I was at St. James Court just last year, his Highness expressed to me the very same!"

"Well, it's beyond me if I don't like to help out a relative in need when I can! Does me a good turn to have the cottage let to the Dashwoods -- and does me well too, for d--n me if my cousins don't mind me a-hunting on my land. A stranger for a tenant, now, might get fussy and think he owned the place."

Sir William beamed admiration at his friend, Sir John Middleton -- but he said no more, since he had already used up his store of conversation admiring Sir John's outdated periwig and his own humble gossip about his daughter, Charlotte's, recent marriage to Lady Catherine de Bourgh's parson, Mr Collins. This shortage of small-talk hardly bothered Sir William's companions, who, beyond the ruddy-complected Sir John, included Sir Thomas Bertram, late of the Africas, and Sir Walter Elliot, late of his toilette.

"Indubitably, Sir John," Sir Walter opined, shifting his wineglass to better view the fall of his own thinning Julian curls. "I had much rather have let Kellynch-hall to a relative than to that orange-faced Admiral -- never mind what anyone might say about his landward behaviour. And his wife! As orange as he -- worse! For it never does to have a lady so ill-favoured. Even when she is in love, which, I thank God, none of my daughters are."

"But Anne is sallow enough for three, is she not?" Sir John asked.

Sir Walter sniffed, and smoothed his sideburns.

"Well," said Sir William, a little afraid that he was about to speak out of his depth, "when I was at St. James...."

"Of course," Sir John cut in, reaching for the decanter, "you've never seen more lively girls than the Miss Dashwoods, and," laying one finger against a bulbous nose, "I've it on good authority that both of them are smitten!"

"Not with one of your sons, I hope?" Sir Tom asked, not bothering to glance upward from the papers at his elbow.

"Lord luv you, I haven't any sons to tempt them!" replied Sir John, merrily.

"A great relief."

"But I've a friend, and he's as smitten with the younger as she is with him -- if that young scallywag wouldn't mind getting in the way of one of my hunting parties, that is." Winking at Sir William, who stuttered out a "Capital!"

"I can hardly see what you have against marrying within the family, Sir Tom," Sir Walter said, with a little cross of the legs. "I have hopes for my heir, as you well know, now that he's reconciled with us."

Sir Tom snorted and returned to his paper.

"Of course," Sir Walter continued, appealing to his fellow kingsmen, "the matter of appearance makes all the difference in the world. I am, myself, of a very comely stock, and take great pride in declaring my nephew to be of tolerable features -- nothing to myself, of course, but then, who is? However, if, of course, you or your cousins are homely -- well, then, indeed, strangers are necessary!"

"Well said!" remarked Sir William.

"Well," Sir John answered, bridling, "if looks are all that matter to you, sir, I wish upon you that Willoughby scoundrel. Lord knows his features have done enough harm around Barton Cottage, I can tell you that! And, now, you mayn't think Brandon the most comely man in the world, but he's a stout man and has the finest pointer...."

"Er...indeed! Cap..."

With a great sigh, Sir Tom looked up. "You are, naturally, both wrong."

"...ital?"

"Are we, sir, are we indeed?" cried Sir John.

"Wrong, Sir Tom? But with that little scrap of a girl -- Fan...what's her name? Such a common, loathsome name, and a face to go with it. Not memorable at all.... Surely, Sir Tom you must agree with me!" Sir Walter blubbered.

"I hardly think you can dictate to me whether I concede your point or not," Sir Tom replied. "No -- the only question is one of finances. And authority. A girl will marry where the master of the house says she will. A guardian does the best he can for his ward -- and when she has been offered someone who is both well-off and, if it is of any consequence at all, comely; if she has been a burden on her foster-family her entire life -- the least she may do is shew gratitude for this fortune and marry where I see fit."

No answer seemed possible to this absolute declaration, and even Sir William found a "Capital" impossible to squeak out.

"Well..." Sir John said at last, four glasses later, "have I mentioned the finest riding horse I saw just the other day in Kensington? Owned by a Frank Churchill...."

And with that the conversation resumed for several comfortable hours, with no more talk about the doings of ladies -- with their lacy weddings and their penchant for muslin (although Sir Walter could not restrain himself, when Sir Tom mentioned Antigua, to note that the wearing of clothes truly denoted the savage from the gentleman, and the wearing of well-tailored waistcoats to be a mark of true distinction). Let the ladies weep in their parlours and bedrooms and over cups of tea and walking to and fro in the rain -- these noble men held the thin war line within their dark walls by comparing the betting books down at White's, while completely ignoring Sir William's casual remark that he had seen several lovelorn gentlemen having at each other in fisticuffs in front of Boodle's a few hours ago -- one of them General Tilney's younger boy.

Yes, these King's Men knew their duty to crown and country, and stuck to it -- despite the costs to novel posterity. All the King's Men were very happy to let that rhyming egg sit in pieces off its wall -- and more, they'd fight tooth and nail to keep Humpty separated from his Dumpty! Such was the measure of their resolve. Let the Italians carve men and women entwined eternally in stone, the Spaniards dance in pairs upon the tabletops, the French allow Josephine any notoriety, the Germans stare at each other across the table, the Colonies do Lord knows what -- but England, England would remain with but one cry:

By God and by George, the world must be clubbed!

The End